Conversation with Sally Livingston from St. John of the Midfield by Garasamo Maccagnone
Q: Ultimately, whenever he does a reading, someone in the audience will approach him and ask who you really are. It’s as if they don’t believe you’re strictly a fictional character.
A: I don’t feel sorry for him. That is his fault. He created me and turned me into every soccer mom’s worst nightmare.
Q: So you’re not happy with your depiction?
A: I was fine in the beginning – when I first became conscious of what I was. If you recall, early on, I was a happy housewife, who homeschooled her children and had a husband who loved me. Before I knew it, after plotting a rendezvous with a married man, my face was crammed into the corner wall of the hotel room, while some soccer dad I just met poked me with everything he had.
Q: In the story you loved it.
A: Of course. All women want to be made love to by a capable lover. With Mario, lovemaking was daring and spontaneous. It was so foreign to the stale routine my husband forced upon me.
Q: Why do women hate you?
A: Think about it. Mario and I met in the Church, during the Veneration. My first sexual feelings for him initiated in the last place you would expect them to. I was in disguise and there wasn’t any way for his wife or Mario to see me coming. I suppose sin is everywhere. For all the readers, my true nature was so well hidden, they never had an inkling to what might take place at that tournament in Chicago.
Q: So you became a whore.
A: Over time, yes. Is that not what men want their women to become? Only Christ brought a woman from a corrupted soul to a pure one. Mary Magdalene was a whore, a dirty whore, who, on account of her transformation to goodness, was rewarded with a place at the Crucifixion.
No man would do that! You take us from our purest states and force us into performing despicable and humiliating acts.
Oh sure. When we’re out in public, you want us to be lily white, projecting wholesomeness and the right values of the times. Yet in the bedroom, when the kids are in bed, and once all the laundry, dishes, and other housework is finished, you want us to discard the fakery of our goodness and become your dirty little whores. I’m convinced that the intent of every man is to find himself a dirty little whore.
Q: Wow. Is that cynical or what?
A: Convince me otherwise. Didn’t I become Mario’s and Sonny Christopher’s little dirty whore?
Q: You’re bad. I don’t think the author’s wife likes you much either.
A: How dumb is that? What guy in his right mind would create a character like me? He’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to convince his wife that I’m merely fictional. How many women are going to believe that?