Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  “No matter how much we are provoked,” Mr. Conley muttered.

  Joseph gathered that Mr. Conley’s father had sent his youngest son to America for much the same reason the Church had sent Bishop England here: they had both been agitating their countrymen with their pens. What an Irishman called justice, the British Crown called treason.

  Joseph’s mother had tried to disappear before their guests ever arrived, but his father had refused to allow it. The Conleys were very patient as they waited for translations. They even wanted to learn a few signs. Mr. Conley was genuinely interested in the legal barriers faced by the deaf in France and in America. The young Irishman had found work as a copyist for a lawyer on Broad Street, and someday he hoped to practice law himself.

  “I’d heard that the deaf could communicate with their hands,” Mr. Conley observed over dessert. “But it isn’t just your hands—you use your entire countenance!”

  “We do,” Joseph’s father smiled.

  “A year ago in Paris, I attended a banquet for the deaf,” Joseph added, signing as he spoke. “There were speeches without speech. Some of the men even recited poetry.” He waited for the Conleys’ gasps of astonishment. “Poetry composed in sign doesn’t rhyme, of course—it finds its rhythm in the shapes of the signs themselves: how they reflect one another and grow out of one another. It’s quite beautiful.”

  Miss Conley ventured: “Do you remember any of the poems, Father?”

  “Not well enough to do them justice. I’m sorry.”

  “Have you composed any poems in sign yourself?”

  Joseph chuckled. “I’m afraid not. Homilies are difficult enough.”

  “The one you gave yesterday was excellent.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.”

  “I think the best parts of Joseph’s Mass were his chants,” Hélène declared. “Your voice is truly divine, brother. Which is why you must sing for our guests!”

  “What, now?”

  “Dinner is finished—why not?” His sister stood, kissed their mother’s forehead, and said only in sign: ‘I apologize, Mama.’

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ she answered. ‘I’ll see if David and Sophie have finished their dinner.’

  Hélène flew to the piano. “I finally received the sheet music I’ve been waiting for, a ballad everybody else already has! It’s supposed to be a man singing, so it doesn’t sound right when I do it. Come, Cathy—turn the pages for me.”

  Joseph frowned at his copy of the sheet music. “This looks like a love ballad.”

  “It is.” Hélène was already teasing the tune from the keys. “It’s about a man who renounces his love, so it’s perfect for you.”

  “Whom have I renounced?”

  “Everybody! Must I really explain celibacy to a Priest? Now sing!”

  Joseph sighed and capitulated:

  “I’d offer thee this hand of mine,

  If I could love thee less;

  But hearts as warm, as soft as thine,

  Should never know distress.

  My fortune is too hard for thee,

  ’Twould chill thy dearest joy:

  I’d rather weep to see thee free,

  Than win thee to destroy…”

  When the ballad was finished, everyone offered their praise. Joseph heard only Miss Conley’s.

  “Surely one of our guests will favor us with a song as well?” Hélène urged.

  Miss Conley lowered her eyes. “Oh, no, we couldn’t—especially after—”

  “Don’t be so modest, Tessa,” her brother encouraged. “Everyone always said you had the sweetest voice in our parish.”

  The sweetest voice in all of Ireland, Joseph would wager.

  At last, Miss Conley conceded. She needed no accompaniment. She sang a lament in her own language, wild and ancient and absolutely breathtaking. She kept them at a distance, then drew them in and left them intimate strangers.

  Joseph let the others shower Miss Conley with acclaim. His only compliment was wordless, an exchange of smiles from one singer to another. He was afraid that a true admission of how Miss Conley’s voice affected him would reveal how much of the man remained in him, how his transformation into Priesthood was not as instantaneous as he’d hoped.

  Part IV

  A Priest Forever

  1835-1837

  Charleston

  The Lord has sworn, and He will not repent:

  You are a Priest forever…

  — Psalm 109:4

  Chapter 21

  In a short time the persons begin to act towards each other not like angels…but like beings clothed with flesh. The looks are not immodest, but they are frequent and reciprocal; their words appear to be spiritual, but are too affectionate. Each begins frequently to desire the company of the other. And thus…a spiritual devotion is converted into a carnal one.

  — Saint Alphonsus Liguori, Dignity and Duties of the Priest (1760)

  At a glance, Joseph continued to resemble other men. Outside the cathedral and seminary, he wore a simple black suit. To stroll down the streets of Charleston in his soutane would have been akin to carrying a pillory. So to most Protestants, he remained incognito; his neck-cloth only appeared out of date or too formal for day wear.

  But Catholics could identify him as a Priest by this “choker,” a white silk neckerchief. It contained a great deal more cloth than a stock or a cravat, so it took a bit of practice to make it tidy. Castalio had to help him the first time. Joseph learned to wrap the folded neckerchief around his shirt collar thrice, then tie the ends at his throat. Finally, he pushed the knot up out of sight, like a second Adam’s apple, and tucked the tails into his waistcoat. In the winter this thick neck-cloth was a boon, though Joseph suspected he would feel differently come summer.

  Unfortunately, some of the Protestant boys also grew to recognize him. Their favorite projectiles were Melia azedarach fruits. In Charleston, these trees were called chinaberries. In Europe, they were called bead trees, since religious orders often dried the berries to make rosaries. I am being pelted with prayer beads, Joseph would think. They stung nonetheless.

  The boys had an endless supply: the berries lingered on the branches well into winter, looking like shrivelled yellow marbles. As if they were playing Indians, his tormentors shot them out of improvised blow-pipes. Even when the berries hit his clothes and caused little pain, Joseph always started, and the boys always laughed.

  Give thanks to God for the chance to share in His sufferings, Joseph reminded himself.

  He ran this gauntlet daily. His duties as a curate were never-ending. His immediate superior, Father Richard Baker, was not only pastor of the cathedral but also president of the seminary, chaplain of the Ursuline Convent, superior to the Sisters of Mercy, and editor of the diocesan newspaper. The dedicated Irishman was strong in spirit, but malaria had rendered him weak in body. Years after his first attack, he remained vulnerable not only to recurrences but also to other diseases. So parish calls fell mostly to Joseph, and Father Baker authorized him to perform Sacraments and create sacramentals.

  Everyone sought a blessing from the new Priest for themselves, their children, their homes, shops, scapulars, rosaries, carts, cart-horses… Joseph told himself these visits would become less exhausting once he knew all his parishioners. But he soon realized this was impossible. New faces appeared every day. In addition to the babies he baptized, Charleston was a port city.

  Many Catholics came from the German states, but the majority of the immigrants were Irish. Some became established, even wealthy, in Charleston. Most were terribly poor. They lived in the worst part of the city, tightly packed into ramshackle tenements near the Cooper River wharves.

  Sweet olives and gardenias perfumed gardens only a few streets away, but these alleys stank of excrement, fish, and the decay peculiar to the Low Country. By day, sharp-eyed vultures perched on the rooftops, watching for offal; by night, rats and cockroaches scurried amongst their leavings.

  The
filthy, ragged state of the children here pained Joseph to the quick. He could do very little to improve these people’s earthly lives. Instead, he directed their thoughts toward Heaven. He reminded his parishioners that this squalor would not last forever. If they remained faithful, God would reward them.

  Every morning during Mass, Joseph struck his breast and cried thrice: “Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof.” Who was Joseph to ask the living God to change a wafer into His own Body? Who was he to consume that divine flesh?

  Yet what humbled Joseph most were the times he administered the Last Rites. To hear a stranger’s deepest regrets and assure her she was forgiven; to hold her hand as she died and watch the stranger smile…this was the reason Joseph had been ordained, to embody the unseen for those who had almost lost hope.

  The first Sunday of Advent, Joseph decided to knock at one more door before dusk. “It’s Father Lazare, the new Priest,” he announced.

  “Father! Come in!”

  Joseph opened the door to reveal a familiar figure standing by the window, hastily tucking stray hairs behind her ears. Not so familiar—only unforgettable: Miss Conley.

  Joseph took in the room at a glance. There was little to see. A cracked hearth with books on the mantle shelf. Two worn trunks that doubled as tables. A frayed blanket strung up in one corner. Beyond it, he glimpsed a washstand with a battered basin, pitcher, and dressing mirror. The only adornment was a crucifix, hung between the two beds. Unless the mold on the walls counted as decoration.

  Of course Miss Conley lived like this. She was poor. But the sight of her beauty in this ugly little room seemed so incongruous. To call her a pearl among swine would be uncharitable to her neighbors. Most of the Irish were good, pious people—and no one should live like this, unless they chose it as a Penance. But certainly Miss Conley was a rare flower in need of a better bed.

  Better SOIL, Joseph corrected. You must see her as Christ would. He would care only for Miss Conley’s spiritual beauty.

  She assisted at Mass every day. As a parishioner, Joseph had not understood the truth of that phrase, how the faithful in the pews could “assist” the Priest in his sacrifice. But as the celebrant, when Joseph knelt before the altar, when he elevated the Host, he felt their prayers joining his, strengthening them, strengthening him. Especially Miss Conley’s prayers.

  She knelt before him now, and as he blessed her, a ridiculous wish occurred to him: that this invocation could transform her drab dress into a ball gown, as if she were Cinderella.

  When he’d finished the blessing, Miss Conley took his hand and kissed him just above his knuckles for what seemed like an eternity, but must have been a moment. His reaction to her touch had hardly dulled. Few of Joseph’s other parishioners greeted him in such an intimate manner, though the practice had been common in Italy—he had often kissed Priests’ hands himself.

  He must say something to discourage Miss Conley without her suspecting his true reasons. He had asked Father Baker, and there were no indulgences for kissing a Priest’s hand after his Ordination and first Mass. “Miss Conley,” Joseph stammered, “I do not know the practice in Ireland, but in this country, it is customary to kiss a Bishop’s hand only, not a mere Priest’s.”

  She had not let go. “But your hands are also holy. Every day they hold the precious Body of Our Lord.”

  Joseph sighed. He could hardly explain: When you kiss me like that, my thoughts are anything but holy. I imagine not Our Lord’s body but—

  Slowly Joseph realized that Miss Conley’s expression had changed. Still on her knees, she was squinting up at him quizzically. When Joseph frowned, Miss Conley quickly lowered her eyes and let go of his hand. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “What is it?”

  She bit her lip and pointed gingerly toward his head. “There’s a…small yellow ball in your hair.”

  Joseph chuckled, stroked his fingertips below his hat brim, and withdrew a chinaberry. This explained why Mrs. O’Flaherty had been staring at him out of the corner of her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking, and why Frankie Doyle had been gaping outright. “Thank you.”

  Suppressing a giggle, Miss Conley rose from her knees. “Could I make you some tea, Father?”

  Parishioners were always offering him food and drink—people who could ill afford to spare it. “No, thank you; I’m quite all right.” Joseph stepped before the hearth and tossed the berry into the fire.

  “Perhaps a seat, then? I imagine you’ve been on your feet for hours.”

  She was right. “Yes; thank you.”

  Miss Conley offered him the room’s larger chair, which must belong to her brother. As if she’d read Joseph’s mind again, she added: “Liam is still at the office.” She frowned. “That lawyer keeps him so late—and pays him so little.”

  As Joseph sat by the fire, he noticed the pincushion, spool of thread, and pair of ladies’ gloves on the table by the window. The gloves were rose silk, finer than anything Miss Conley herself would wear. “Please don’t stop your own work on my account.”

  “The sunlight is going, anyway. I should move to the fire.” Even candles must be beyond the Conleys’ means. She transferred her chair to the hearth across from Joseph, then gathered her sewing. “I help Liam all I can, but my skills are limited. And I didn’t realize I’d be competing with—” She broke off and fell silent, lowering her eyes to her task.

  “With negroes?” Joseph prompted.

  Miss Conley nodded. “We knew there were slaves in South Carolina, of course, but somehow we’d thought they were all on plantations, that I’d be able to find work easily in a city… I know that must sound naïve.”

  “I’m sure I harbor just as many misconceptions about Ireland.”

  “Perhaps,” she smiled, glancing up at him. “But most of your ideas are probably accurate. Many Irish do believe in fairy folk. My own father—who is very God-fearing—calls me his aisling.”

  Joseph held his hands to the warmth of the fire. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the word.”

  “You must understand, Father, I am my parents’ seventh child, but their first daughter.” Miss Conley concentrated on her stitching as she spoke. “While my mother was carrying me, both my parents prayed for a girl. My father claims he had a dream in which a beautiful woman assured him I was coming. Aisling means ‘vision’—she appears to dreamers and foretells change. My father swears the aisling he saw nineteen years ago looked like I do now.”

  Even in the gathering gloom, Joseph saw a flush in her cheeks—pleasure at her father’s compliment but embarrassment that she’d just called herself beautiful. It was nothing less than the truth.

  How different her hair looked by firelight. In full sun, the strands shone like the brass of his thurible. Now, their color was darker and deeper, like the fragrant myrrh he burned within. Her halo of braids was looser as well, her long tresses barely contained, so he could better estimate their full glory. Unbound, they might cascade to the floor.

  He must look somewhere else. Joseph’s gaze landed on the books lined up along the mantle. Some were law tomes, but many of the volumes must belong to her. “I know you share your father’s love of books. You said you have some teaching experience as well?”

  “Oh, yes!” She stopped stitching. “Do you know of a position?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t pay you very much, but we do need another catechist. I was thinking: once you become acquainted with the parish’s children and their parents, it might lead to other things—perhaps a position as a governess.”

  “It might. Thank you, Father.”

  He would do anything to inspire such a smile. “When the weather’s mild, if you can bring your sewing work with you, you’re welcome to sit in the Biblical garden afterward. The light must be better.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “On the contrary.”

  Joseph was both disappointed and grateful when Miss Conley returned her eyes to her sewing. “I had
a letter from my mother this morning. My eldest sister-in-law has been safely delivered of her tenth child. They named her after Our Lady.”

  “I imagine your parents chose your Christian name to honor Saint Teresa of Ávila?”

  Miss Conley nodded. “I was born on her feast day.”

  “Have you read any of her writings?”

  “I have. For my Confirmation, I asked for an English translation of her Life. It took my father almost a year to procure it, but finally he did.” She looked up to the last book on the mantle and smiled.

  Joseph read the spine with its antiquated spelling: The Flaming Hart, or, The Life of the Gloriovs S. Teresa.

  “That copy is nearly two hundred years old! I cannot understand why, but Saint Teresa seems to have fallen out of favor.”

  “You’ve not read her other works, then? I think my set is from the seventeenth century as well.”

  “You own the set?” Miss Conley gasped, abandoning her work on her lap. “Might I see the other volumes?”

  “You may borrow them, for as long as you like.”

  “Oh, thank you, Father!”

  Joseph was becoming very warm by the fire. He stood and moved to the window.

  Though she remained seated, Miss Conley turned in her chair. “Isn’t Teresa extraordinary?”

  “She certainly is.” Joseph tried to stare into the alley; he tried to keep himself detached. He was not successful.

  “I realize I’m prejudiced, but I think she is truly unique. She’s so honest, so human, even humorous—but also so utterly holy that she leaves me in awe. Her yearning for union with God is palpable, there on the page. The way she writes about Christ, as if He is her dearest friend…” At last Miss Conley lowered her eyes. “Yet she never forgets His divinity or her unworthiness.”

  “We are all of us unworthy. But I think she must be precious to Him, too.” Joseph decided that if he stayed at the window, it was safe to admire her. “There’s a chapel devoted to Saint Teresa in Rome. In the vault above it is an inscription from one of her visions, one I don’t think she mentions in her Life. Christ said to her: Nisi coelum creassem ob te solam crearem.” Joseph waited to see if Miss Conley understood.