by Lisa Samson
What if Jude didn’t want to live on the island?
Well, of course, that might have been a possibility, but I’d wait and see how the path before us unrolled. It could be straightforward, or maybe crook off to the side and take us someplace else. But until Jesus gave me word otherwise, I’d stay close to the lighthouse, close to home.
I did ask Jesus to tell my mother I was sorry not to have fulfilled her dream for her. He said not to worry; Mary Margaret the First was just fine with his plans for me.
Finally, in mid-July, while I was helping with the yearly carnival at St. Francis, not to mention planning my curriculum for the next year, the white sheet flapped in the swift air of a briskly windy day. Whitecaps danced on the waters of the bay, and I decided Jesus wouldn’t mind if I waited until the waters settled down.
“I don’t,” he whispered, leading me to believe he was looking for steadfast obedience, not utter recklessness. A comfort, to be sure. It’s the difference between ministering in a war zone and walking down the middle of the street during sniper fire. There is a place where faith and prudence can meet even in danger zones.
I spent that day sitting at the point, reading books on art history from the library. Oh, we’d do fun projects, but these children wouldn’t escape without a working vocabulary of artists, schools, movements, and techniques. We’d start back with the Egyptians and the Phoenicians. A project with hieroglyphics would be a big hit. They could write their names on parchment to mimic papyrus.
Of course, I could do a long unit on African art. We could make masks and bowls, baskets, and try our hands at textiles.
Oh dear! It would cost so much money. I needed to keep praying.
“Yes, T—, you do.”
I looked beside me where I sat out on the point. “You came!”
“It’s been a little while.”
“I’ve missed seeing you.”
“The time is coming soon for you to woo Jude. Have you thought of how to do it, my dear?” He stared out over the waters toward the light.
“I have no idea.” I sighed so deeply I know it went straight into his heart. “I don’t have any experience in this sort of thing.”
“Which is perfect. Jude doesn’t want experience, do you think?”
“No.” That made me feel a little better. “Can I tell him about you, us?”
“No, my dear.”
“But how am I going to convince him to marry me without letting him know this is your idea?”
Jesus threw back his head and laughed, long and full and with great gusto. I looked around me. Surely the whole island could hear. “Oh, T—. That’s the last thing in the world that would convince Jude.”
“True.” I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. He placed his hand over mine.
“Lord, what’s Jude’s name in heaven?”
“Well, normally that’s for him and me to know, but you’ve been trustworthy so far with the secret things, so I’ll tell you. His name in heaven is Jude too.”
“My goodness!”
“Yes. Sometimes people get it right. Isn’t that interesting?”
I nodded.
We sat while the sun set, looking out over the water, the light swinging around like it always did.
“I love lighthouses,” he said.
“Me too.”
MY GOODNESS ME, TIME HAS ONCE AGAIN ROLLED ALONG and here I am with this notebook again. It was a busy winter. Hattie passed away on Valentine’s Day. We buried her over by the Presbyterian Church. After everyone had left, Gerald and I stood together by the grave and held hands, saying little. Just sighing. Sigh after sigh. Until the sun set and the light revolved from the lantern of Bethlehem Point Light.
“Look how it whisks across her tombstone, Gerald.”
“That’s nice.”
Finally, after the chill of the dark began to settle deep into my bones, or so it felt, his voice bled through the intermittent darkness. “I guess I could just give up, but truth is, MM, I’ve been without her a good while now.”
“Yes, you have.”
“And I survived.”
“You did.”
“And I hate that assisted-living place. All those old people around all the time. It’s downright beginning to bug me.”
“We’ll spring you out of that place tomorrow and find you somewhere to live.”
“Good. The sooner the better.” He knelt down. “Well, Hattie, my sweet, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He swiveled his spine and neck to face me. “Lucky for me, Abbeyville’s a little town.”
He kissed his fingertips and patted her grave.
Oh, Hattie.
The next day during a morning walk with Blanca—we both decided we needed to start walking after New Year’s—at the marina where people keep their sailboats and motorboats, I noticed a sailboat for sale. Thirty-five footer, rather new.
“Gerald!” I rushed into his room. “How would you like to live on the water again?”
By the end of the month, that’s just what he was doing.
I’m sitting out on Bethlehem Point and it’s hot as blazes and not much breeze either. But Mercy House is even warmer. My back is coated in sweat.
I got another letter from John two days ago.
June 6, 2002
Big Bend, Swaziland
Dear Mom,
Since there’s that summer intern doing your job, I thought it would be a good idea for you to come to Africa and visit me and the brothers here at the mission. There’s a little boy here, Samkela, who’s exhibiting extraordinary artistic talent. Of course, since I didn’t inherit anything artistic, I’m of no help, and the others aren’t much better if you’d like the truth of the matter.
Not only that, we’re tired of beans and pap. We could all benefit from your vegetable stew, especially me. I miss you more than I can express. We’ve lost so many wonderful people this past month our graveyard has little room left. Please pray for us. We’ll have to clear out more of the bush on our property soon. My only consolation is that I believe them to be with Christ now.
Love always,
John
P.S. Plant those bulbs!
Well, in the interest of not getting too far behind on what’s been happening here in “modern times,” I simply must tell you about my follow-up visit to the mission just off The Block. I was able to head over there a couple of weeks ago and Angie went with me as I knew she would because she’s nosy and likes to be in on things. She liked Brother Joe too.
We started out before dark because I wanted to stop in Pasadena for breakfast at Tall Oaks Restaurant, which is quite the blast from the past, as they say.
Sheltered, as the restaurant’s name suggests, in a glade of tall oaks, it looks as if someone sprinkled growth powder on it and rooms were magically added on like a root system. Great plate glass windows look out over the drive and flood light over the long, glossy wooden tables that seat at least eight. At the head of each table, next to the wall, a table lamp casts a warm, homey glow on the polished surface.
Tall Oaks takes its status as a family restaurant seriously and if the size of the tables was any indication, there must be a lot of Catholics in the area indeed!
I ordered the breakfast special: two eggs, hash browns, and toast. Rye is my favorite.
Angie’s a pancake type of gal. She splurged and ordered sausage because she likes to swirl the link around in maple syrup before she bites off a piece and we don’t eat much meat at Mercy House, so it’s a treat.
Had we been there for lunch, you can believe I would have ordered a crab cake.
The waitress refilled our coffee cups as we sat back to let the food settle.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said. “It’s so exciting. Did you ever once think, all those years ago, you might find out who your father really is?”
“No. I guess I thought I knew all I needed to know.”
Angie shook her head. “Something doesn’t add up, MaryMargaret. If he did rape your mothe
r, why didn’t she blow the whistle on him? It would have been the right thing to do considering he was studying for the priesthood and she had taken her final vows.”
“What people should do and what they end up doing are sometimes two radically different things, Ange.”
“I know. What do you think?”
“I think he might have raped her. But I will concede to the fact that there might be at least a little more to the story.”
The waitress presented us with the tab, a sure sign to get a move on and see what we could find out.
Angie arose and smoothed her khaki stretch pants. I yanked my navy pants from behind into a more comfortable position. Our shirts were askew and we laughed. “We’re just a couple of old wrecks, Angie.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. But here we are, just like we thought we’d be all those years ago.”
“I think we actually look pretty good.”
Angie always wore her hair long, the sides pulled up in two barrettes, one over each ear. Her small, wire-rimmed glasses had come back into fashion again, and her propensity for compulsive knitting, which she succumbed to during the entire drive to the city that day, produced wonderful sweaters. We all looked slightly hip in an old-country granola way. In the summer, we wore shirts I made from the fabric I wove myself, all sewn very simply, like tunics. I, however, couldn’t stand to fiddle with my hair, so in May, unable to cope any longer with the feeling of it down my neck and over my ears, I had it cut extremely short at the barber shop. Arty tried to talk me out if it. Even offered me a free haircut. Unfortunately, I’m a woman of many cowlicks and it sticks out all over my head these days. I look slightly crazy, which, upon rereading all I’ve written about Jesus, I just might be indeed.
Fine by me.
I’m sure you’ll have your own opinion on all of this, and that’s fine too. I’m dead now, so it doesn’t make any difference one way or the other. And now I know whether or not it was all real. You, however, will have to find that out on your own.
It’s interesting to think what gave me so much comfort might, if it really wasn’t what it seemed, have been my greatest flaw.
When we walked into the Heart of the City Mission, it was clear the building had enjoyed a paint job inside since my last visit. A mossy green covered the walls. Mary-Francis still manned the battered front desk where guests were invited to use the phone when they needed. Her dreads had grown longer and she wore loose black pants and a long black T-shirt. On a leather cord around her neck hung the Third Order Franciscan Habit in what looked like pewter.
“Sister Mary-Margaret!” She stood up and gave me a hug. “I was wondering if you’d ever come back.”
“How did you remember my name?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, I make it a point to remember everyone who walks in this door. I’ve been here ten years and you know, just the other day, in walks James DeLillo. Came in about five years ago on a cold night in January. I sure was glad to see him. That man sure could use some Jesus along with some warmth. But anyways, he came in this time to pick up a prayer book. Isn’t that something? He looked pretty good too!”
I was an old friend to her. I could tell that right away and it pleased me as much as a letter from a friend. I introduced her right away to Angie, who asked for a tour Mary-Francis was only too happy to conduct.
I listened and heard about my father. His vision for the place. “Now, he didn’t want much more than a safe, warm spot for folk. Those who need more care we send down to The Hotel. You heard of The Hotel? Sister Jerusha runs it. She’s a Sister of Charity.”
“I’ve heard of her,” I said.
Sister Jerusha was a local celebrity of sorts, the way she was always taking on City Hall with the ordinances regarding the homeless. I saw her on the news when students from Loyola were forbidden to give out homemade sandwiches to the street people because the street people had no place to wash their hands. I remember she kept saying it was all “hogwash.” And I wondered why she chose to use that word over and over again.
Apparently Brother Joe ministered to folks at Heart of the City until 1962, about two years after I’d met him. (You’ll get to that part of the story in a bit.)
“What happened to him after he left?”
“Well, he finally became a physician, then a Jesuit priest. That took awhile. They don’t mess around.”
So . . . the mission was penance, then.
“Really?”
“Uhhuh. You see, the entire time he was here, he was also studying to be a doctor. He ended up in Africa in 1967, I think. Sixty-two years old. The man had a long road, but he remained faithful.”
I felt my scalp heat up like a hot skillet. “Do you know which country?”
“Swaziland, I think.” She crossed her arms, looked up at the ceiling tiles, then nodded. “Yes, definitely. It was Swaziland.”
Angie laid a hand on my arm, obviously noting I was upset. “When was the last you heard from him?”
“About five years ago.”
So he must be dead. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t relieved. And something inside me was happy he’d kept the faith and ended up doing good things even though he didn’t deserve to. I knew Jesus better than to think he’d make Brother Joe be an ineffectual member of the flock for the rest of his life. We hugged Mary-Francis and thanked her for the tour.
“I’m hungry,” I said as we climbed into the car, the only parking space we could find near the Gayety. Still there, still having Parisian Art Night, I suppose. Or maybe not. These places don’t even pretend to be classy anymore.
And why oh why oh why do they call these nightclubs “gentlemen’s clubs”? Would somebody explain to me how watching a naked, or near-naked woman, expose herself, objectify herself for you, would automatically categorize you as a gentleman? I have never understood that. All right, I’ll shut up now.
“Well, let’s not eat around here.” Angie pointed to the sleazy bouncer sitting on a stool by the front door of the club. He wore low-slung jeans and tennis shoes like marshmallows with laces and soles.
“All right. I don’t want to anyway.”
“You’re upset.”
“Yes. And I know I always eat at times like this.”
“That’s okay. Let’s go get a crab cake down at the Inner Harbor. We can sit outside and watch the paddleboats and the water taxis.”
Bless her heart; she was trying.
“Whoop-dee-doo,” I said.
Swaziland. Oh goodness me.
The first thing I’d do when I got home was write a letter to John.
After some time of deliberation and prayer not only from myself but my sisters, not to mention permission from the order, I actually e-mailed John after I ordered the plane tickets. He goes into Manzini once a week to say a daily Mass at the cathedral and checks his e-mail. He should be heading in tomorrow.
Dear John,
I do believe I’m going to take you up on your invitation to come to Swaziland. I can come next week for the rest of the summer. I’ll be landing in Johannesburg around 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday, July 3. The only flights I could get routed me through Heathrow. An eight-hour layover.I think I may take the express train into London and have tea with the Queen since I’ll be there for so long! Or I may just bring a good book and sit in one of the restaurants and drink espresso until they kick me out. Yes, that’s surely what I’ll do.
I hope you’ll be the one to come get me. It would be nice to have several hours together on the drive to Swaziland. I love you.
Yours,
Mom
P.S. Remind me to plant those bulbs again right before I leave to come back to the States. Maybe I’ll actually get them in this autumn.
Oh, those blasted flower bulbs! How can one thing just prick at you and you feel powerless to do something about it? I just despise that. Well, anyway.
Back to the story, sisters. Back to the lighthouse. Back to quite possibly the worst case of wooing a man that has ever bee
n recorded on pages of mashed-together wood pulp.
So, the waving white sheet still hung the next day, barely flickering over a serene expanse like a calm hand waving me in, saying, “Come. Come.”
And then I thought of “Church in the Wildwood,” a song Mr. Bray loved to sing.
There’s a church in the valley by the wildwood
No lovelier spot in the vale.
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale.
Sometimes Regina Bray would breathe in deeply, push back her shoulders, and thrum the “come, come, come, come” rhythm as he sang. After about three lines, they’d break out in laughter.
That’s what I want, I thought as I rowed out to the light in Mr. Bray’s rowboat that day after the sheet flew off the balcony, the Brays’ song providing a cadence for my oars. I wanted a marriage where you could be a little crazy, have private jokes, be comfortable. I just couldn’t imagine that happening with Jude. He’d been through too much; I’d been through too little of his much. And frankly, I’d had a wider range of experience with my teaching. Had he almost been killed by the KKK? I think not! How could he possibly understand me either? Really? The real me?
I doubted he could.
But be that as it may, my doubts piled one by one into the boat with each “come” that ricocheted around the song mill in my head, and I rowed and rowed, thinking I’d never rowed so fast, so economically with each pull of the oar. How did I make it to Bethlehem Point Light so quickly? The breath of heaven blowing behind me, most likely, darn it. Of course, Jude would have bested my pace handily back in the old days.
They didn’t see me coming. I don’t know how that happened. Well, I didn’t until Hattie ushered me inside and there sat Gerald taking a nap, snoring like an old hound dog right there on Mr. Keller’s chair. He’d had a long night trying to keep the windows of the lantern clean during the storm. More than one lightkeeper died trying to do that sort of thing.
