When they reached home, Mama met them in the front hall, and she glared at Papa. Joseph had not meant to stay and watch their hands. But when he reached the first stair landing, he glanced down and saw Mama making his sign name. Joseph couldn’t resist the temptation.
‘He wanted to go!’ Papa answered. ‘And I think my son should know my friends.’
‘Was that woman there?’
‘Philippe’s wife has a name.’ Smoothly and rapidly, Papa spelled each letter with his fingers: ‘C-E-L-E-S-’ That was as far as he got before Mama rolled her eyes and turned her head away.
‘She is his slave.’
Lightly but firmly, Papa tapped her shoulder till she looked back at his hands. ‘Even if he managed to free her, Celestine would have to leave South Carolina.’
Mama raised her eyebrows as if to say: How would that be bad?
‘Philippe and Celestine love each other! They’ve been together most of their lives! They have four beautiful children, and they love each of them just as—’
‘Those children should never have been born.’
‘What?’
‘They are his slaves! Did your friend think about how selfish he was being? The offspring of—couplings like that aren’t black, and they aren’t white! Where do they belong? They’re unnatural! I will not have our children associating with—’
“‘Unnatural’?” Papa echoed aloud as well, as if he’d misunderstood.
‘Blacks and whites are different.’ Mama lingered on the sign: starting with two fists in front of her and then drawing them apart as far as her arms would reach. ‘God made them different for a reason. They do not belong together. Not like that.’
‘Many people say you and I don’t belong together. That I shouldn’t have married a deaf woman. That you shouldn’t have married at all.’
‘We are nothing like them!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you and I aren’t different! When I was born, I was like you! Our children are normal, not cursed. I praise God for that every day.’
‘I don’t want normal children! I didn’t want a normal wife! But sometimes, Anne, you are entirely too conventional!’
Mama’s breath caught, her hands trembled, and she turned away from Papa. She closed her eyes and made a sound that was halfway between a whimper and a sob.
Papa stepped forward quickly and took her by the shoulders till she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry!” he said with words as well as with his fists against his heart.
Tears still descended her cheeks, but she submitted to his embrace.
Papa kept speaking aloud, the way he would sometimes, even though he knew Mama couldn’t hear him. “The last thing I want is to hurt you, Anne.” Papa stood holding Mama near the pier glass, and he seemed to be examining their reflection. “But you call me ‘unnatural’…”
On the stair landing, Joseph scowled. No she hadn’t: Mama had called mulattos unnatural. Joseph must have misunderstood some of their signs. He wasn’t used to reading hands and faces from such a high angle. This was why you shouldn’t spy on other people’s conversations.
As he turned away, Joseph heard Papa murmur below him: “You see what you want to see…”
Chapter 10
It is a melancholy fact that many hundreds of Catholics live for years without ever seeing a Priest and die without receiving the Last Sacraments…
— Father John McEncroe and James McDonald, Respectful Appeal of the Roman Catholics of the State of South Carolina (1827)
Before Joseph could serve at the altar, he had so much to learn: how to fill and swing a thurible; how to pour the cruets; how to hold a paten; how to hand the Priest his biretta; how to bow moderately and then profoundly. There were many wrong ways to do these things, and there was a proper way. It was a like a mathematical formula: if they did everything right, the living God would come into their midst, would change the bread and wine into His own Body and Blood.
The other boys behaved as if serving were only a duty to be endured. How could they not see what an honor and blessing it was, to assist every day in a miracle! Father McEncroe was patient with all of them, and he praised Joseph’s pronunciation of Latin. “When you speak,” the Priest told them, “remember that you represent the entire congregation.”
Joseph supposed Father McEncroe meant the coloreds in the gallery too. Sometimes during Mass, when he was only standing or kneeling and waiting, Joseph would allow himself to look up. Noisette was not as easy to pick out as Joseph had thought; the Frenchman’s skin was tawny from the sun, so he was darker than a few of the colored people. Glance by glance, Mass by Mass, Joseph found the children who were also his slaves: Louis, his two older brothers, and a little girl with braided hair who often sucked her thumb. A colored woman sat with them—that must be Celestine. She and Noisette would sometimes lean their heads together and whisper.
“Celestine” was Latin for “heavenly.” There had been five Popes named Celestine. Joseph was thinking about this when Noisette’s Celestine approached the rail to receive Communion at Easter. Joseph realized she was expecting another child, and he nearly dropped the paten.
Mama spent weeks sewing Joseph a soutane and embroidering a surplice. The first time he wore them, she held his face in her hands and started crying.
‘They fit me perfectly, Mama!’ Joseph assured her.
‘Yes, they do,’ she answered. ‘I am not crying because I am sad!’ Mama raised his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. ‘I have prayed for this since the day you were born. This is why Our Lord did not allow me to become a nun. I doubted Him then, but I understand now.’
Joseph did not think it was a good exchange. A nun’s vows were perpetual, and he would serve only a few years.
Sometimes, he was sorry to put on the soutane and surplice. He knew he should not mourn anyone who died in Christ. He should rejoice at such funerals. Still Joseph wished God had allowed Grandpapa to stay with them a little longer.
Grandpapa had been ill for years. The pain was worst when he relieved himself. Papa said it was all because of a stone lodged inside him. Finally Grandpapa allowed one of Papa’s doctor friends to cut it out. (Papa was a physician, not a surgeon.) Everything went well, and Grandpapa seemed to be healing. But three days after the surgery, he began shivering and sweating. Neither Papa nor his friend could stop it. Bishop England himself gave Grandpapa Extreme Unction, Absolution, and Viaticum. Grandpapa died without fear.
Joseph’s Uncle Bastien was not so blessed. That winter, Joseph returned from school to find Mama trying to comfort Grandmama on their piazza. Mama’s own eyes were red from crying.
‘Joseph, do you remember your Uncle Bastien?’ she asked. ‘You would have been six, seven years old when he went to North Carolina.’
Joseph recalled only a few things about his uncle, but he knew Papa, Mama, and Bastien had been inseparable when they were children. Unlike her sister, Mama’s brother had eagerly learned how to sign. Even after Uncle Bastien left Charleston, he corresponded faithfully.
‘Today we received a letter from his wife—his widow. There was an accident at his mill…’
‘It’s been months since Bastien last saw a Priest!’ Grandmama snatched up her handkerchief to blot her eyes and her nose.
‘You understand what this means, Joseph?’ Mama said with shaking hands. ‘Your uncle is in Purgatory, and he will be for a very long time unless we help him. Father McEncroe has already agreed to say the first Mass for Bastien tomorrow. You will pray for him too, Joseph?’
It didn’t seem fair. Why should a faithful Christian have to suffer for hundreds of years in Purgatory just because there wasn’t a Priest to give him the Last Sacraments? And if Uncle Bastien had committed a mortal sin with no chance to confess it…
Mr. Künstler joined their family at the first Mass for Uncle Bastien’s soul. When it was over, Joseph walked with his teacher to the seminary, letting Mr. Künstler lean on him as well as his cane.
“There are not nearly enough Priests in this diocese.” Joseph’s teacher shook his head. “And those who do come leave almost as quickly.”
“Why don’t they stay?”
“There are many reasons,” Mr. Künstler sighed. “America is still a missionary country. The congregations are small and usually poor, so they have trouble supporting a Priest. Many of the Priests can’t speak English well. Our diocese has an added obstacle: the peculiarity of our climate. ‘Stranger’s fever’ is called that because it is most fatal to new arrivals. Some never recover, and those who do suffer relapses, like Bishop England. To a European Priest, coming to our Southern states is an exile if not a death-sentence.”
Joseph hadn’t thought of their country that way. It sounded as bad as Africa or China.
“As Dr. England has said many times, what we need is a native clergy. That’s why he established this seminary.” They passed through its door. Once, it had been only a house. “You understand that the school for boys your age, the minor seminary, is meant to support the major seminary? Financially for now, but soon—we hope—pupils will continue from the one to the other.”
Most of the other boys weren’t even Catholic. They came to the school because their parents had few other choices. His Protestant classmates complained about it while they mocked Joseph for wanting to kiss the Pope’s feet.
It was early yet, so the classroom he and Mr. Künstler entered was still empty. “A native clergy is essential if we are ever to convert our separated brethren. Protestants view us with suspicion at best. They see that we are mostly immigrants, and they are convinced that we serve the Pope first, that we’ll never be truly American.” Joseph’s teacher sat heavily in the chair he kept at the front of the room. “We need Priests who understand American democracy and language, who have grown up in this climate. But there are so few American vocations. And a Priest born in this city of Sybarites—well, he would be a true rara avis.” Mr. Künstler rubbed his bad leg, but he smiled. “Can you tell me the origin of that expression?”
“Sybarites or rara avis?”
“Do you know both?”
Joseph nodded eagerly. He always paid attention during lectures. “Sybaris was a wicked city in ancient Italy, like Sodom and Gomorrah—so a Sybarite is someone who lives only for luxury and pleasure.” Mr. Künstler looked very proud of him, so Joseph continued: “Rara avis comes from Juvenal. Literally it means ‘rare bird.’ He was talking about a black swan. For centuries, people thought they didn’t exist.”
“Technically, Juvenal was talking about a perfect wife—he said such a woman was as rare as a black swan!”
Joseph knew Mr. Künstler was still a bachelor. Was that why? He’d never found his rara avis?
Joseph realized the humor had drained from his teacher’s face. “I know you weren’t born in America, Joseph, but you’re very nearly a native.” Mr. Künstler was staring at him in the strange, expectant way adults often stared at him. “Surely God has been calling you to the Priesthood? Have you been listening?”
Joseph could hardly breathe. “M-Me?”
A few days ago, as Joseph extinguished the altar candles, Father McEncroe had commented: “I think you have a vocation, Joseph.” He’d said it so warmly and casually, Joseph had assumed Father McEncroe simply meant assisting him.
When Mama had cried and kissed his hand to see him in his soutane and surplice, when she told him she’d been praying for this… She’d meant the Priesthood too. He hadn’t been listening.
Joseph had dreamed about becoming a Priest—of course he had. He dreamed about it every day when he watched Father McEncroe raise the Host, or when he heard Bishop England preach. But he wasn’t like them. He was a terrible sinner. Surely they never had impure thoughts. Joseph felt unworthy even washing a Priest’s hands. And he was not as brave as his great-granduncle Denis, who had died rather than renounce his faith. But Joseph wanted to be brave like that.
“Yes, Joseph,” Mr. Künstler assured him. “I’ve seen you when you’re serving at Mass. You make it look effortless—like you belong there. When you say, ‘I will go to the altar of God, Who gives joy to my youth,’ you mean it, don’t you?”
Joseph nodded. His Protestant classmates—and most of the Catholic boys—cared only about new clothes, impressing girls, hunting, and card games. Nothing important. Nothing that would last. Joseph wanted to be useful like Papa. But even Papa’s medicine wouldn’t last for all eternity.
“Envy is a grave sin,” Mr. Künstler mused, “yet I envy you, Joseph—the chance you have. I wanted desperately to be ordained myself.” His expression darkened, and he stared down at his club-foot. “But a Priest cannot be damaged. He must be perfect.” Mr. Künstler drew in a deep breath and laid his hands on Joseph’s shoulders. “You are an exceptional young man, Joseph. You would make an exceptional Priest. Promise me you will pray about it, and listen for God’s voice?”
Joseph nodded. He still couldn’t breathe.
Chapter 11
Unless you expect the unexpected, you will never find truth…
— Heraclitus (500 B.C.)
Joseph ran to church before the rest of his family woke. Thank God it was Saturday, so Father McEncroe was expecting Confessions. Joseph waited on his knees, praying and sweating, till at last the Priest entered the confessional.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Joseph pleaded. “I mean, I think I have sinned. It can’t have been pleasing to God. I didn’t like it; I thought I was dying and—”
“Slow down, son.” Father McEncroe stifled a yawn. “Take a deep breath. Then tell me what happened.”
“I was asleep, but it woke me up. It felt like I had wet the bed. But I’m too old for that; I’m thirteen! When I looked, it was thicker, and whitish…” Joseph lapsed into humiliated silence.
Father McEncroe released a breath that sounded like a chuckle. “You’re growing up, son; that’s all. You haven’t committed a sin.”
“But—isn’t that what happens when…” Priests did know about that, didn’t they, even if—
“You said you were asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Then you couldn’t give your consent. If there’s no volition, there’s no sin. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Nocturnal pollutions are beyond our control. We can guard our waking thoughts, but we can’t guard our dreams. Now, did you abuse yourself in any way last night?”
Joseph caught his breath. He knew that was a mortal sin. “No, Father.”
“When you woke, were you touching yourself then?”
“I—I don’t think so.” The thought was horrible: his hand wandering on its own, violating him against his will.
“Calm down, son. You have your own rosary?”
“Yes.”
“Try wrapping it around your hand before you go to sleep, with the crucifix in your palm. That should help. Do you say your prayers every night?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. Now you have something else to pray for, that you will be spared this. But I must warn you: it will probably happen again. It’s the nature of our flesh. It is weak.”
Joseph frowned. “W-What did you call it?”
“A ‘nocturnal pollution.’ As I said, I don’t need to absolve you. But I’ll bless you—how’s that?”
“Thank you, Father,” Joseph murmured. He didn’t want to be polluted. He wanted to be pure like his patron saint.
After that, Joseph did go to bed with a rosary wrapped around his hand. Hour after hour, he would lie awake in the dark, his weariness battling with his fear. His flesh might rebel as soon as he lost consciousness. He could never be a Priest if he couldn’t master his own body. He longed for the distraction of a hair shirt. His cotton night-shirt and drawers were far too comfortable. The more Joseph tried to concentrate on his prayers, the more his thoughts would stray—the more his body would respond. So he would imagine the consequences of surrendering to impurity: the botto
mless lake of fire.
This was not difficult to do as summer stalked Charleston. But in Hell, there would be no winter—no end to the heat, the agony, the gnashing of teeth. Hell would go on and on and on, forever and ever—and he could earn that eternity of torment with a single moment of weakness.
One hot night, as he lay counting his beads, a strange odor drifted into the room. Joseph frowned. It smelled like…smoke. As if his fantasy of Hell were coming to terrifying life. He sat up, eyes wide. It could be another slave uprising. Negroes were setting fire to the city!
Joseph threw aside his mosquito netting, sprang to the floor, and peered out his window. The acrid smell of smoke grew stronger on the breeze. From his bedchamber, he could see only the upper piazza, and beyond it, the dark wall of Grandmama’s house. At least she was safe: away in the mountains, taking the waters for her health.
Still carrying his rosary and still barefoot, Joseph tucked himself through his open window. He climbed onto the piazza and hurried to the back end. There, he could peer down into the work yard. It was their kitchen on fire!
“Papa!” He wheeled across the piazza toward his parents’ open window. Within, a lamp was already lit. The thin white curtains swayed in the slight wind, shifting for just a moment so that Joseph could see inside.
The rosary dropped from his hand. The cord must have snapped: the beads clattered on the piazza, bounced over his bare feet, and careened in a dozen directions. Thoughts of the fire fled just as quickly. He was mistaken; the mosquito netting had distorted things; he couldn’t have seen—
But he heard, too: Mama, so careful never to make sounds, was moaning.
The curtains swayed aside once more, and Joseph glimpsed it again, the hideous tableau. His mother’s delicate, expressive hands reduced to bloodless fists, gripping vainly at whatever bound them to the bedposts. Her own stockings? Between her spread arms, her head tilted unnaturally to one side. Her beautiful face was screwed up in such pain that she had to bite down on her lip, and tears trickled from her closed eyes. Her skin was flushed with shame, and every inch of it was bare, her pink nipples rising from the tangle of her golden hair. And Papa—Joseph didn’t know what he was doing to her; he didn’t want to know—but he saw his father’s dark head moving between Mama’s white thighs.
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