Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  His father hesitated before he replied. “No.”

  “Why not?!”

  “Because of the way you’re acting right now!” Joseph’s father spread his hands as if the answer were obvious. “For Heaven’s sake, son, I haven’t given you syphilis! Everyone acts as though African blood is some kind of curse.”

  It was. It even had a name: the Curse of Ham. Ham had seen his father Noah naked and mocked him, so Noah cursed Ham and his descendants with black skin. The curse followed all of them, no matter how distant the connection: Joseph had heard that black skin could show up in children whose parents looked white.

  “It’s a lie, but it is so deep…” his father continued with all the passion of his race. “I think some of the slaves believe it—that they are worthless, that they are less.”

  If everyone treated you like you were less, then you were. Joseph stared down at the buried stumps where his feet had been. He wished the sand would cover him completely, or that the waves would carry him out to sea.

  “I know what you’re feeling, Joseph, because I’ve felt it too. I wanted to spare you that. I know what that feeling has done to your mother. She despises herself. She thinks it’s a sin to be special. She wants to disappear into God like a nun. It doesn’t have to be like that. I hope someday you’ll meet the deaf men I knew in Paris. They’re proud of who they are. Their deafness—something the rest of the world sees as a burden—it makes them stronger. It makes their lives richer than you or I can imagine.”

  When his father gripped his shoulder, Joseph flinched but did not pull away. The sand held him fast.

  “You must never, ever think there is anything wrong with you, Joseph. I’m the mistake. You were desired, anticipated, welcomed…”

  Joseph closed his eyes against his father’s lies. If only he could close his ears too.

  “Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are.”

  In his mind’s eye, Joseph saw only Mama bound to her bedposts—all the proof he needed that there was something very, very wrong with his father, with him.

  Over the churning of the waves, it took both of them a minute to realize that a new voice was crying out behind them: “Papa? Papa!”

  Joseph opened his eyes and turned his head to see Cathy standing above the reach of the water. Even from this distance, tears glistened on her cheeks.

  “I’m coming, ma minette!” Their father climbed the beach toward her.

  Joseph dragged himself from the sand and followed.

  Cathy didn’t move. “Joseph told me.”

  Their father stopped just shy of her. “I wish he’d let me do that.”

  I wish you weren’t our father, Joseph thought.

  “Then it’s true?” Cathy peered up desperately at their father. “You’re really a… And I’m—a quadroon? An octoon?”

  “You are the same beautiful girl you were this morning.”

  “But I might have looked like…” She was trembling. “If I have babies, they might look like…”

  “I don’t think that’s possible, unless you marry a colored man.”

  “I don’t want to marry a colored man!”

  “You can marry whomever you like, ma minette.”

  “No I can’t! I’d have to tell him!”

  “He hasn’t told Mama,” Joseph cut in.

  Cathy gaped at their father. “Mama doesn’t know?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “No, and you mustn’t tell her. Promise me.”

  “How could you not tell her?”

  “Your mother—” He couldn’t meet Cathy’s eyes. “Your mother has enough to worry her.”

  “How could you ask her to marry you and not—”

  Their father dropped his hands from Cathy’s shoulders. He looked past her toward the cottage as if Mama might be standing there, but the porch was empty. “When you fall in love yourself, ma minette, you’ll understand: how fragile it is—how terrifying.” His voice grew quieter with every word. “I’d hoped one day… But it’s too late now.”

  Cathy glared at him. “Are you going to tell Hélène?”

  “Do you think I should? Joseph? We should decide this together.”

  “She needs to know,” Cathy murmured.

  Joseph nodded.

  When they entered the cottage, Mama asked why Joseph and his father had gone swimming in their trousers. She was distracted by Cathy, who’d started crying again. She buried her face in Mama’s puffy sleeve like she hadn’t done in years. Mama thought it was still about Madame Talvande’s school.

  Their father found Hélène reading in her bedchamber. Joseph hovered at the threshold to listen while their father told Hélène that everything she knew about her grandmother was a lie. “A fairy tale,” their father called it.

  Hélène did not cry or run away from him, but she looked very serious. They should have waited to tell her. Eight was too young to understand. Her first question was: “Do you remember your real mama?”

  “I don’t.” Their father shook his head. “I’ve tried.” He stroked Hélène’s hair. She had always been his favorite. “I have dreams sometimes…but they’re only dreams.”

  “I bet she was nicer than Great-Grandmama.”

  He smiled back. “I bet she was.”

  “May is nice. So are Henry and Agathe. Am I related to them now?”

  He kissed the top of her head as if she’d said everything right. “We are all related, ma poulette. God created every one of us. Remember that.”

  Chapter 13

  Among our Catholic negroes we sometimes find exemplary instances of that to them most difficult virtue,—purity. … negroes are, as a race, very prone to excesses, and unless restrained, plunge madly into the lowest depths of licentiousness.

  — Patrick Lynch, Third Bishop of Charleston, Letter of a Missionary on Domestic Slavery in the Confederate States of America (1864)

  Now more than ever before, Joseph knew he must become a Priest—if Holy Orders were even possible for a colored man. Could he consecrate such a body to God’s work? Was such hot blood capable of celibacy?

  His sisters’ friends had started to peer at him and giggle, to look away shyly but invitingly. They seemed especially interested when Joseph was wearing his soutane and surplice. Little did they know what his vestments truly concealed.

  In his encyclopedia on Saint-Domingue, Moreau de Saint-Méry had written: “The mulatto’s only master is pleasure.” Some scholars argued that the Curse of Ham resulted not only from Ham disrespecting his father but also from Ham violating God’s command that everyone on the Ark remain continent. Ham was the only one who disobeyed and lay with his wife, so his skin turned black to bear eternal testimony to his wickedness, and Ham’s descendants were cursed with servitude.

  But weren’t Priests servants too? Wasn’t total devotion called “holy slavery”?

  Joseph longed for a voice telling him what to do, for God to speak to him as He had to Noah and so many saints. Because Joseph heard nothing, did that mean he didn’t have a vocation? But he felt something when he served at Mass, or even kneeling alone before the altar of the cathedral as he was doing now.

  Their Saint Finbar’s wasn’t a proper cathedral, the Grands had told him many times. They had worshipped inside proper cathedrals in France. Those were made of stone. Bishop England’s was of wood, small, squat, and shingled. Its altar was simple, but it held what mattered: a Tabernacle—and inside it, the Real Presence of the living God. That was what Joseph felt, rippling the still air: power and peace, something—Someone—that started outside him but filled him, exciting him into action. Surely that meant God was calling him.

  But Joseph wanted words. He wanted God to cry out: “Whom shall I send?” so that Joseph could shout back: “Here am I, send me!”

  Perhaps he was not showing sufficient humility. In the aisle of the cathedral, Joseph lay prostrate. He rested his forehead on his hands and begged for a sign.

  “Take, Lord, all my liberty…” He had been
following the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola. Joseph had recited this prayer so many times, he knew it by heart: “Accept my memory, my understanding, my entire will. Whatsoever I possess Thou hast bestowed; to Thee, I surrender it wholly. Grant me only Thy love and Thy grace—with these I am rich enough and desire nothing more.”

  He waited and waited. No answer came. Though he struggled against them, tears fought their way up behind his eyelids. “Accept me, please…”

  Then Joseph did hear voices—and they seemed to be coming from the altar. He raised his head. He realized with disappointment that the voices were attached to bodies: Bishop England and Miss Joanna were standing outside the sacristy door.

  She was carrying fresh altar cloths. His Lordship was reading his sister something from a newspaper, and he sounded angry. Framed by her mantilla, her face was a portrait of worry. Then Miss Joanna noticed Joseph and smiled.

  “My lord!” Joseph pulled his legs beneath him in order to rise and honor his Bishop. But he hesitated. He should not cross the altar rail unless he was serving.

  “Please, son—stay where you are.”

  Joseph wished he were this man’s son, though he knew that was impossible.

  “We didn’t intend to interrupt your devotions.” Bishop England folded his paper.

  “You didn’t. I wanted…” Joseph remained kneeling, his eyes downcast. He wasn’t sure how to explain, so he greeted Miss Joanna instead.

  She answered with her usual kindness. She set the clean altar linens on the priests’ bench and genuflected to Christ in the Tabernacle. Then Miss Joanna went about her work, gathering the used altar cloths. She handled the linens with utmost care because they might hold the remains of Christ’s Body.

  His Lordship also genuflected before he passed through the altar rail. He sat in a pew and set his paper aside. “Can I help you at all?”

  Joseph must begin somewhere. “My lord…I read about Pope Saint Calixtus, how he was born a slave. I know he wasn’t an African, but it made me wonder: Can a colored man become a Priest?”

  “Of course. The Church has had a presence in Africa since the time of the Apostles. We have ordained many men there.”

  His gaze on his knees, Joseph swallowed his disappointment and nodded. “A black Priest couldn’t serve here.”

  Bishop England sighed. “Unfortunately, in this country, people would see only the color of his skin. They wouldn’t respect him.”

  Joseph couldn’t ask about becoming a Priest himself, not today, or His Lordship might—

  “If, on the other hand, his parishioners don’t know of his African heritage; if they believe his grandmother was Spanish, for example…”

  Joseph sucked in a breath and his eyes snapped up.

  His Lordship was smiling. Still he glanced across the altar rail at his sister (still busy with her task) before he whispered: “Your father told me, Joseph.”

  Joseph’s first reaction was anger at his father, though relief soon replaced it. He no longer had to worry about concealing their secret, and he knew they could trust Bishop England. “A-A man’s blood doesn’t matter to the Church, then?”

  His Lordship shook his head. “The Church welcomes everyone, whatever their origins. That’s why it’s called Catholic—universal, for all men. You mentioned the Pope who was born a slave. Pope Sixtus V, who finished the dome of St. Peter’s in Rome, was once a swineherd.” Bishop England’s eyes rested on the paper beside him now, his dark brows pulled together. “And do you understand, Joseph, that many people despise the Irish as much as they do blacks? I have heard my countrymen called ‘white negroes,’ even—if you’ll pardon me—‘niggers turned inside out.’ Many Englishmen and Americans view the Irish as a race of savages: filthy, indolent, ignorant, drunken, and helpless.”

  Joseph scowled. He’d heard negroes called all those same things.

  “Perhaps you’ve seen some of the newspaper drawings. The artists make us look like apes. Even the Irishwomen.” Bishop England’s attention returned to Miss Joanna, who was folding the last soiled altar cloth. She looked like an angel, or at least a saint. “But God doesn’t see us the way men see us. He sees an island of saints. He sees white souls beneath black skins. He sees Popes in slaves and swineherds.”

  “But there are men who can’t be Priests, aren’t there? No matter how badly they want it? Men like Mr. Künstler?”

  His Lordship opened his mouth, hesitated, and then tapped the seat beside him. Joseph obeyed gratefully; his legs were falling asleep from kneeling so long on the bare floor.

  “I know Mr. Künstler’s story must seem like a tragedy. But he’s found another way to serve.”

  He was only a teacher. He wasn’t God’s representative on Earth.

  “You must understand, Joseph: training a Priest takes at least a decade. It requires an enormous investment of time and resources. The Church must ensure that as many seminarians as possible will be able to serve for a lifetime. The duties of a Priest are exhausting even for someone in perfect health. An army cannot accept every soldier who wishes to join its ranks. Sometimes, unfortunately, ‘the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’”

  There were many kinds of fleshly weakness. Joseph glanced nervously toward Miss Joanna, who was laying out the new altar linens. Joseph lowered his voice. “Someone could be too wicked to be a Priest, couldn’t he?”

  “He could, if he refuses to turn away from his wickedness.”

  “How wicked is too wicked?”

  “Are we talking about you, Joseph?” Bishop England’s words carried a lilt of amusement.

  Joseph wished he understood why. He couldn’t meet His Lordship’s eyes. Here there was no confessional grille to separate this holy man from his own shame. At last Joseph whispered: “I have impure thoughts every day.”

  “At your age, son, unfortunately that is normal.”

  Joseph didn’t want to be normal.

  “Time, self-discipline, and most of all grace will make those thoughts subside. Chastity isn’t something we accomplish on our own—it’s a divine gift. You understand that with every Sacrament, God grants us a measure of His grace? When a man becomes a Priest, God gives him the strength he needs to keep his vows. Volition is what matters. Do you want to set aside the things of the world and choose the things of God?”

  Joseph nodded fiercely. He was afraid the tears might return. “I do.” When he raised his eyes, Bishop England was beaming.

  “I have longed for this day!” He touched Joseph’s head the way his father used to do. From His Lordship, it felt like a blessing. “I knew Our Lord was calling you, Joseph. My sister and I have quarrelled over you more than once.”

  Joseph too looked across the altar rail to where Miss Joanna stood grinning at him with her hand pressed over her heart.

  “She insisted that I must let you come to me.”

  “Wait till you hear what he has planned for you, Joseph!” With that, Miss Joanna gathered up the old linens and scurried back to the sacristy.

  “My first question is this, son: Do you know any Italian?”

  Was that a requirement for the Priesthood? Joseph shook his head.

  “But your Latin is flawless, and I understand you’ve taught yourself some Spanish as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those will give you a good foundation. I am certain you will master Italian quickly. Your lectures and examinations will be in Latin, of course. But you will want to explore the city.”

  “What city?”

  Bishop England kept grinning, his grey eyes shining like silver. “Joseph, how would you feel about attending seminary in Rome?”

  “Rome?” Joseph gasped. To kneel at the tomb of Saint Peter! To receive a blessing from the Holy Father himself! “I thought I would stay here.”

  “The truth is, son, my little seminary cannot give you the education you deserve. As I said, I’ve been anticipating this, and I’ve made enquiries already. You are familiar with the Sacra Congregatio de
Propaganda Fide?”

  “The Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith.” Joseph nodded. “The Cardinals responsible for missionary work.”

  “A young man of your intelligence, the first candidate from a new diocese—I’m certain the College of the Propaganda will accept you and pay your expenses.” Bishop England studied Joseph. “It will mean leaving your family. That is the first sacrifice a Priest must make. If we hurry with your application, you could start in November. Do you think you are ready?”

  Joseph swallowed. He didn’t want to leave Mama. He would miss Grandmama and Hélène—and Cathy, too. But going to Rome also meant he would not have to live under the same roof as his father. At last Joseph nodded. “The sooner I begin…”

  “…the sooner you will be a Priest.” Bishop England squeezed his shoulder as if to confirm he was real. “Will you promise me something, Joseph?”

  “Anything, my lord.”

  “Promise me you won’t remain in Rome? I know it will be tempting, but we need you here—desperately. Even ten years from now, I don’t think that will change.”

  Joseph nodded. “I will complete my studies as quickly as I can.”

  His Lordship smiled again, then averted his grey eyes. “I suppose Saint-Sulpice would feel more like home. You could apply there as well.”

  The Parisian seminary was famous. But Joseph remembered Bishop England’s struggles with Archbishop Maréchal. Joseph asked cautiously: “You’re not very fond of Frenchmen, are you, my lord?”

  Bishop England sat back and raised his hands to protest his innocence. “I have no objection to them whatsoever—apart from their insufferable arrogance and their refusal to learn English!” His Lordship laughed his warm Irish laugh. “You, dear boy, are guilty of neither fault. You know you have my recommendation. We will also need a letter from a physician—someone besides your father.”

  “A physician?”

  “’Tis nothing to worry over, son—simply a confirmation of your good health.” Bishop England stood. “I will ask Dr. Moretti. Perhaps he can even teach you a little Italian! Now, have you discussed your vocation with your family?”