Chapter 49
Rev. James Wallace…moved to Lexington District, within a few miles of the city, and devoted his declining years to meditation and prayer…
Joseph held the aspersorium while Father Baker blessed the ashes with holy water.
His pastor dipped his thumb into the damp black dust to make a cross on his own forehead, and then on Joseph’s.
Finally, they offered this symbol of Penance to each of their parishioners.
Over and over, they admonished: “Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
They echoed God’s words to Adam after his Fall.
The ashes were supposed to remind them all to repent before it was too late.
For a Christian who died in a state of grace, death was not something to fear.
On the contrary, saints like Teresa of ávila longed for death, because it meant they would finally be united with their divine Beloved.
But Joseph could not help but think of his sister, alone in her tomb—or his brother-in-law, alone in their bed.
The ashes had stained Joseph’s fingers black and worked their way beneath his nails long before Tessa approached the altar. Her eyes flitted up to his for only a moment. But a moment was all it took. Just as the crucifix was veiled for Lent, Christ vanished from Joseph’s mind.
As he felt that black cross on his forehead, as he placed that symbol of death upon Tessa’s soft flesh and he recited those ominous words, Joseph longed for another kind of union—while he and Tessa still had breath in their bodies.
Eight weeks ago, he’d almost lost her to childbirth.
A few days from now, on his journey to Columbia, Prince might stumble and throw him; Joseph might break his neck before he ever knew the taste of her skin.
Thanks to his father’s carnal catechism (imprinted in his mind as surely as Priesthood was imprinted in his soul), Joseph knew there were ways he could make Tessa “unspeakably happy” without hurting her.
Every one of which was a mortal sin. As a Penance, he tried to reread the “Meditation upon Death” from The Imitation of Christ. “In every deed and thought, order thyself as if thou wert to die this day,” counselled Thomas à Kempis.
“When it is morning, reflect that thou may not see evening…” Before her surgery, Hélène had said nearly the same thing, but she’d argued for an entirely different purpose—not that Joseph should prepare his soul to meet God, but that he should seize Tessa while he could.
“Now the time is most precious,” agreed Kempis.
“While thou hast time, lay up for thyself undying riches.”
The only riches Joseph cared about were the gold rings in Tessa’s eyes, the ruby curtains of her lips, the pearls of her teeth, the ivory of her throat…
He was writing another chapter of the Canticles, apparently. At least he hadn’t compared her hair to a flock of goats.
A noble benefactress in Europe had sent their diocese two monstrances.
Even without the Real Presence inside them, these vessels were dazzling: rays of gold radiating from a center inlaid with jewels.
Their benefactress wished one monstrance to remain in the cathedral and the other to grace St. Peter’s Church in Columbia, since it was dedicated to her late husband’s patron saint.
Father Baker had decided not to entrust such an important delivery to the postal service.
Besides, the Priest who made the journey could visit the Catholic families between Charleston and Columbia, families who enjoyed the consolation of the Sacraments only a few times a year.
Joseph had volunteered because he had Prince.
He also saw it as a trial: how might he and his horse adapt to permanent mission work?
Prince seemed eager to stretch his legs in earnest. With the monstrance wrapped up securely, they travelled through Colleton District, south of the railroad.
Joseph spent each night and morning with the scattered members of his flock, baptizing infants, hearing Confessions, and celebrating Mass.
He even blessed a Marriage. Work only a Priest could do.
Yet every moment in-between, Joseph prayed—and dreamt—about Tessa. Might not God grant him this solace? If Joseph was gentle, might not Tessa grant him more than a clothed embrace?
Fortunately, Joseph had brought along Dignity and Duties of the Priest by Alphonsus Liguori.
The saint devoted whole chapters to “The Sin of Incontinence, or The Necessity of Purity in the Priest.” He reminded Joseph: “the unchaste priest not only brings himself to perdition, but he also causes the damnation of many others.” He confirmed the wisdom of Joseph’s first instinct when he’d learned Tessa loved him: to flee at once from his occasion of sin.
“In this warfare cowards, they that avoid dangerous occasions, gain the victory.”
Joseph’s course was clear. He must leave Charleston permanently.
He must turn his back on the best thing that had ever happened to him, because it was also the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
If he truly cared about Tessa’s welfare or about his other parishioners, he could not delay any longer.
As soon as he returned from Columbia, he would speak to Father Baker.
But whatever strange bed he inhabited, Tessa always found him.
Sometimes she only sang to him or stroked his hair.
Sometimes she was as wanton as Delilah. That night, she began by whispering in his ear: “I need you.” The truth was: he needed her as much as she needed him.
Whatever she could give him, he would accept it gladly. But he dreamt of union.
The following afternoon, Joseph and his horse took refuge from a thunderstorm in a barn. As lightning streaked the sky, Joseph returned to Alphonsus, who often cited the wisdom of other saints:
In the revelations of St. Bridget we read that an unchaste priest was killed by a thunder bolt; and it was found that the lightning had reduced to ashes only the indelicate members, as if to show that it was principally for incontinence that God had inflicted this chastisement upon him.
Joseph flinched.
He delivered the monstrance safely to St. Peter’s.
Then he followed his map and his father’s directions to the home of Father Wallace.
The farmstead stood in a handsome setting near the edge of a forest—though the house seemed unnecessarily large.
Joseph’s father had told him the Priest had made wise investments and now owned considerable property in and around Columbia.
Father Wallace likely had his mastery of mathematics to thank for that.
As Joseph approached, he heard what sounded like a Paganini caprice drifting down through one of the windows.
So Father Wallace was a violinist. Joseph had assumed his father wished him to meet this Priest because Father Wallace had broken his vow of obedience by leaving the Jesuits.
But perhaps their shared love of music had some bearing on this visit, too.
When Joseph had asked his father’s reasons, he’d been frustratingly vague: “You’ll understand once you’re there. ”
Half mesmerized by the music, Joseph pulled Prince to a stop, dismounted, and tied his lead rope to the fence around the kitchen garden.
When Joseph climbed the porch stairs and knocked on the front door, the violinist did not stop.
But a patter of footsteps punctuated the notes, and the door swung open to reveal a mulatto boy of about seven.
“Good afternoon!” the boy cried.
Joseph frowned. “G-Good afternoon.”
“Are you Father Lazarus?”
“If you mean ‘Father Lazare,’ I am.”
The boy scrunched up his nose. “I ’membered wrong! Your pa wrote us you were coming.”
“I’m…looking for Father Wallace?”
“You’re in the right place,” called a woman’s voice.
Joseph turned to see a negress approaching from the kitchen.
She wiped her hands on her apron, then shielded her eyes from the afternoon sunlight.
“He hasn’t returned from his mission to the Fairfield District yet.
We expect him for supper. You’ll join us, won’t you? And spend the night with us?”
“I— Yes, thank you.”
The negress (Joseph guessed her to be forty) was close enough now to see the mulatto boy standing in the doorway, and she turned to him. “James, would you run upstairs and ask your brother to take care of Father Lazare’s horse and put his bags in the spare room?”
“I can do it, Mama!” young James insisted.
The negress smiled indulgently. “Why don’t you help George?”
James pouted but ran to obey.
Joseph had known Father Wallace must have a housekeeper. But it was unusual for such a woman to bring her children into a Priest’s household. Their noise was hardly conducive to meditation and prayer: James clomped up the stairs and shouted to his brother. The violin ceased.
“Are you thirsty, Father?” the negress asked him. “I have some switchel ready. James says it’s the best restorative after a day in the saddle.”
“Thank you.” Still Joseph scowled. By “James,” he assumed she meant Father Wallace, not her young son. Did Father Wallace know she referred to him by his Christian name in his absence?
“I hope you don’t mind following me to the kitchen? I have supper going.” The negress turned before Joseph even responded.
In the kitchen, she offered him a chair and poured him a mug of switchel, which had the perfect amount of ginger. “I’m sorry, Father; I realize I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Sarah. Your father’s letter wasn’t clear—but judging by your reactions, he didn’t tell you about me?”
That sounded ominous. “No…”