Chapter 7
Appearance oft deceives.
Joseph would never forget the day of his Confirmation, and not only because of the Sacrament.
Bishop England looked like royalty, his black hair and grey eyes set off against his red and gold episcopal robes.
Yet His Lordship did not rule like a monarch—he preferred American government.
He’d written a Constitution for their diocese and begun annual conventions in which a House of Lay Delegates and a House of Clergy made decisions together.
Joseph’s Mama and his grandparents were always praising Bishop England. Apparently he irritated Archbishop Maréchal, but Joseph didn’t understand why. Everything His Lordship did seemed wise. He had written the first English catechism in the United States and translated the Missal too.
Bishop England was a Doctor of Divinity like Papa was a Doctor of Medicine; many people called him “Dr. England.” His Lordship made house calls throughout the three states in his diocese: North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia.
In Rome, they called him “the Steam Bishop” for his energy.
His Lordship was born three years before Papa; he was thirty-four when he came to Charleston.
That sounded old enough to Joseph, but Grandpapa said it was young for a Bishop.
Joseph’s little sister understood and respected none of this.
After Mass in the cathedral, Hélène marched up to Bishop England, who was deep in conversation with someone else.
Joseph chased after his sister, but he was too late.
His Lordship turned to meet Hélène’s scowl and her disapproving words: “Mama says you’re from Ireland. ”
“That I am.” Amusement tugged at Bishop England’s mouth and sparkled in his eyes, as if he knew what was coming.
“Then why is your name England?”
“Where are you from, lass?” His Lordship knew this too. Papa had tended the Bishop during his most recent illness.
Hélène frowned. “I’m from here.”
“Your name must be America, then?”
“No! It’s Hélène Lazare!”
“Well. Be thankful ’tis not Asparagus.”
Hélène made the same face she always made when Mama insisted she eat that dreaded vegetable.
Beside her, Joseph tried not to laugh. He wondered if Bishop England had learned his sister’s least favorite thing through divine revelation, or through Papa. Joseph took Hélène’s hand. “Come on, Asparagus.”
She tried to pull away. “I’m not—”
“That can be your Confirmation name,” Joseph suggested.
“It has to be a saint’s name! There wasn’t any Saint Asparagus!”
“Your sister is learning her catechism almost as quickly as you did, Joseph.” When he glanced back, Joseph saw His Lordship smiling at him the way his parents, grandparents, and teachers so often smiled at him, as if they expected him to part the Red Sea.
Joseph colored. He would disappoint them. He already had.
Yet Joseph could still feel the chrism oil on his forehead; he could still feel grace entering his body, washing him clean from the inside out.
He was a new person now: Joseph Denis Lazare.
He’d chosen the name to honor his great-granduncle Denis, the Priest who had died during the Terror rather than abandon his parishioners.
With the intercession of such a martyr, strengthened by God’s Sacraments, maybe Joseph could do great things someday, or at least resist his own sinfulness.
The next morning, when Mama began to say grace, Hélène tapped her wrist and signed: ‘Don’t start without Papa!’
‘He had to visit a patient outside the city.’ Mama could see Hélène wasn’t finished, but she made her wait till after the prayer.
Joseph’s little sister frowned at her hominy. ‘Papa said he’d take me to Grandpapa’s shop today.’
Mama stirred her tea, then answered, ‘He can take you tomorrow.’
‘But Grandpapa told me he would receive a new shipment of clocks today! Could you take me, Mama, please?’
‘Sweetheart, you know I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ Hélène pouted. ‘You never want to go anywhere except church!’
Joseph knew why Mama never wanted to go out.
Even at church, there were often new people.
People who didn’t understand how Mama communicated.
People who stared. And some of the people who’d known them for years still stared, even though they spoke without words too.
The looks on their faces said: You don’t belong here.
‘Do you think someone will buy all the best clocks before you see them?’ Cathy laughed.
‘They might!’ Hélène argued. ‘It isn’t far, Mama, and I know the way. I could go by myself.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then I’ll take May—or Henry.’
Mama went pale and glanced over at May, who was adding biscuits to the table. After the hangings that summer, Mama had watched their slaves with fear in her eyes.
Joseph himself didn’t know what to think.
The Grands seemed worried now too. They had decided to sell their cook, since she’d mourned Denmark Vesey and his conspirators.
If Papa acted any differently toward their negroes, he was even nicer to them.
He’d bought Henry’s mother Agathe to be their new cook, against the Grands’ objections—she’d grown up on Saint-Domingue, though Agathe’s old master had brought her to Charleston long before the slave revolt.
To Hélène, Mama said only: ‘Henry and May are busy.’
‘I could take Hélène,’ Joseph offered. He was a Soldier of Christ now.
Surely he could protect his little sister through a few Charleston streets.
He liked Grandpapa’s clocks too. The shop wasn’t much farther than the Philosophical and Classical Seminary, and Joseph was allowed to walk to school by himself now. Although Mama still fretted about that.
‘Your father and I have indulged you too much since—since we returned from Paris,’ Mama decided. ‘Hélène will make her first Confession soon. She must learn that we cannot always do what we want to do. We must ask ourselves: “Will it please Our Lord?”’
Hélène frowned. ‘Why does God care if I see Grandpapa’s clocks?’
‘God cares about everything we do.’
‘But…’ Hélène’s chin, her lips, even her nose began trembling, and she made a little whimpering sound as if her kitten had run away.
She was very good at this, acting as though the world would end if she didn’t get what she wanted.
Her pouting was particularly effective because she rarely asked for anything unreasonable.
Often Hélène begged for something entirely selfless.
If Papa were here, he would be pudding. Joseph himself felt his heart breaking.
Behind him, he heard May snigger. Cathy just rolled her eyes.
Mama chewed her lip and squeezed one of their hands in each of hers as if she might never see them again. Finally, she gave in. Mama made them promise to go straight to Grandpapa’s shop and come straight back.
As he and Hélène passed beneath the palmettos and chinaberry trees, as they darted across the sandy streets ahead of approaching horses, Joseph saw two negroes for every white person.
Men delivering messages, dressed in livery so everyone knew who owned them.
Women in head kerchiefs carrying baskets of brightly-colored fruits or briny-smelling fish and crabs from the market.
Even from here, you could see the flags atop the tallest ships in the harbor.
Apart from his sister stepping in manure as they crossed Broad Street, they arrived safely. Hélène left her soiled pattens in the alley, and they entered the shop. They were greeted by the familiar sound of the clocks tick-tick-ticking away all around them like a hundred mechanical hearts.
Many of the cases were wood or porcelain, but these were not Joseph and Hélène’s favorites.
The truly memorable pieces were ormolu, gilded bronze, each design different from the last. The clock-face might be set in the rose window of a miniature cathedral; might be disguised as the wheel of Napoleon’s cannon or a maiden’s chariot; might overlook an entire scene from an opera or a myth.
Hélène spotted a new clock. She pointed to the gold bas-relief on the base, where a man carried a limp woman in his arms, followed by a monk. “Is this Romeo and Juliet?”
Joseph studied the figures on the top of the piece.
A mostly naked man sat painfully beside the clock-face, his hands bound above his head to a palm tree.
A golden woman stood over him, her hands on the ropes.
The final clue was the dog in the bas-relief.
“It must be Atala. It’s a story by Chateaubriand, set here in America.
” Joseph pointed to the man, then the woman.
“Chactas is an Indian. Atala is half-Spanish like Papa. She does kill herself like Juliet.”
“Because she can’t be with her beloved?” Hélène sighed, her elbow on the counter and her chin in her hand. She loved romantic stories.
Joseph nodded. He supposed this was not the time to remind his sister that suicide was a mortal sin. “Atala made a vow to her mother and the Blessed Virgin that she would stay chaste.”
“She wants her beloved to chase her?”
Joseph laughed. “C-h-a-s-t-e. It means…that you’re pure, that you don’t get married. Like Priests and nuns.” He saw Hélène still didn’t understand, but he didn’t understand it himself, what exactly husbands and wives did together to make themselves impure.
“That’s why she can’t be with her beloved? A silly vow?” His sister’s forehead was wrinkled in protest. “Why doesn’t she just say she’s sorry and then marry him?”
“Vows are sacred, El. You can’t break them.”
“It’s better than killing yourself,” Hélène muttered as she wandered to another clock.