Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  “Everywhere, Father.”

  Joseph knew he couldn’t reach St. Mary’s with any kind of speed. He couldn’t postpone the Mass either. His parishioners had duties of their own. Some of them were slaves who might be punished if they returned later than expected.

  He would have to confess to Father Baker. “I need a few minutes,” Joseph told Thomas. “You can light the altar candles and lay out the vestments.”

  “We’re still in Epiphany?” the boy asked. It was his first week assisting Joseph.

  “Yes. White vestments until the end of the Octave—we won’t change back to green till the fourteenth.” Joseph gave the Sansonnet sisters a wide berth and reached the seminary as fast as he could.

  The moment he stepped inside, he heard Father Baker coughing. Joseph’s heart sank. He should have known such cold would be deleterious to a system already weakened by malaria. Perhaps this illness was not as bad as it sounded?

  When Joseph called through the door, Mrs. O’Brien bade him enter. The sight—and smell—of the miserable figure retching into a chamber pot gave Joseph his answer. Father Baker wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and smiled apologetically at the housekeeper as he held out the pot. His arms trembled.

  Mrs. O’Brien clapped on the lid and told Joseph: “Can’t keep anything down, poor lad.”

  Joseph tried to swallow his own distress. Father Baker already had a cross to bear; he didn’t need the weight of Joseph’s sins—let alone Joseph begging to leave Charleston. That would have to wait.

  Joseph realized their housekeeper was speaking to him again: “As for your breakfast, Father Lazare, I was thinking—”

  “Please, Mrs. O’Brien,” Joseph interrupted. He remembered Saint Finnian’s Penance for a cleric who’d committed adultery in his head. “If you’d prepare only a slice of dry toast and some hot water instead of coffee, I’d be very grateful—the same for dinner and supper.”

  The housekeeper frowned at him.

  “I’m— I’ll be fasting for the next forty days.”

  “If that is your wish, Father.” Still the housekeeper left grumbling.

  “I hope you will allow yourself a little more than bread and water.” Father Baker blew his nose. “The last thing we need is both of us too weak to perform our duties.”

  Reluctantly, Joseph yielded to the wisdom of his superior. He could still abstain from meat and any foods that gave him pleasure.

  “How is Mrs. Stratford?”

  “She and her daughter are recovering.” Joseph prayed that was still true.

  “God be praised.”

  Joseph shuddered involuntarily.

  “Did you come to ask me something?”

  “Only the state of your health,” Joseph lied.

  Father Baker coughed again. “Rather poor, at the moment. But ‘this too shall pass.’”

  “I’ll ask our parishioners to remember you in their prayers.”

  The clock on the mantle said four minutes till seven. Before he returned to the cathedral, Joseph knelt in an empty classroom to murmur the Act of Contrition. He could do that, at least. “…I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do Penance, and to amend my life—to avoid the proximate occasions of sin. Amen.”

  To postpone the Mass now would invite the sin of scandal by revealing publicly the state of his soul—to the Sansonnet sisters, who would ensure that the whole parish was whispering about him by nightfall. The Sacrament would remain valid in spite of his sinfulness.

  Mrs. O’Brien’s granddaughter had brought warm ablution water to the cathedral. As he cleansed his raw hands and as Thomas handed him each vestment, Joseph uttered the prayers he’d recited every morning of his Priesthood: “Give virtue to my hands, O Lord, that every stain may be wiped away, that I may be enabled to serve Thee without defilement of mind or body…”

  But even Thomas reminded him of Tessa. This was the red-haired boy she’d sung to sleep the day Joseph had met her, seven years before. Seven long years he might have explored every inch of Tessa’s body…

  Joseph bound the white cord tight around his waist, pleading: “Gird me, O Lord, with the cincture of purity, and extinguish in my heart the fire of lust…”

  At last, Thomas helped him cover the other vestments with the white-and-gold chasuble, as Joseph prayed: “O Lord, Who hast said: ‘My yoke is easy and My burden is light,’ make me able to bear it…”

  He and Thomas entered the sanctuary and began the Mass. With chapped lips, Joseph kissed the altar and then the Gospel. When he took up the Host, Thomas rang the bell thrice. Joseph struck his chest so hard that his knuckles split open anew, repeating with each blow: “Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof; but say the word, and my soul shall be healed.” He was sick. Tessa was sick, and only God’s medicine could cure them.

  Joseph thanked God for his dry toast and hot water. Then he picked his way through the icy streets to St. Mary’s to unburden his soul. His confessor closed the door of the presbytery library and invited Joseph to sit by the hearth.

  For a moment, Joseph only stared into the little Hell of the fireplace. “The woman about whom I have spoken before…”

  His confessor sighed in disappointment.

  Joseph shielded his eyes with his hand. “I have learned that she feels for me what I feel for her.”

  “When a sin is shared, it is not mitigated, Joseph—it is compounded.”

  “I know. But I find that this revelation… It is as if there was a door behind which I had shoved all my lust. While I thought I was alone in it, I only glimpsed these desires through the cracks. But now that I know she would welcome my touch, the door has not only swung open—it has been ripped from its hinges. I don’t know how to close it again.”

  “Your mistake was to leave a door at all. You must build a wall, Joseph. Impenetrable. There can be no going back. That part of us is dead.”

  “I know,” said Joseph’s voice, while his mind, his heart, and his body continued to rebel.

  It was Saturday, so Joseph returned to the cathedral to don the violet stole himself. While he waited in the cold confessional, he tried to read his breviary. But the words kept blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut. This proved unwise. Visions lurked in the darkness, and fatigue still stalked him. Tomorrow, Joseph decided, he would allow himself coffee. In spite of the cold and the gnawing inside his belly, he nearly fell asleep in the booth.

  A penitent roused him: an old woman. Her sins were petty next to his. After he assigned a Penance and granted her Absolution, Joseph repeated words he’d said many times before. Now, he was begging: “And say a prayer for me?”

  The days that followed were no easier. He continued his fast and total abstinence from meat. On Monday, for the first time in years, Joseph did not join his family for dinner. He refused everything his parishioners offered during visits, though the smells alone made him salivate. He ate so sparingly, his stomach rumbled at him incessantly. At first, the pain distracted him from missing Tessa. Then he remembered that she had suffered such hunger the first nineteen years of her life—and the pain made him feel closer to her.

  Why did it have to be January? He was frantic to flee to Sullivan’s Island and plunge into the sea, to work these desires out of his stubborn flesh by fighting the waves. But swimming now would be akin to suicide. He couldn’t even garden; the ground was still frozen. Instead, he took the first opportunity to visit an invalid who lived miles outside the city. Joseph urged Prince faster and yet faster, as if he could escape from his own thoughts.

  He worried about Tessa constantly. Surely his father would have sent word if she or her daughter were in danger again. Joseph had seen his mother, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew at Sunday Mass, though he’d been careful to catch no one’s eye. They would have sought him out if something had changed.

  Was Tessa thinking about him?

  If he went on like this, he would have no choice but to mortify his flesh in earnest. His co
nfessor suggested it. Joseph had not punished himself in that way for years, but he still owned a discipline. He dug it out of his bureau and laid it on top, praying the mere sight of the scourge would chase away his dreams.

  It didn’t work. The next morning, he woke certain he could smell Tessa’s perfume. Knowing she waited a few streets away and forcing himself not to go to her—that was an agony greater than any lash.

  Chapter 41

  There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to my church as a human being…

  — James Joyce, 1902 letter

  On Friday afternoon, his father appeared in the cathedral sacristy, glaring like some avenging angel. Perhaps a fallen one. “It’s been a week, Joseph. Every day when I visit her, Tessa asks about you. What am I to tell her?”

  Joseph returned his attention to the vestments he’d been inspecting for mold and insect damage, even though that was the sacristan’s job. Joseph had found himself with a few spare minutes before Vespers; and he knew if he did not fill them with work, he would spend the time day-dreaming about Tessa. “Father Baker has been convalescing. I have been occupied with his duties as well as—”

  “Are Tessa and Clare not also your parishioners? According to your Church”—he jammed a finger at Joseph in accusation—“she has buried six children—six—without hope of ever seeing them again because they didn’t have water sprinkled over their heads.” He fluttered his fingers in a mockery of Baptism. “Naturally Tessa is eager to secure eternal happiness for her one living child. Yet you—their Priest—are behaving as though Tessa and her daughter no longer exist.”

  Joseph felt as if his father had stabbed him, but he could not allow the man to see this. “You said Clare was healthy.”

  “I am not a prophet, Joseph. From one day to the next, anything might happen—you know that. If you’d had an ounce of sympathy, you would have baptized Clare the night she was born in her mother’s presence.”

  “The short form is only to be used in danger of death; at all other times, the solemn rite must—”

  His father slammed his hand on the vestment cabinet. “Shut your Ritual and be a Priest, Joseph! Tessa nearly died! She is still bedridden! You make sick calls every day. Why haven’t you visited her?”

  Joseph closed the sacristy door so that no one in the sanctuary could hear them. Before he turned back, he asked: “She’s recovering, isn’t she?”

  “Physically. But have you thought about the gaping wound you left in her soul?”

  “I think about Tessa’s soul every day—every minute! It is why I must stay away. I cannot be her Priest any longer. We are nothing but a temptation to each other!” Joseph realized he’d been speaking as though his father were privy to his private sins—and to Tessa’s. Joseph narrowed his eyes. The man was completely unperturbed by what should have been a revelation. He only stood there with his arms crossed over his chest. “But how could you know…” Joseph’s mouth fell open. “You were listening outside Tessa’s bedchamber. You heard her Confession!”

  “I had to stay close enough to hear you calling for help.”

  “You violated a Sacrament!”

  “I didn’t hear anything Hélène, Liam, Hannah, and I hadn’t figured out ages ago.” His father gave a short laugh. “We’ve been watching the two of you for years, wondering how long it would take before one of you finally admitted it.”

  Liam knew Joseph lusted after his sister?

  His father added with a sigh: “For a bright man, Joseph, you can be incredibly dim.”

  “Fine,” Joseph spluttered. “We’ve admitted—”

  “She admitted it. You did no such thing. You left her believing that she is depraved for the unpardonable sin of loving you.” With every word, Joseph felt he was shrinking, as his father seemed to loom taller and taller. “You have watched that woman suffer for nearly six years. You chained her till death do they part to a callous fool who cares nothing for the mind or the heart inside that beautiful body. You have seen her lose six children for all eternity, not to mention Sophie. You have heard her blame herself for every one of these tragedies. After all of that, the man she loves and respects most in the world, who should be her refuge and her defender—what does he do? He damns her and he abandons her.”

  “I didn’t damn her!”

  “You didn’t forgive her.”

  “I was interrupted! I was going to say that—”

  “Don’t tell me, Joseph—tell her.”

  Joseph threw up his hands. “What would that accomplish? It doesn’t matter how I feel! We cannot—”

  “It matters a great deal to Tessa.”

  “There can be nothing between us! Do I need to list the impediments?”

  “You Priests do love your litanies.”

  Joseph clenched his teeth. The truth was, he’d been chanting these impediments in his head for days, as if they were a blessing to keep him away from her. “That is the foremost impediment: I am a Priest. Forever. That means I am celibate.”

  “Not for the first thousand years of Church history it didn’t,” his father muttered.

  Joseph ignored him. “Through the Sacrament of Holy Orders, I have been changed, not unlike the Host in that Tabernacle.” He gestured beyond the sacristy door toward the altar. “To behave as if I were only a man—”

  His father descended on him and gripped Joseph’s head between his hands, pressing his fingers so hard into Joseph’s skin that it hurt. His voice was so calm now, it was frightening. “You still feel like flesh and blood to me.”

  Joseph broke free of him. “Even if I weren’t a Priest, Tessa is married to another man!”

  “Edward has had half a decade to get it right. He’s become more selfish, not less. You should have been there when I explained that there won’t be any more children. Instead of grieving with Tessa, Edward accuses her. He does not say the words: ‘This is all your fault. You have failed me.’ He doesn’t even look at her—but that’s the accusation. Instead of comforting her, he literally turns away from her. Don’t you make the same mistake, Joseph. Don’t turn your back on the best thing that has ever happened to you.”

  “The fact remains: Edward is her husband. Even if we were godless, the laws of South Carolina do not permit divorce any more than the Church does.”

  Joseph’s father crossed his arms again. “Are you finished?”

  “Hardly!” He was only halfway through his impediments. “Tessa is white, and I am colored.”

  “Disgusting,” his father mocked. “Unthinkable.”

  “Any contact between us would also be incestuous!”

  “What?” At least he’d wiped that smirk off his father’s face.

  “My sister is married to her brother. Husband and wife become one flesh. Tessa and I are now related by affinity. The Church forbids—”

  “Didn’t the Church allow Jean-Baptiste de Caradeux to marry his own niece?”

  Joseph recognized the name of another émigré from Saint-Domingue. “Caradeux obtained a dispensation.”

  “Meaning: he paid off the Pope.”

  “He— I think I have made my point. Tessa and I are impossible. The further apart we are, the better for us both.” He turned from his father with what he hoped was finality and pulled another vestment from its drawer.

  “You’re planning to run away permanently,” his father realized. “You’re going to leave Charleston.”

  Joseph answered with silence.

  “Have you asked Father Baker yet?”

  “I am waiting till he is back on his feet.”

  “Surely he will want you to finish the seminary term?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then you can stay until your sister’s surgery.”

  Slowly Joseph set down the maniple. “It’s come to that?”

  His father nodded gravely. “Two weeks ago, the tumors started paining her. She didn’t even tell me; she wanted to see Tessa through her confinement. Hélène’s pains are intermittent, but
Dr. Mortimer and I agree that the time has come to act. We will insert a trocar first and examine the tissues. That will determine our next course—whether we can remove the tumors only, or if we must amputate the breast.”

  “How soon?”

  “There’s a new opera coming next month that Hélène wants to see. She’s persuaded us to wait until the day after that. She wants to have ‘one last thing’ to look forward to, before… Your sister is terrified, Joseph.”

  “I will stay until she has recovered.” Or until…

  “In the meantime, son, you owe Tessa an apology and an explanation—at the least. Think what this is like for her—what she endures every day in that house, living with that petty tyrant, under the thumb of that atrocious father-in-law. Sneered at by the ladies of Charleston who think her beneath them. Separated forever from her parents. Trying to be a mother to someone else’s adolescent—your nephew. Tessa is drowning, and she needs something to cling to.”

  Joseph looked away. “She has Clare now.”

  “That is like saying: ‘Tessa has arms! Why should she need legs?’”

  This made Joseph start thinking about Tessa’s legs. He’d never seen them, of course, but he’d seen enough to imagine—

  “You look terrible, by the way. Doesn’t Mrs. O’Brien feed you anymore?”

  Joseph turned back to the drawer of vestments without answering. “I will be happy to baptize Clare as soon as she can be brought to the cathedral.”

  His father sighed. “We’ll bring her tomorrow.”

  Tessa’s little daughter stared up at him in trepidation. Joseph smiled at Clare and tried to treat her like the thousand other babies he’d baptized, but this was impossible.

  Tessa was still confined to her bed, as were most mothers at their child’s Baptism. Hélène gave the responses, and Liam held their goddaughter. Beside them stood Joseph’s father, David, and Edward.

  Joseph instructed Clare: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, thy whole soul, and thy whole mind…” A fitting admonishment for himself. Gently, he blew thrice into the little face.