Chapter 19 #2
“I cannot wait to tell my father and my brother. If it weren’t for you, we’d never have known.”
“Pomegranates are also messier than apples—the juice leaves permanent stains.” Joseph forced himself to layer water and soil around the little tree.
“Beside me, is this a pear?”
He glanced up again automatically. At the moment, the pear sapling bore neither flowers nor fruit, and few leaves remained. “You have a good eye.” Was she a gardener, too?
“We do have pears in Ireland. Where are they in the Bible?”
“I’m stretching the rules again—pears are from Saint Augustine’s Confessions.
He uses them to meditate on human nature.
” Around the pomegranate, Joseph pressed down on the soil with his boot.
“In his boyhood, Augustine stole pears from a neighbor’s tree—even though he had pears in his own yard.
‘I pilfered something which I already had in sufficient measure,’ Augustine wrote later.
” God’s love is more than sufficient. You do not need this woman.
You only want her, because she belongs to someone else and you are perverse.
“‘To do this pleased me all the more because it was forbidden. … It was foul, and I loved it. I loved my own undoing.’ The theft of those pears haunted Augustine for the rest of his life.”
“Is there anything, sir, you do not know?” Over the head of her son, the young mother beamed. “A gardener who is a Latinist, a hagiologist, a Biblical scholar, and can quote from Saint Augustine—I can understand why Bishop England engaged you.”
Joseph smiled back. “Horticulture is merely my hobby.” He gave the pomegranate one last drink of water. “I learned it and everything else I know at seminary.”
Her smile disappeared, and the color drained from her face. For a moment, the young mother only stared at him, her lips slightly open. At last she whispered: “You’re a divine.”
Joseph nodded. “A Deacon, at the moment. Come this Saturday, a Priest.” Had she never seen a clergyman out of his soutane before? He did not look very holy at the moment, it was true; he was dirty and sweaty. Joseph set down the watering-pot and took up the shovel again to spread mulch.
The young mother began glancing around as if she’d forgotten something. “I should have…” Did she think she’d behaved inappropriately? That he had?
He must fix this. But he had so little experience with women. “You and your husband are welcome to celebrate with us at the cathedral.”
“I don’t have a—” She dropped her eyes to the boy in her arms and went scarlet. “Thomas isn’t mine.”
She is free. His damned heart actually leapt in his chest, as if the news made any difference to him.
“His mother and I were on the ship together. I watch him sometimes.”
Remember what you are, wholly apart from your vocation. If this young woman knew what you carry in your veins, she would not flush—she would flee. Leave her to a better man. He must find something normal to say. “Did you emigrate recently?”
“A month ago.” She fiddled with her little drawstring bag. “We’ve attended at the cathedral, but I—I haven’t seen you.”
“I’ve been assisting His Lordship at the early Mass.” The one for the colored parishioners. “You came to Charleston with your father and your brother?”
“Only with my youngest brother, Liam—William Conley. I am Teresa Conley.” She must be named for Teresa of ávila! Joseph would have told her about Bernini’s sculpture, but she seemed so uncomfortable now.
“My name is Joseph Lazare.” He smiled in an attempt to put her at ease again.
Perhaps they were breeching etiquette—but circumventing formal introductions was one of the prerogatives of a clergyman.
“I would kiss your hand properly, Miss Conley, but…” He grimaced as he pulled off a filthy gardening glove.
Beneath, his hands were perspiring. “Will you come? On Saturday?”
“Of course.” Still Miss Conley looked as though she wanted to flee, perched on the edge of the bench. In her arms, little Thomas stirred and whined. He did not want her to move any more than Joseph did.
“I know you won’t recognize all the Latin, but Bishop England translated the Rite of Ordination a few years ago. We still have copies of the pamphlet, if you’d like to read it beforehand. I can get one for you—it would take half a minute.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Joseph dashed to the Bishop’s residence, scraping off his boots as quickly as possible.
He blessed himself using the holy water stoup at the door, and this put things in perspective.
For fifteen minutes in that garden, Joseph had let himself lose sight of what was important.
He was not a lover and he never would be.
He was above all that. Miss Conley was a parishioner, nothing more.
He grabbed the Ordination pamphlet from the library and raced back to the garden.
She hovered near the gate, looking more ill at ease than ever. Miss Conley was taller than he’d expected—almost as tall as Cathy. Thomas stood beside her, sucking his thumb and gripping the skirts that concealed her long legs.
Parishioners did not have legs.
“Here it is.” Joseph held the pamphlet by a corner, so there would be no chance of their fingers brushing.
Miss Conley took it just as gingerly. “You must be overjoyed. You’ve been preparing for this for…”
“Ten years. Truly, all my life.”
Miss Conley nodded shakily. She would not meet his eyes. She looked as if she were about to cry. A few minutes before, she had seemed so comfortable with him.
Had she realized his attraction to her? “Miss Conley…have I offended you in some way?”
She shook her head vigorously. “I cannot imagine better company.” She tucked the Ordination pamphlet in her bag. Her hands were trembling.
“You could stay and read it here. If the snake returns, I promise to keep him away from you.”
“Thank you, but…” She picked up little Thomas.
“Whatever is troubling you, Miss Conley, you can tell me. In fact, I could use the practice as a confessor.”
She turned away from him, so he saw the camellia again, so he hardly heard her words: “It will be difficult, I imagine, to know the true foulness of your companions.”
“Sin is only the beginning. When I become a Priest, I can offer penitents Absolution. I can make their souls clean again and show them the way forward. Our God is a God of justice, yes; but He is also a God of love and forgiveness.”
Over her shoulder, he saw Miss Conley’s profile for only a moment before she left him. “You will be a wonderful Priest, Mr. Lazare.”
People had been telling him that half his life. For the first time, Joseph thought he believed it. Hadn’t he just passed his final test?
His mind knew what was important, but his body did not.
Before the next dawn, Joseph awoke to the proof—to the pollution that had not plagued him since his Ordination to Subdeacon.
Now it was infinitely fouler. The holiest man in America slept across the hall, a man who believed Joseph worthy of the Priesthood.
And always before, when Joseph remembered his dream, his partner in impurity had been a faceless abstraction.
He curled up in shame, as if he could will the stuff back into his body.
He’d thought he’d outgrown this. He’d been wrong.
Before he crawled from his soiled bed, he whispered the prayer for purity to his patron. He’d never meant the words more than he did now:
“Guardian of virgins, holy father Joseph, to whose custody Christ Jesus, Innocence itself, and Mary, Virgin of virgins, were committed, look mercifully upon my infirmity. I beseech thee, that I may be preserved from all defilement…”
He took the ferry to Sullivan’s Island, ran till he was alone, and swam till he was exhausted. The chilly ocean numbed his stubborn flesh, and he felt almost clean again. When his side started cramping, he dragged himself up the beach and retched onto the sand.
Why these sudden, paralyzing misgivings? People said grooms became uneasy on the eve of their weddings, no matter how much they loved their brides. That was all this was. It would pass.