Chapter 20
At the altar each day we behold them,
And the hands of a king on his throne
Are not equal to them in their greatness;
Their dignity stands all alone;
And when we are tempted and wander,
To pathways of shame and of sin,
It’s the hand of a priest that absolves us—
Not once, but again and again…
— “The Beautiful Hands of a Priest,”
from a Catholic prayer card
On the day of his Ordination, Joseph was particularly careful about how he tied his cincture and how he held his candle.
Bishop England had timed the ceremony to coincide with the Twelfth South Carolina Convention of clergy and laymen, so as many people as possible could witness Joseph’s transformation.
As he progressed through the incense up the aisle of the cathedral, he caught the eyes of his family and of Miss Conley.
She had come. She offered him a small smile, and he could see she was holding the Ordination pamphlet.
His Lordship’s homily concerned the wonder of the Priesthood, but also its difficulty. At the end, he prayed for Joseph: “May the Immaculate Virgin Mary, the mother of Priests, and Saint Joseph, her most chaste spouse, intercede for you always.”
For the first time of many, Joseph knelt before his Bishop, who stood in his full vestments and mitre.
“As far as I can perceive, the conduct of this Deacon is pleasing to God… If any person has anything to allege against him, let him come forward and speak.” His Lordship paused to allow an objection.
Joseph bowed his head lower, held his breath, and waited. Would someone expose him as colored? Would Miss Conley reveal the lust she had seen in his eyes?
There was only silence in the cathedral. Joseph reminded himself that most of the audience did not know Latin. Even if they were trying to follow along in the translation, they might not have understood the placement of this pause.
Satisfied, Bishop England resumed the rite.
“Imitate that which you handle,” he admonished Joseph, “so that in celebrating the Mystery of the Lord’s death, you are careful to mortify your members concerning all vices and lusts.
Let your doctrine be a spiritual medicine for the people of God.
Let the fragrance of your life be the delight of the Church… ”
Joseph lowered himself to the floor of the cathedral until he was prostrate, his forehead resting on his folded arms. He lay in the very spot where, a decade before, he’d begged God to accept him, and Bishop England had assured him He would.
They chanted the long litany of the saints, which included Saint Joseph but not Saint Teresa.
At last Joseph rose to his knees again. First Bishop England and then each of the other Priests laid their hands upon Joseph’s bowed head.
He was sure he could feel the power tingling through them into him: this unbroken apostolic succession, transmitted across eighteen centuries all the way from Saint Peter—from Christ Himself.
“We beseech Thee, O God, infuse the blessing of the Holy Ghost and the virtue of Priestly grace upon this Thy servant…”
His Lordship positioned the stole across Joseph’s breast. “May he preserve pure and undefiled his ministry…may he arise in inviolable charity a perfect man…”
Bishop England removed his gloves. Trembling—for he knew what was coming—Joseph held out his hands. His Lordship dipped his thumb in holy oil and anointed Joseph’s palms. “O Lord, consecrate these hands by this unction and”—he made the Sign of the Cross—“our benediction.”
Though his throat was tight, Joseph replied, “Amen.”
His Lordship placed Joseph’s palms together, and Father Baker bound them with a spotless white cloth. Bishop England brought a Host and a chalice, and Joseph touched them. “Take this power to offer sacrifice to God, and to celebrate Masses, both for the living and the dead.”
The cloth was removed from Joseph’s hands. The prayers of the Mass continued, in which Joseph now took part. He kissed the altar and the episcopal ring. He received from Bishop England the Body and Blood, the soul and divinity of Christ under the appearance of bread and wine.
In time, Joseph joined his hands again, and His Lordship placed his around them. “Do you promise to me and my successors obedience and reverence?”
“I promise,” Joseph answered, and Bishop England offered him the Kiss of Peace. Their cheeks were both damp with tears.
I am a Priest, Joseph thought, stricken with awe, relief, and joy. I am a Priest, forever. No one could take this away from him. At long last, his life could begin.
When the Mass concluded and the congregation spilled into his Biblical garden, Joseph’s family descended on him. Perched on her father’s hip, even little Sophie was wide-eyed and speechless. “Bless me first!” demanded his five-year-old nephew, yanking on Joseph’s chasuble.
“Soon, David,” Joseph told him. “A new Priest blesses his parents first.”
Joseph’s mother was so overcome, she forgot she never signed in public. ‘Now we have two doctors in the family: a physician of the body and a Physician of the Soul!’ Though she kept dabbing at her eyes, she was beaming. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, René?’
He managed only a wan smile. ‘Just don’t expect me to call my son “Father.”’
When Joseph held his hands over his mother’s head to begin the First Blessing, his father knelt beside her. But afterward, he rose without kissing Joseph’s anointed palms, when his father needed the indulgences far more than his mother.
Nearby, Miss Conley was weeping. She stood next to a young man with her coloring—that must be her brother Liam.
Eschewing etiquette, Hélène began chatting with them while Joseph blessed his grandmother, Cathy, Perry, and their children in turn.
Then Miss Conley approached. Her eyes downcast beneath her mantilla, the young woman knelt before him, her white skirts billowing around her on the ground.
She looks like an upside-down flower, Joseph thought as he gave her the blessing. Like a fallen camellia.
When he offered his palms, Miss Conley took them in her own hands.
Perhaps she could not afford gloves; her slender fingers were bare and warm in the chill November morning.
The intimacy took him by surprise, and every muscle in Joseph’s body tensed.
This was the first time they had touched.
It was the first time any woman had ever touched him skin to skin—any woman unrelated to him, and that made all the difference.
Miss Conley took possession of his hands in a grasp that was gentle but impossible to resist. The wound he’d incurred while pruning the gardenia had left the barest imperfection in his flesh, invisible to anyone who did not know where to look.
Yet somehow, when Miss Conley raised Joseph’s palm to her lips, she kissed him exactly there.
His reaction was weak but nonetheless electric, like one last convulsion in the tail of a dying fish. Clearly the chrism had yet to reach his loins.
When Miss Conley kissed his other palm, Joseph tried to keep his arm limp; but at the last moment, his tendons contracted as if controlled by some invisible puppeteer. As she let go, his fingertips brushed her silken throat.
“Will you pray for me, Father?” Miss Conley pleaded in a hoarse whisper. His hand was still so close to her mouth that Joseph could feel the trembling caress of her breath. Her eyes flickered, as if she were not sure where to look. When she closed them, more tears seeped between her long lashes.
“O-Of course.” He wanted to fall to his knees and take Miss Conley’s face in his hands. He wanted to dry those tears with his stole and beg her to tell him what was wrong so that he could make it right.
But how would that look? He would soil his vestments—it had rained last night.
Hélène saved him from doing anything foolish. Without waiting for his blessing, she promptly followed Miss Conley’s example—except when his sister grabbed Joseph’s hands, she was sniggering.
Joseph took control, patting Hélène’s cheeks in admonishment as though she were a child, since she was acting like one. “It has to be done devoutly, El. It doesn’t count if you’re giggling.” Still he couldn’t help smiling himself.
Hélène huffed in mock effrontery and sprang up to embrace him instead. “I love you, Joseph! I don’t care if that earns me indulgences or not!” His little sister then lost no time in introducing everyone to the Conleys. She invited them to dinner.
At the prospect of guests, Joseph’s mother fretted as if her deafness were contagious. His grandmother gave Hélène her wide-eyed jaw-clench of disapproval, which was already too late.
‘Look at them, Grandmama!’ Joseph’s sister argued in sign. ‘They’re so thin! And we always have plenty of food!’
Mr. Conley watched Hélène’s hands with interest. “What’s she saying?” he asked Perry, who must have seemed less intimidating than the rest of them.
Perry had learned a great many signs, but he chose his own translation: “She is saying that a new Priest must become acquainted with his parishioners.”
The Conleys joined them for dinner the day after Joseph’s first Mass.
Being served by Henry and May clearly made them uncomfortable, but brother and sister did their best to hide their reaction.
For most of the meal, Miss Conley was gracious but withdrawn—so different from the vivacious woman he’d met in the garden.
Of course their guests wanted to hear about Rome.
Joseph imagined he would be recounting his years in the Eternal City for the rest of his life, but he did not mind.
Then Perry and Mr. Conley commiserated about the cruelty of landlords.
Perry’s family had been victims of the Highland Clearances.
Mr. Conley’s ire was fresher and seemed even deeper.
During this conversation, his sister became as white as death.
The young Irishman quickly changed the subject, but Joseph longed to know their whole story.
Hélène asked Mr. Conley a surprising number of questions. Joseph had not realized she was so interested in Irish politics. Their guest was eager to discuss Catholic Emancipation, how life in Ireland had changed since the Relief Act of ’29—and how it had not changed. The “Tithe War” still raged.
“Catholic farmers who can barely feed their children are forced to pay for Protestant clergymen!” Mr. Conley exclaimed. Clashes between tithe agents and Catholics had taken hundreds of lives.
“Please do not take my brother for a revolutionary,” Miss Conley interjected quietly. “My family holds with the Great Emancipator, O’Connell: we do not believe in violent protest.”
“No matter how much we are provoked,” Mr. Conley muttered.
Joseph gathered that Mr. Conley’s father had sent his youngest son to America for much the same reason the Church had sent Bishop England here: they had both been agitating their countrymen with their pens. What an Irishman called justice, the British Crown called treason.
Joseph’s mother had tried to disappear before their guests ever arrived, but his father had refused to allow it.
The Conleys were very patient as they waited for translations.
They even wanted to learn a few signs. Mr. Conley was genuinely interested in the legal barriers faced by the deaf in France and in America.
The young Irishman had found work as a copyist for a lawyer on Broad Street, and someday he hoped to practice law himself.
“I’d heard that the deaf could communicate with their hands,” Mr. Conley observed over dessert. “But it isn’t just your hands—you use your entire countenance!”
“We do,” Joseph’s father smiled.
“A year ago in Paris, I attended a banquet for the deaf,” Joseph added, signing as he spoke.
“There were speeches without speech. Some of the men even recited poetry.” He waited for the Conleys’ gasps of astonishment.
“Poetry composed in sign doesn’t rhyme, of course—it finds its rhythm in the shapes of the signs themselves: how they reflect one another and grow out of one another. It’s quite beautiful.”
Miss Conley ventured: “Do you remember any of the poems, Father?”
“Not well enough to do them justice. I’m sorry.”
“Have you composed any poems in sign yourself?”
Joseph chuckled. “I’m afraid not. Homilies are difficult enough.”
“The one you gave yesterday was excellent.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“I think the best parts of Joseph’s Mass were his chants,” Hélène declared. “Your voice is truly divine, brother. Which is why you must sing for our guests!”
“What, now?”
“Dinner is finished—why not?” His sister stood, kissed their mother’s forehead, and said only in sign: ‘I apologize, Mama.’
‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ she answered. ‘I’ll see if David and Sophie have finished their dinner.’
Hélène flew to the piano. “I finally received the sheet music I’ve been waiting for, a ballad everybody else already has! It’s supposed to be a man singing, so it doesn’t sound right when I do it.”
Joseph frowned at the sheet music. “This looks like a love ballad.”
“It is.” Hélène was already teasing the tune from the keys. “It’s about a man who renounces his love, so it’s perfect for you.”
“Whom have I renounced?”
“Everybody! Must I really explain celibacy to a Priest? Now sing!”
Joseph sighed and capitulated:
“I’d offer thee this hand of mine,
If I could love thee less;
But hearts as warm and pure as thine,
Should never know distress.
My fortune is too hard for thee,
’Twould chill thy dearest joy:
I’d rather weep to see thee free,
Than win thee to destroy…”
When the ballad was finished, everyone offered their praise. Joseph heard only Miss Conley’s.
“Surely one of our guests will favor us with a song as well?” Hélène urged.
Miss Conley lowered her eyes. “Oh, no, we couldn’t—especially after—”
“Don’t be so modest, Tessa,” her brother encouraged. “Everyone always said you had the sweetest voice in our parish.”
The sweetest voice in all of Ireland, Joseph would wager.
At last, Miss Conley conceded. She needed no accompaniment. She sang a lament in her own language, wild and ancient and absolutely breathtaking. She kept them at a distance, then drew them in and left them intimate strangers.
Joseph let the others shower Miss Conley with acclaim.
His only compliment was wordless, an exchange of smiles from one singer to another.
He was afraid that a true admission of how Miss Conley’s voice affected him would reveal how much of the man remained in him, how his transformation into Priesthood was not as instantaneous as he’d hoped.