Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  Their church on Hasell Street had taken the name St. Mary’s. But His Lordship had given Joseph’s family permission to attend Mass at St. Finbar’s Cathedral now, since Joseph would be serving there. He suspected this decision had been painful for his mother and grandmother. Even if it was the cathedral, St. Finbar’s lacked the pedigree of St. Mary’s. Most of its congregation was lower-class Irish instead of upper-class French.

  The changes Joseph noticed most keenly were those in his own family. His black-haired nephew, David, was already learning to read. Cathy and her husband had also welcomed a daughter named Sophie. Peregrine McAllister had grown up in the Scottish Highlands and spoke with a brogue, but his love for his wife and children came through clearly.

  Joseph decided to forgive Perry for compromising his sister, though the Scotsman had little to offer her. For now, he worked as a carpenter. Cathy was learning how to cook and clean from Agathe and May. When the McAllisters moved out to Missouri, they would begin a very different life. Cathy understood that wives must submit to their husbands. But she did not always obey with Christian fortitude. Sometimes she snapped like a cornered animal.

  When Joseph found an opportunity to speak to his sister alone, it was wash day. Cathy was in the yard, her sleeves rolled up and her hands submerged in a tub.

  “Perry is good to you, isn’t he, Cathy?” Joseph asked.

  “Of course,” she answered without looking up. She seemed to be scrubbing one of Sophie’s diapers. “Most women would count themselves lucky to have such a husband.”

  “You don’t?”

  Cathy dropped the diaper. Soap splashed on her pinafore. “Do you think this is what I dreamt about when I was a girl?” She thrust her fists toward him, glaring at Joseph over her inflamed hands. “Do you think I want to be a drudge on some farm?”

  Joseph hesitated. “I think Perry would remain in Charleston if you asked him to.”

  “He would hate it.” Cathy snatched up the diaper again. “Soon enough, he would hate me. He longs for the wilds, my Peregrine. He longs to see what’s over the next hill. His parents named him well. I knew that when I married him.”

  Then why had she—

  “I dreamt of marrying a prince once, or at least a gentleman.” Cathy threw the diaper into another laundry tub. “But a gentleman wants a lady at his side, not a woman like me. My choices were a man of Perry’s class or life as a spinster.”

  She might have become a nun.

  “Did I understand the implications of my choice when I was sixteen?” Cathy continued, half to herself. “Of course I didn’t. But I’ve made my bed, and now I must lie in it.” With a wooden paddle, she fetched a chemise from a third laundry tub. “Or should I say: Papa’s father made my bed for me, when he went after his mulâtresse. I am the granddaughter of a slave, so I must work like one.”

  Hélène also rejected a religious life. She often aided the Sisters of Mercy in their labors with orphans and invalids, so their mother urged her to take vows. But Hélène doted on her niece and nephew. She wanted her own children and husband. She was eighteen now and pretty, though she had not lost the plumpness of her girlhood.

  Upon their reunion, his family had exclaimed about how Joseph’s voice had changed and how tall he’d grown. He had never seen his mother’s smile last so long. She remained beautiful, but strands of silver had invaded her golden hair. She was, after all, a grandmother in her forty-fourth year of life. His father was two years her senior. Surely by now his lust had cooled.

  Still Joseph wondered, worried, and prayed for his mother. He was grateful when Bishop England suggested Joseph share his own modest residence next to the seminary and cathedral. Joseph was a new man now, or nearly, and it would be inappropriate for him to remain in his childhood bed as if nothing had changed. He was no longer a son or a brother, and he could never truly be an uncle. He was a seminarian, and before the end of the year, he would be a Priest. How much better to share a roof with his spiritual father, the man he wished to resemble.

  Henry too had aged almost a decade, so he welcomed Joseph’s help in the garden. Even in early January, there was a great deal to do on a mild day. While Henry spread hay over the daffodil bulbs, Joseph harvested spinach from the cold frame, since the black man’s knees bothered him. Apparently Joseph’s garden gloves, like the rest of his few possessions, were still making their way across the Atlantic. Henry’s gloves did not fit Joseph, but slicing through spinach stalks was a simple enough task.

  His father emerged from the house and watched Joseph for a time. Finally his father asked: “Do you like gardening because it keeps you perpetually on your knees?”

  Joseph leaned back down into the frame so he wouldn’t glare at his father and decided not to dignify that with a direct response. “There’s a long and proud tradition of botanist Priests and Friars. Men of the cloth have whole genera named after them: Camellia for the Jesuit missionary Georg Joseph Kamel and Plumeria for the Franciscan Charles Plumier.” Joseph set another handful of leaves in his basket, then stood to take the spinach to Agathe. “Did you know ‘seminary’ is Latin for ‘seed plot’?”

  “Yes. It comes from the same root as ‘semen.’ Will you really be satisfied if the only things you ever plant are flowers and vegetables?”

  Agathe disappeared into the kitchen. Joseph was glad she didn’t speak much English. “There is no need to be vulgar.”

  “Life is vulgar, Joseph—and sublime.”

  That gardenia bush was becoming unwieldy, Joseph decided; it needed pruning. He could make a start, at least, with his knife. Much as he wanted to, he shouldn’t walk away to find the shears while his father was still arguing. But he didn’t have to look at him.

  “God gave us bodies as well as souls, Joseph. To reject one of them is to insult Him, not—”

  “God gave us bodies, but our sin corrupted them; it divided our natures. Before the Fall—” Joseph looked quickly from the gardenia to Henry, who was rubbing linseed oil into tool handles. Then he remembered that the black man was also a husband, and that nothing he could say would shock Henry. Joseph returned his attention to pruning. “Before the Fall, our souls had mastery over our bodies. Now ‘the law of our members fights with the law of our mind’; they ‘rise up against the soul’s decision in disorderly and ugly movement… Beware, lest that bestial movement—’”

  “I don’t want to hear another word from Saint Augustine! The man was a hypocrite and an idiot!” His father loomed over him. “Your body is not ‘ugly’ or ‘bestial,’ Joseph! You—and your member—are a miracle and a masterpiece!” Joseph’s father finally paused in order to glance over at the black man. “You’ll have to pardon us, Henry—I do not mean to imply that you are any less miraculous. But you are not willfully throwing your life away!” Joseph felt his father’s eyes again. “At twenty-two years old!”

  If his father had been a loving husband, Joseph might have countered: You also made a life-long commitment at twenty-two.

  “This order of Subdeacon that happens next month—that’s your Rubicon, isn’t it? That’s when you make some sort of irreversible promise?”

  Joseph nodded, kneeling to remove the lower branches of the gardenia. “I will be ‘perpetually bound to the service of God’.”

  “And to celibacy.”

  “‘Henceforth you must be chaste,’ yes.”

  His father sighed heavily and turned away for a minute while Joseph worked. Unfortunately, he soon turned back. “There is another doctor my own age who lives a street away. His name is Latour—a fine man and a fine physician. But when the families in this neighborhood need a doctor, they call on me first. Do you know why? Because Dr. Latour is a bachelor. He doesn’t know what it’s like to watch his own wife and children suffering. My patients trust my judgments because they know I am also a husband and father.”

  Remember what he did to Mama in order to become a father. Joseph would never allow his hands to torment a woman.

  “I know all my p
atients’ names and I care about what happens to them, not their diseases. I don’t just spout words I’ve memorized from a book.”

  HE is the hypocrite. He is a beast; you are a beast; and your only hope—

  Joseph saw the bright well of blood before he even felt the pain, before he realized what he’d done. He’d been distracted; the knife had slipped past the wood of the gardenia and sliced into the heel of his hand. He dropped the blade, and panic clamped down on his chest. He struggled to stand, as if he could escape from his own flesh, but the world was going bright and black at once—he only collapsed to his knees again.

  “Henry! Get my bag!” his father yelled somewhere far away. “Quick as you can!”

  Joseph could not take his eyes from the hot blood spilling down his wrist and soaking into his sleeve. He felt as if he was watching his vocation drain away, drop by drop—every hour of his life this last decade utterly gone, utterly wasted because of his carelessness. Tears began welling too.

  “Joseph.” His father was kneeling with him, his hands on Joseph’s shoulders. “Look at me, son. You’re going to be fine.”

  Still Joseph stared at the gash in his hand. Breath wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he fought for it. Why was he even fighting? He was nothing now. He could never be a Priest. He might as well have slit his wrist.

  “It isn’t as serious as it looks. You’re not going to lose your hand.”

  He couldn’t promise that!

  “Signing will be awkward for a while, that is all—and you may have some trouble buttoning your trousers.” His father was actually chuckling! He took his medical satchel from Henry. “Do you want laudanum for the pain?”

  “You don’t understand! A Priest can’t have damaged hands!”

  His father paused in his rummaging. How could he be so damned calm? As if they had all the time in the world, his eyes locked with Joseph’s. “Are you telling me that if I do a poor job on these sutures, I can prevent you from becoming a Priest?”

  Now Joseph’s heart stopped. Dear God… If there’d been even a chance this could heal—

  His father sighed, then bent over Joseph’s hand. “I wouldn’t do that to you, son. This is your decision, not mine. I can’t be a bad doctor any more than you could be a bad Priest.”

  Joseph closed his eyes in relief and thanksgiving. He felt his father probing the wound, and he tried not to flinch. Before he opened his eyes again, he murmured, “You think I’ll be a good Priest?”

  His father did not look up from his work. “You will be an excellent Priest, as soon as life teaches you a few things.” He pierced Joseph’s flesh with a needle. “You would also have been an excellent botanist—and an excellent husband and father…”

  Joseph averted his eyes. “Cathy has already given you grandchildren. They just don’t carry your name.”

  “I don’t care if you give me grandchildren, Joseph. I do care about your happiness.”

  “I am happy—I will be.”

  “Are you absolutely certain, son?”

  He hesitated for only a moment. “Yes.”

  “I shouldn’t have insulted you. I’m sorry, Joseph.” After another few minutes, his father sat back to admire his work. “I doubt you’ll even have a scar.”

  Joseph stared down at his hand, wrapped in its clean white bandage. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Alea iacta est,” his father muttered.

  Joseph protected his sutured hand as if it were made of porcelain. He could scarcely sleep for fear he would roll on it. He visited his father’s office each morning so that he could change the bandage and inspect the wound. The cut continued to heal with no signs of inflammation, but every day Joseph peered at his palm with trepidation. The new flesh was smooth and shockingly pink. Had he thought the skin would grow back dark like his Haitian grandmother’s?

  On one of these visits, his father picked up the new bandage only to set it down again. He sat on the edge of his desk, facing Joseph. “This little omen hasn’t changed your mind?”

  “Of course not.” Joseph kept his eyes on his wound. “I intend to resume gardening as soon as possible.”

  His father gave a dry chuckle. “In a flower bed or in the ‘vineyard of the Lord’?”

  “Both.”

  He was sober again. “Then while I have your attention, son, there is something I must say.”

  Something else, he meant. Joseph contemplated finding another doctor.

  “I imagine part of your seminary training involved your responsibilities as a confessor and counselor?”

  “Yes.” He would say as little as possible, Joseph decided, so that this lecture might end sooner.

  “I implore you, son: do not judge your parishioners either rashly or harshly.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It comes to this: your teachers have all been Priests. Assuming they have kept their vows, such men have a, shall we say, limited knowledge of women and of sexual congress. I, on the other hand, possess more than two decades’ experience, not only as a husband but also as a doctor. I have friends who are husbands and doctors as well. We often seek each other’s advice. You are young, Joseph, and you have been very sheltered—like a hothouse flower. Sooner or later, a penitent will confess to you some act or desire that will shock you. You will find yourself at a loss how to respond. When that happens, I will gladly place my knowledge and experience at your disposal. I will give you no names, and you will give me none. We will both be bound by the Seal of Confession.”

  That will not be necessary, Joseph thought. If I need advice, I will go to another Priest, just as you go to fellow doctors. You cannot diagnose sin. You don’t even wish to cure your own.

  On the day he became a Subdeacon, Joseph’s palm retained little evidence of the wound. Bishop England assured him the damage was not sufficient to constitute an impediment, but he advised Joseph to be more careful in future. His Lordship added with a grin that Joseph was blessed to have such a fine physician.

  Perhaps Joseph’s hand remained unsteady. His very first act as an Ordinand, when Bishop England called his name, was to respond “I am present” and step forward. But somehow, carrying the weight of the unaccustomed vestments and the expectations of an entire diocese, Joseph dropped his candle instead.

  Miraculously, even as it rolled away from him, the candle remained lit. When he stooped to snatch it up, the tasselled ends of his cincture swung dangerously close to the flame and nearly caught fire. Everyone in the cathedral seemed to gasp and then release his breath at once.

  Probably Joseph’s father thought this was another omen. After all, a clergyman’s cincture symbolized his chastity. As Joseph tied the white cord around his waist in the sacristy, he had prayed: “Gird me, O Lord, with the cincture of purity, and extinguish in my heart the fire of lust.”

  Afraid he’d somehow invalidated the rite, Joseph raised his eyes nervously to his Bishop. His Lordship granted him a reassuring smile before continuing the Mass. Joseph’s heart calmed as again and again, Bishop England addressed him as “dearly beloved son.” Each time felt like an embrace.

  “Consider that this day of your own free will, you desire a burden,” His Lordship proclaimed in booming Latin. “For after you have received this Order, you will no longer be free…you will be obliged to observe chastity and to work always in the ministry of the Church.”

  Joseph lay prostrate, rose, and answered “Amen” at each proper place. Bishop England conferred on him all the vestments and duties of a Subdeacon. And it was done. He was safe. Joseph belonged now to God, and no woman would ever belong to him.

  Chapter 18

  No thief hugging his ill-gotten gains; no murderer, fleeing from city to city, like a deer chased by the hounds, passing night after night in but fitful slumbers, ever was haunted more by fear of discovery, or lived in greater suspense.

  — Ralph W. Tyler, “1,000 Passing in Washington,” New York Age, September 16, 1909

  Shortly before Easter, Joseph ag
reed to accompany his father to the funeral Mass for Philippe Noisette. Afterwards, they stood in St. Mary’s churchyard in the drizzle, watching Celestine, five of her children, and three grandchildren pay their last tearful respects to the Frenchman. Joseph asked his father in a low voice: “What will become of them now?”

  “Philippe did all he could for them. He sent Louis to apprentice with his brother in France, so at least he is safe. Philippe has two other siblings—hopefully they won’t contest his will. He recognized all his children and made arrangements to support them and Celestine through the sale of his estate, which is considerable. But the only way to guarantee their freedom is for the Noisettes to leave the South—and they want to stay. Philippe’s eldest son, Alexandre, wants to continue his father’s business at the garden. Philippe named Joel Poinsett and Francis Duquereron his executors—good men and powerful ones. If they become, at least nominally, the Noisettes’ masters, Philippe’s family can remain in Charleston.”

  His father walked Joseph back to the seminary, still clearly troubled. “I don’t intend to die anytime soon, but neither will I live forever; I need to make my own provisions. Agathe and your grandmother’s maid will probably predecease me, but I’ve been thinking a great deal about Henry and May. They have family here—brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews—owned by other masters. But if Henry and May stay in South Carolina, I can’t free them in my will.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “Henry and May know it will be difficult for your mother to teach someone else signs. They have agreed to stay with her as long as they can. After that, they deserve a few years of rest—and they will need a protector who is free. Cathy and Perry are leaving next year, and all the other men I trust are my own age or older. Dr. England tells me he wants to keep you in Charleston.”