The Passion of Mary-Margaret

by Lisa Samson

“Yes! Do you know him?”

  I felt like I’d been shocked on a pasture fence as John handed me a pillow. I sat down on the edge of my cot. “Father Ignatius used to be a friend of your dad’s. He was at our wedding. We lost track of him.” Obviously he hadn’t lost track of us.

  I pulled out my snapshot from my backpack. “Look. Is that him?”

  John examined it by the lamp. “He’s so old now, Mom, I can’t tell if that’s really him or not. But when I arrived eleven years ago . . . well, I guess, yeah, that could be him. Of course, he was already well past eighty by then and pretty ancient. No offense.”

  “Hey, I’m only seventy-two!”

  If the laughing tones of Jesus had met my inner ear, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But honestly, I just felt loved. Jesus was bringing my father to me. Still, my nerves seemed to rise to the surface of my skin.

  I yanked my duffel bag up onto the bed and pulled out my pajamas. My inner clock was so befuddled. It was only 5:30 p.m. at home, and yet, not being much of an in-flight snoozer, exhaustion had begun to seep from the core of my bones into my muscles and skin. “You’ll have to tell me all about him tomorrow.” I just wasn’t ready to hear more.

  “You can come with me to pick him up.”

  He gathered together his pajamas and headed to the small bathroom. The water to the house was stored in a large, green plastic cistern on the roof. A water truck kept it filled on a regular basis. They used it very sparingly, using a smidge when only a smidge was necessary.

  I quickly changed into my pajamas, afterward securing a robe around me. We brushed our teeth together. He leaned in close, his arm touching mine as we moved those toothbrushes in much the same manner, owing to the fact I was the one who taught him how to brush.

  Did I tell you how much those little rituals meant to me?

  I felt so at home in John’s room, the icons hanging on the cement block, the crucifix of rough-hewn wood and a pewter corpus cast in an artistic fashion hanging on the wall at the head of his bed. The carpet at his bedside was worn in two spots where his knees had rested countless times.

  John prayed for his friends. He told me once, “I can give all the medicine in the world, do all the surgery I can, and it doesn’t hardly matter if prayer doesn’t accompany it. Prayer is more important than the medicine. It is the real medicine, I guess.”

  I tapped my toothbrush on the sink. “He’s coming tomorrow, you say? How did that happen?” I tried to sound breezy.

  “He’s been looking out for me for years, Mom. I owe more to him than I can say, so, well, I guess now it’s time for me to pay him back a little. He’s an amazing man.”

  The raping seminarian. An amazing man.

  Father Ignatius. Yes, the Father Ignatius John talked about for years. The raping seminarian.

  Well, yes he was, so it seemed.

  I began art instruction with Samkela today! We can’t understand each other’s language, but lines are lines and colors are colors and shapes are shapes. John was right. He’s something! He’s latched onto the poppy red Prismacolor pencil and I don’t blame him one bit. It was my mother’s favorite color too, according to Aunt Elfi. One of the few items I owned from her belongings was a scarf in that color.

  One Saturday, not long after our honeymoon, I went through my old trunk. In between Grandmom’s one fine tablecloth and my Aunt Elfi’s drawing, that red scarf pierced my vision.

  I felt a sense of loss so profound I smashed the fabric against me, and a soft moan escaped from my mouth. I missed my mother so badly. I missed that I couldn’t be her daughter and that, if Jude prevailed, I’d never have a daughter of my own.

  “Mary-Margaret!” Jude rushed in and knelt just behind me. He rested a hand on my back. “Are you all right? Are you sick?”

  I just shook my head. “I just found this. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it. It was my mother’s.”

  I told him the few stories about Mary Margaret the First that I remembered, not that he hadn’t heard them before. He was patient. “She would have been such a wonderful mother.”

  He said nothing, just held me close and kissed my face, over and over, then my mouth, and with a moan, he deepened the kiss for the first time since we were teenagers and I pressed myself into him. It was as if he said, I’m all you have, and I’ll try to be enough.

  After that day, he continued to kiss me and I felt like the teenager I never had been. Maybe he did too. A teenager that found someone safe to love early on, who didn’t have to waste himself on acquiring women, collecting experiences, and then drugging himself out to cope. Maybe it was the first time he’d ever really kissed the woman he loved and who loved him in return.

  That thought was like fresh water to me. In a way, Jude was as innocent, as untried in the building of a loving relationship, a life, as I was.

  I kept that scarf around though, setting it on the windowsill in the bedroom. I told you how someone who is orphaned feels the need to be connected to someone else, to know your blood flows in someone else’s veins too. I’m sure people look at their parents and take that sort of thing for granted, their brothers and sisters, maybe even their own children. But when you’re all you’ve really got in the world, relationally speaking, the old saying “Blood is thicker than water” lands on you with a thud, bruising your chest right down through your ribs and into your heart.

  Maybe if I had a little baby of my own, I reasoned, some of the loneliness would go away.

  But that, of course, would be up to Jude.

  The first year of our marriage progressed, turning into a new decade filled with new possibilities. We had our first Catholic president and even more of a miracle, Jude joined the Church at Easter with little fanfare and almost no discussion with me about it other than “I’m ready to take that plunge, I guess. Maybe it’s not the hocus-pocus I thought. And it’s important to you, so . . .”

  “It needs to be important to you too, Jude,” I said as we puttered out to the lighthouse to visit with Gerald and Hattie.

  “It is.”

  “Well, that’s good, then.” And I left it at that. I knew better than to make a big deal out of it with him. He’d been meeting with Father Thomas every week since Thanksgiving, even though he didn’t think I knew about it.

  I stood by his side when the waters of baptism were poured over his head. I stood by his side when the chrism oil, fragrant with the scents of crushed olives and myrrh, was placed on his forehead in the shape of a cross, its perfume vining through the air and all around us. Cum Sanctu Spiritu, I prayed over and over again, and the Spirit joined us, its presence strong as it hovered over us in the little church. I watched as the hair on Jude’s neck stood on end. He felt it too. I prayed as he took the Eucharist for the first time and I prayed next to him on the kneeler when it was all over and the church had emptied out, people hurrying over to their Easter dinners and family celebrations.

  Jude knelt there endlessly it seemed, eyes closed, his lips moving silently.

  “Stay as long as you need,” I whispered after an hour. “I’m heading home to rest.”

  I tiptoed toward the front doors, crossed myself with holy water, and burst into the April sunshine as joy spilled from my soul, a joy that had not ceased in the hearts of believers for almost two thousand years. The day was chilly, one of those Easters nobody really feels like wearing her white shoes and straw hats. The breeze from off the water picked at my dress and hair while I walked across the street and down to the tackle shop.

  When I let myself in, Jesus sat there.

  “You are risen!” I cried.

  “Indeed.”

  And he held open his arms. It had been so long.

  I stayed there for a good while, knowing I could trust his timing in regard to Jude’s return.

  “You brought him in,” Jesus said. “It’s a grand day, MaryMargaret. Your faithfulness is being talked about in heaven, let me tell you.”

  I hugged him more tightly. “I’m so happy.”
r />   I burrowed into him for a good while as his love washed over me, feeling somewhat the joy he felt as the lost lamb came home.

  And yet. Jude still said nothing about taking the penicillin.

  Finally, I lifted my head. “I’m trying so hard, Lord. There’s just no convincing him there’s something to live for.”

  “He’s still basically a self-centered individual.”

  “Why does he want to die, now that there’s me and so much life?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that. One step at a time. But be patient, T—, I’m working on him. Little by little. He’ll break down one night. And he’ll need you like he’s never needed anyone before. I doubt he’ll even remember his disease. Will you accept him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I knew I could trust you with him. Jude’s very special to me.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “In essence, he’s an orphan too. And you know how I feel about orphans.”

  “Widows too.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to be one of those either, Lord,” I said dryly.

  He laughed. “Just wait and see, T—.”

  When Jude shoved his key in the lock and swung open the door, I was just lifting a pan of ham slices out of the oven. The brown sugar bubbled on top.

  “Smells good.” He set his hat on the telephone table near the door.

  “Wait’ll you see the potatoes.” I slid out the scalloped potatoes next, browned on top. Sister Thaddeus’s mother’s recipe.

  “I’ll set the table.”

  Jude was helpful. When he was a younger boy, catcalling and making lewd gestures at us girls, I couldn’t have foreseen this side of him.

  I waited for him to speak about the day’s events, but he said nothing about them. After the meal he suggested we take a blanket and a book and go to Bethlehem Point.

  “Are you sure, Jude? You hate sitting there looking at that lighthouse.”

  “It’s time to leave it behind me, Mary-Margaret. Or at least to give it a try. I’ll lay my head on your lap and you can read to me.”

  “Then you pick the book.”

  He walked over to the shelf and pulled down a copy of An Introduction to the Devout Life, by St. Francis de Sales. “I think I need this one.”

  “A wise choice.”

  We finished up the dishes, folded up a quilt and a blanket, bundled up in sweaters, and walked to the point.

  “You read.” Jude flapped the blanket and settled it on the ground. I lay on my back, Jude lay down too, and rested his head on my stomach.

  I began the words of Francis de Sales, the Gentleman Preacher, as he was known, a man whose desire was to bring spirituality and a close relationship with God to the men and women who live normal lives, not like those in monasteries or hermitages. In short, I realized with a shock, people like I had become. The last time I had read the book, I read it from the other side. Jude didn’t realize the importance of his choice.

  “‘Dear reader, I request you to read this Preface for your own satisfaction as well as mine.

  “‘The flower-girl Glycera was so skilled in varying the arrangement and combination of her flowers, that out of the same kinds she produced a great variety of bouquets; so that the painter Pausias, who sought to rival the diversity of her art, was brought to a standstill, for he could not vary his painting so endlessly as Glycera varied her bouquets. Even so the Holy Spirit of God disposes and arranges the devout teaching which he imparts through the lips and pen of His servants with such endless variety, that, although the doctrine is ever one and the same, their treatment of it is different, according to the varying minds whence that treatment flows. Assuredly I neither desire, nor ought to write in this book anything but what has been already said by others before me. I offer you the same flowers, dear reader, but the bouquet will be somewhat different from theirs, because it is differently made up.’”

  “He sounds humble,” Jude said.

  “Yes.”

  “I need some of that.”

  “We all do.”

  I read until the sun set so low I could no longer make out the words. “Ready?” I closed the book.

  He sat up and reconfigured himself, lying parallel beside me, arranging the second blanket over us, wrapping me in the circle of his arms. And he kissed me softly over my face and my lips, my hair and my shoulders as the light from Bethlehem Point flickered over us, again and again.

  Another day in Africa has come and gone. I visited Precious and fed her and read to her. She’s slipping away. She sleeps most of the time now.

  A couple of weeks ago, that night before we went to pick up Father Ignatius, I’d have given anything for a good sleep. Even though my body ached for repose, and my eyes, so dry from two days without much sleep, begged my brain to follow their lead and close up shop, my brain was busy walking down the aisle of memory, picking up a can of conversation here, a package of observation there. Maybe Morpheus was right. Maybe he wasn’t the raping seminarian at all. Maybe my grandmother lied to me.

  Or maybe my grandmother didn’t know the truth. And why did Jude never tell me? He’d mentioned the truth about my mother. I don’t know what that could have been, though. Finally I got out of bed and went outside. What I did know, as I sat under the African moon, the flat, dry land around me quiet for the night, was that God kept that poor man alive all these years for this moment. He sounded like a saint, a person most likely ready for the beatific vision upon death closing his eyes. And yet he was still lingering at the age of ninety-seven or thereabouts. Indeed! The poor man.

  Huts stood around me and lined the road, simple, one- or two-room structures made of sticks and rocks and mud. Pulling the blanket around me more tightly, feeling the chill of the mild winter, I wondered how I’d broach the subject with my father.

  Jesus sat beside me. “T—.”

  I leaned into him. “Friend. You’ve taken me on some crazy journeys in this life, but this one, well, you’ve certainly made it easy.”

  “Sometimes I do that. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  We laughed.

  “I just wanted to come be with you,” he said. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you. For John. For Jude. For your family.”

  “Most of them are gone.”

  “Oh no, my dear. They’re all thrilled at what’s happening.

  But don’t ask me to say any more.”

  “Yes,” I sighed. He put his arm around me.

  “Just be, T—. Lean on me. Let me love you here on this plain. I have work for you to do as well while you’re here. You’ll need my strength. Don’t you adore Samkela?”

  “Oh yes. His skin is almost charcoal, it soaks up the sun and is still soft despite that. And his eyes look on the world as one big art project, don’t they? We have such a good time together, laughing, drawing, building, sculpting, unable to communicate any other way and feeling just fine about it.”

  “Indeed you do. This is going to make all the difference in the world to that little boy, my dear.”

  I had no doubts about that.

  We left the mission early, around six a.m. to pick up Father Ignatius, or Brother Joe, or Brendan Connelly, and stopped in Manzini for breakfast for fried dough balls. The bakers sprinkle them with powdered sugar and sell them for basically ten American cents. With some espresso, we sat in the Land Rover and ate three each.

  “What made you put two and two together with Father Ignatius being Brother Joe?” John sipped his coffee.

  “It was the seminary he went to. Add to that his mission on The Block.”

  “Why was he at your wedding?”

  We never told John about Jude’s past. We didn’t think it was information any child, no matter how mature and caring, could handle knowing about his father, the one he looked up to, emulated, and, in John’s case, adored. Jude wanted to leave it behind. He wanted that guy crucified for good.

  I didn’t feel the Spirit telling me to do anyth
ing different as I sat there with John.

  “Oh, you know how us Catholics find one another. I thought he was actually a Franciscan priest at the time, but now I realize he must not have taken final vows then.”

  “He said something about becoming a priest a little later on in life.”

  “Was he a good doctor?”

  “Yeah. Just great. A wonderful diagnostician. Did a lot to bring good medicines over here. In fact, before he got sick, Mom, he was trying to work on a better mental health situation. We have only one psychologist in all of Swaziland.”

  “My goodness!”

  He pulled the Rover away from the curb. “I know. But his groundwork will most likely go undisturbed from here on out. There’s just nobody to take his place that we know of. The rest of us can’t add another item to our task lists. We’re swamped.”

  “I imagine.”

  John went on to tell me how many children were trauma tized, how much molestation went on with the girls. “There’s a man who runs a home for children near Piggs Peak who has his girls there wearing pants.”

  “Isn’t that against the culture?”

  He nodded. “Sure is. But as he says, he’s more worried about providing a physical barrier against rape.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  “I know. Can you imagine having to make decisions like that in America?”

  “No indeed.”

  “So, with all the sexual abuse going on, can you imagine how much we need psychiatric help?”

  “It’s hard to even picture.”

  He turned onto the main road heading toward Mbabane.

  The mountains stretched along each side, glorious and green, craggy humps of something ancient and maybe even a little unforgiving. Nothing like the flat landscape at Big Bend. “Women here mean nothing.”

  He was right about that, sisters. When I took him and my father to lunch after we picked him up, they were served first, and I had to make sure I got out of the way on the sidewalks.

  Funny how much we can take for granted. My faith tells me women are valuable, we religious sisters have a bona fide vocation, and let’s face it, our tradition tells us the greatest Christian who ever lived was a woman.