Chapter 17 #2
His father sighed heavily and turned away for a minute while Joseph worked.
Unfortunately, he soon turned back. “There is another doctor my own age who lives a street away. His name is Latour—a fine man and a fine physician. But when the families in this neighborhood need a doctor, they call on me first. Do you know why? Because Dr. Latour is a bachelor. He doesn’t know what it’s like to watch his own wife and children suffering.
My patients trust my judgments because they know I am also a husband and father. ”
Remember what he did to Mama in order to become a father. Joseph would never allow his hands to torment a woman.
“I know all my patients’ names and I care about what happens to them, not their diseases. I don’t just spout words I’ve memorized from a book.”
He is the hypocrite. He is a beast; you are a beast; and your only hope—
Joseph saw the bright well of blood before he even felt the pain, before he realized what he’d done.
He’d been distracted; the knife had slipped past the wood of the gardenia and sliced into the heel of his hand.
He dropped the blade, and panic clamped down on his chest. He struggled to stand, as if he could escape from his own flesh, but the world was going bright and black at once—he only collapsed to his knees again.
“Henry! Get my bag!” his father yelled somewhere far away. “Quick as you can!”
Joseph could not take his eyes from the hot blood spilling down his wrist and soaking into his sleeve. He felt as if he was watching his vocation drain away, drop by drop—every hour of his life this last decade utterly gone, utterly wasted because of his carelessness. Tears began welling too.
“Joseph.” His father was kneeling with him, his hands on Joseph’s shoulders. “Look at me, son. You’re going to be fine.”
Still Joseph stared at the gash in his hand. Breath wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he fought for it. Why was he even fighting? He was nothing now. He could never be a Priest. He might as well have slit his wrist.
“It isn’t as serious as it looks. You’re not going to lose your hand.”
He couldn’t promise that!
“Signing will be awkward for a while, that is all—and you may have some trouble buttoning your trousers.” His father was actually chuckling! He took his medical satchel from Henry. “Do you want laudanum for the pain?”
“You don’t understand! A Priest can’t have damaged hands!”
His father paused in his rummaging. How could he be so damned calm? As if they had all the time in the world, his eyes locked with Joseph’s. “Are you telling me that if I do a poor job on these sutures, I can prevent you from becoming a Priest?”
Now Joseph’s heart stopped. Dear God… If there’d been even a chance this could heal—
His father sighed, then bent over Joseph’s hand. “I wouldn’t do that to you, son. This is your decision, not mine. I can’t be a bad doctor any more than you could be a bad Priest.”
Joseph closed his eyes in relief and thanksgiving. He felt his father probing the wound, and he tried not to flinch. Before he opened his eyes again, he murmured, “You think I’ll be a good Priest?”
His father did not look up from his work. “You will be an excellent Priest, as soon as life teaches you a few things.” He pierced Joseph’s flesh with a needle. “You would also have been an excellent botanist—and an excellent husband and father…”
Joseph averted his eyes. “Cathy has already given you grandchildren. They just don’t carry your name.”
“I don’t care if you give me grandchildren, Joseph. I do care about your happiness.”
“I am happy—I will be.”
“Are you absolutely certain, son?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Yes.”
“I shouldn’t have insulted you. I’m sorry, Joseph.” After another few minutes, his father sat back to admire his work. “I doubt you’ll even have a scar.”
Joseph stared down at his hand, wrapped in its clean white bandage. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Alea iacta est,” his father muttered.
Joseph protected his sutured hand as if it were made of porcelain.
He could scarcely sleep for fear he would roll on it.
He visited his father’s office each morning so that he could change the bandage and inspect the wound.
The cut continued to heal with no signs of inflammation, but every day Joseph peered at his palm with trepidation.
The new flesh was smooth and shockingly pink.
Had he thought the skin would grow back dark like his Haitian grandmother’s?
On one of these visits, his father picked up the new bandage only to set it down again. He sat on the edge of his desk, facing Joseph. “This little omen hasn’t changed your mind?”
“Of course not.” Joseph kept his eyes on his wound. “I intend to resume gardening as soon as possible.”
His father gave a dry chuckle. “In a flower bed or in the ‘vineyard of the Lord’?”
“Both.”
He was sober again. “Then while I have your attention, son, there is something I must say.”
Something else, he meant. Joseph contemplated finding another doctor.
“I imagine part of your seminary training involved your responsibilities as a confessor and counselor?”
“Yes.” He would say as little as possible, Joseph decided, so that this lecture might end sooner.
“I implore you, son: do not judge your parishioners either rashly or harshly.”
“I won’t.”
“It comes to this: your teachers have all been Priests. Assuming they have kept their vows, such men have a, shall we say, limited knowledge of women and of sexual congress. I, on the other hand, possess more than two decades’ experience, not only as a husband but also as a doctor.
I have friends who are husbands and doctors as well.
We often seek each other’s advice. You are young, Joseph, and you have been very sheltered—like a hothouse flower.
Sooner or later, a penitent will confess to you some act or desire that will shock you.
You will find yourself at a loss how to respond.
When that happens, I will gladly place my knowledge and experience at your disposal.
I will give you no names, and you will give me none.
We will both be bound by the Seal of Confession. ”
That will not be necessary, Joseph thought. If I need advice, I will go to another Priest, just as you go to fellow doctors. You cannot diagnose sin. You don’t even wish to cure your own.
On the day he became a Subdeacon, Joseph’s palm retained little evidence of the wound.
Bishop England assured him the damage was not sufficient to constitute an impediment, but he advised Joseph to be more careful in future.
His Lordship added with a grin that Joseph was blessed to have such a fine physician.
Perhaps Joseph’s hand remained unsteady.
His very first act as an Ordinand, when Bishop England called his name, was to respond “I am present” and step forward.
But somehow, carrying the weight of the unaccustomed vestments and the expectations of an entire diocese, Joseph dropped his candle instead.
Miraculously, even as it rolled away from him, the candle remained lit. When he stooped to snatch it up, the tasselled ends of his cincture swung dangerously close to the flame and nearly caught fire. Everyone in the cathedral seemed to gasp and then release his breath at once.
Probably Joseph’s father thought this was another omen. After all, a clergyman’s cincture symbolized his chastity. As Joseph tied the white cord around his waist in the sacristy, he had prayed: “Gird me, O Lord, with the cincture of purity, and extinguish in my heart the fire of lust.”
Afraid he’d somehow invalidated the rite, Joseph raised his eyes nervously to his Bishop. His Lordship granted him a reassuring smile before continuing the Mass. Joseph’s heart calmed as again and again, Bishop England addressed him as “dearly beloved son.” Each time felt like an embrace.
“Consider that this day of your own free will, you desire a burden,” His Lordship proclaimed in booming Latin. “For after you have received this Order, you will no longer be free…you will be obliged to observe chastity and to work always in the ministry of the Church.”
Joseph lay prostrate, rose, and answered “Amen” at each proper place. Bishop England conferred on him all the vestments and duties of a Subdeacon. And it was done. He was safe. Joseph belonged now to God, and no woman would ever belong to him.