When he glanced toward the bed again, his father had replaced the sheet and was bending to kiss Tessa’s temple. “Please, ma belle, try not to move.” When had his father started addressing Tessa with terms of endearment? His tone was exactly the one he used with Hélène.
Tessa disobeyed him almost immediately. Her daughter was stirring and making small unhappy noises. Tessa turned her head toward Joseph’s father to ask: “Is she hungry, do you think?”
“Let’s see.” Without either permission or warning, Joseph’s father leaned over Tessa and grabbed her breast.
At least, this seemed to be what he was doing. Joseph saw it only out of the corner of his eye while he lit the altar candles.
“There we are,” his father declared. “That didn’t take her long at all.” He leaned back. “This may even help you with the final contraction.” Pitching his voice a little louder, he returned his attention to Joseph. “You’ll need to watch Clare—make sure she doesn’t become smothered or tangled.”
“Of course,” Joseph stammered. He didn’t think he could refuse, even though watching the baby also meant watching Tessa’s breast.
“I’ll be just outside.” His father closed the door behind him.
Joseph was alone with Tessa and her daughter. All he wanted to do was admire them, this perfect tableau of Madonna and child. He thought he understood a glimmer of what his patron saint had felt, two thousand years ago inside that Bethlehem cave, as he watched over the beloved child who would never be his and the beloved woman he could never have. He had a duty to perform; that was all. A duty that had nothing whatsoever to do with breasts.
Joseph busied himself vesting. He drew his soutane over his clothes and began fastening the thirty-three buttons. Even now, he should be reciting the prayers he’d intoned at a hundred death-beds; but to someone who understood only snatches, the Latin sounded so cold. In their last moments together, he could not treat Tessa like a stranger. Instead, Joseph asked: “You named her Clare?”
“Do you like it? I thought about naming her Sophie…”
The idea made him smile; but he supposed it was best not to repeat the past. Tessa’s daughter should be her own person. Clare would honor not only a remarkable saint but also the Irish county of Tessa’s birth. Yet the name was not obviously Irish, so it should meet with her husband’s approval. Surely Edward would not deny Tessa this final wish. “Clare is perfect.” Joseph fastened the lowest button on his soutane and looked over at the nursing child. “She’s perfect.”
“She’s worth everything.” Then Tessa’s beautiful face tightened in anguish. “Except what I am doing to David. I brought him here to shield him from death…”
“We’ll look after him.” Joseph slipped his surplice over his head.
“Promise me you will look after Clare, too? You will baptize her as soon as possible? And teach her the catechism and the names of all the plants in your Biblical garden—and you will sing for her? At least once?”
Joseph had to chuckle, so he did not weep. He kissed the cross at the center of his violet stole and draped it around his neck.
“I want Clare to know you; I want…”
Joseph came to the edge of the bed and tried to smile. “I will gladly be her ‘soul-friend.’” When he offered Tessa her crucifix, she stared up at him with such heart-breaking longing. Then Tessa closed her eyes and kissed Christ’s broken body.
Joseph was sinning in thought again. He gazed down at Tessa’s newborn daughter nursing so contentedly, and he thought: Why NOW, Lord? Have You no mercy? Tessa’s only living child would never know her remarkable mother. After her miscarriages, Tessa would have welcomed an escape from this vale of tears. Now, she would leave behind two children who needed her desperately. David was already so angry at God.
Determinedly, Joseph returned Tessa’s crucifix to the altar. He poured holy water into the aspersorium from Tessa’s cabinet, then took up the aspergillum and prayed: “Purge me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” First he sprinkled Tessa with holy water, then he blessed each corner of the bed and each wall. All the while, he continued the Psalm: “Let me hear joy and gladness; that the bones which Thou hast crushed may rejoice…”
Finally, Joseph brought a chair to the bedside. He would have preferred to sit with his back to Tessa, so he might concentrate on her sins instead of committing new ones himself. The delicate, undone buttons at the front of her chemise drew his gaze as if they were lodestones. The buttons shimmered in the firelight; they must be mother-of-pearl. But if he faced away from Tessa, he could not watch Clare.
Tessa closed her eyes. “I confess to almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed.” Her right arm still cradled her daughter. Tessa tried to make a fist with her left hand, but the fingers trembled.
He could see she was weakening. Joseph rose, took her wrist, and helped Tessa fold her arm across her chest till her loose fist made contact just above her right breast, the one still concealed by her chemise. He struck her gently, once for each accusation.
She switched to Latin: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.” Joseph released her wrist, but she left it there against her breast. She was weeping now, her tears flowing down into the pillow. “I have dreaded this moment, Father, and longed for it… You are the only man to whom I can truly confess—yet in your presence, I cannot repent.”
Frowning, Joseph settled back on his chair.
Tessa dragged her left hand up to cover her eyes. “I have been lying to you, Father, since the day we met—each and every time we have spoken, I have lied by omission. You know I entered my marriage with a guilty conscience. But I have concealed from you why I cannot love my husband. Long before I met Edward, my heart was full of someone else: his face, his voice, his tastes; the quickness of his mind and the depth of his compassion.”
Every muscle in Joseph’s body tightened like the strings of a piano. She couldn’t mean—
“I knew that even if I remained free, this man could never be mine,” Tessa sobbed behind her hand. “His vocation means he belongs to everyone. I know ’tis depravity to want him only for myself, that feeling what I do for him is not only mortal sin—’tis sacrilege. To touch him as I long to would be a desecration. But even knowing my last chance for repentance is slipping away, I can feel no remorse. I have tried.”
The dam burst. Joseph let his own tears splash to the floor.
“All I want is to tell him what a solace he has been to me these seven years—how I have cherished every moment in his presence—how much I love him. He must despise me for it; but I can feel no other way.” Tessa’s hand slipped down the pillow, and her tormented eyes met his. “Forgive me, Father! I know God never will; I know I am damned; but please, Father…” Tessa reached out to him across the bed. “I need your forgiveness, before— I think I can bear anything, even Hell, if…”
Joseph shook his head vehemently. “No, Tessa…” He didn’t need to forgive her. The opposite was true, because the sin was his, far more than hers.
Before he could speak, Tessa clenched her eyes shut and drew in a sharp breath. She’d seen only that he was shaking his head. She’d heard only the word “No.” She thought he was refusing to forgive her.
Then Tessa clutched the pillow with her free hand and moaned. Joseph stood up in alarm. This pain was as much physical as spiritual: from between her legs, a bright crimson bloom was staining the sheets with terrifying rapidity. “Tessa?”
“Joseph?” his father called from the hall. “What’s happening in there? Is Tessa worse?”
“She’s bleeding!” Joseph shouted.
His father flung open the door, and he and Hannah rushed inside. He went to his patient, and Hannah gathered up Clare, who started wailing.
Joseph made the Sign of the Cross and muttered the prayer without once taking a breath: “I absolve thee from all censures and from thy sins, in the name of the Father, th
e Son, and the Holy Spirit—Amen.” Tessa was screaming; he knew she didn’t hear him. She’d also said she did not repent. If that were true, the Absolution wasn’t valid. But he had to try.
Joseph snatched up the Body of Christ and retreated into the hall with his portmanteau. Hélène hurried past him into Tessa’s bedchamber, as did the maid he’d seen earlier, who pushed the door shut behind her. Joseph heard his father barking commands, but his own heart was pounding in his ears, so he understood little.
In a daze, he descended the stairs. Liam and David were standing in the hall. They stared up at him, begging for a word of hope. Joseph opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
David frowned, then narrowed his eyes at Joseph as if it were his fault that Tessa was worse—as if being a Priest meant Joseph could call down miracles whenever he wished. The boy paced to the front door and yanked it open. Cold hit them like a tidal wave, but David plunged into it and disappeared outside.
“At least the storm is over,” Liam told Joseph as he grabbed his overcoat and David’s from the rack. “I’ll go after him. He’s my nephew too.”
With shaking hands, Joseph restored the pyx to its pouch and hung it back around his neck. He took off his violet stole—the color of repentance. For an eternity, he knelt before his portmanteau, staring down at his white stole—the color of purity and resurrection. The color of those who died blameless. But if Tessa died now…
Joseph shut the portmanteau. When he peered into the parlor, he saw Edward slumped over the chess table, queens and pawns scattered everywhere. His face was hidden in his crooked arm, his other hand still clutching an empty glass.
So a few minutes later, when Joseph’s father descended the stairs again, only Joseph was present to hear the news. “She’s delivered the placenta—all of it. Her uterus has finally contracted. I believe the danger has passed.”
Joseph exhaled with relief. But he knew this only postponed the reckoning. The truth remained: he, who was supposed to lead Tessa to Heaven, was dragging her to Hell. Joseph strode to his overcoat and shoved his arms inside.
“You’re not leaving?” his father demanded like an accusation.
Joseph ignored him. He simply fled—into the merciless embrace of the icy, dimly lit streets. If he’d broken his neck, it would have been divine justice. He slipped several times but fell only once.
In the end, he made it relatively intact to his little room in the Bishop’s residence where there was no longer a Bishop—where there was no longer even a Priest worthy of the name. Shivering with cold and foreboding, Joseph sank to his knees on the floor.
Tessa was going to live. And she loved him.
Chapter 40
“It must be inconvenient to be made of flesh,” said the Scarecrow, thoughtfully…
— L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900)
Joseph peeled off his overcoat, surplice, soutane, and clothes. He lit a fire in the hearth and crawled into his cold bed. He knew he would have to celebrate Mass in six hours, but he could only lie there, staring at the enormous crack in the ceiling. So he banked the fire, donned fresh clothes and his overcoat, and crossed the frozen Biblical garden. Ice glazed the branches of each bush and tree, white gilding a dark core.
The holy water had frozen in the font, but the altar lamp greeted him: God was here. When Joseph genuflected, the pang in his knees reminded him of his fall on Church Street. His breath created a cloud in the sanctuary like an odorless incense. He returned the pyx to the Tabernacle and kissed the cold altar.
Finally, he lowered himself onto the floor until he was prostrate before God and above Bishop England’s tomb. Help me to feel for Tessa only what you felt for your sister, he begged the holiest man he’d ever known. Surely Bishop England was already a saint in Heaven, where he could easily catch the ear of their Lord. Joseph wanted only to be a good Priest. How could God refuse such a prayer?
Seven years ago, on this very spot, Joseph had accepted the burden of the Priesthood. His vow of celibacy was implicit and not explicit, but he’d understood the price of Ordination. At least, he’d thought he understood. “Be careful to mortify your members concerning all vices and lusts,” Bishop England had commanded, and Joseph had promised to obey.
Flattened against this frigid floor, his members felt sufficiently mortified. They might even freeze and fall off, if he remained here long enough. He might contract pneumonia, and all his problems would be solved. His lungs convulsed in a bitter laugh before he returned to his prayers: Help Tessa to feel nothing more for me than she feels for Liam. Help her to desire her husband instead.
Less than six years ago, on this same spot, Joseph had blessed Tessa’s marriage to Edward. “Plighted to one husband, may she fly from forbidden intimacies,” Joseph had intoned. “May Holy Matrimony become for her a yoke of peace and love…”
God had not been listening.
Of course He had been listening. God had never promised them happiness in this life—He had promised the opposite. They must discover His will and fulfill it. Only then would they find true peace, true love.
God’s will was that Joseph and Tessa part. They were each other’s proximate occasion of sin. Nearness endangered both their souls. If Tessa had died tonight, she would have been damned, because of Joseph. But with distance between them, she would forget about him. Eventually, she would repent of her sin.
Joseph must leave Charleston. He had been able to minister in his family’s own parish for seven years—not one Priest in a thousand was so fortunate. He would ask Father Baker to station him in North Carolina.
But the thought of exiling himself to that wilderness, with no company but his horse… Never again to sit at his parents’ table, hear Hélène’s laughter, watch his mother smile, or inhale Tessa’s perfume…
You are an alter Christus—another Christ, Joseph reminded himself. Did Christ yearn for His mother’s smile or the scent of a lover? He knew His purpose and did not depart from it. Remember what Christ suffered for the sins you are committing right now.
Joseph slid his folded arms from beneath his forehead till his nose flattened against the cold floor. He welcomed the discomfort. He stretched his arms to either side of him and imagined the Roman lash biting into his own back.
Remember Saint Paul’s words to the Galatians: “with Christ I am nailed to the cross… Not I, but Christ liveth in me…” Joseph Lazare ceased to exist seven years ago. You are only Father Lazare now. Only God’s instrument, a vessel for the Holy Spirit. Your body is nothing more than a despicable prison.
Joseph fisted his hands so tightly that his blunt fingernails dug into his palms. He imagined iron spikes being driven through his hands and his feet. He shuddered.
It is an honor and a privilege to suffer, to become more like Christ. If you are cold, if you are lonely, offer it up as a Penance.
Joseph didn’t need Tessa or his family. God was sufficient. Again Joseph prayed with Saint Ignatius: “Lord, grant me only Thy love and Thy grace—with these I am rich enough and desire nothing more.”
I desire nothing more…
I desire nothing…
I desire…
Hot tears mingled with the snot trickling from his nose. Perhaps he needn’t leave immediately. Tessa was recovering from a difficult childbirth. It would be months yet before either of them would be tempted to act on this desire.
But his wicked mind discarded the months in an instant. His fantasy carried him perhaps a year into the future. He saw Clare toddling through Tessa’s garden—bronze ringlets bobbing, her mother in miniature. She was bringing him a camellia blossom. Edward had vanished from the face of the Earth. When Tessa’s daughter fell into Joseph’s arms, giggling, she called him not “Father” but “Papa.” Then Clare was slumbering in her crib, and he and Tessa were…
“Father?”
Joseph’s head snapped up, and he winced. His altar server was kneeling beside him, worry wrinkling his young face. Weak light seeped through the cath
edral windows and set the boy’s red hair aglow like a halo.
Joseph must have fallen asleep on the floor. His fists had loosened, but his arms were still splayed as though they were nailed to a cross. Slowly, painfully, Joseph drew them beneath him. Every muscle in his body ached, as if he were a corpse trying to come back to life. Even his voice needed thawing. “I’m sorry, Thomas. Is it time for Mass?”
“N-Nearly, Father.”
With considerable difficulty, Joseph pushed and pulled himself to his feet, which felt like blocks of ice. He could barely wiggle his toes. When his knees remembered his fall, they nearly buckled; he had to catch himself on a pew and Thomas’s shoulder. What must the boy think of him? Joseph’s face must bear the impression of the floor, and a trail of snot had crusted beneath his nostrils.
Joseph dug in his overcoat for his handkerchief. His skin was chapped and half his knuckles had cracked open. He might have lost his anointed hands to the cold.
The memory of his dream brought heat to his face. Joseph tried very hard not to dwell one more moment on what he’d imagined doing to Tessa, or what he’d imagined her doing to him. He’d been awake when the fantasy began; he had consented. And as Saint Finnian had written in his Penitential: “It is the same sin though it be in his head and not in his body…”
Joseph couldn’t celebrate Mass with mortal sins blackening his soul—sins he’d committed on the very floor of the cathedral, while lying on top of Bishop England and his sister. Joseph should run to St. Mary’s and find his confessor.
Then he heard murmuring at the back of the sanctuary. Joseph looked to see the Sansonnet sisters arriving for Mass. Bundled as they were against the cold, they noticed him immediately and began chattering. Joseph grimaced and turned away. The Sansonnets feigned piety; but they cared more about other people’s sins than their own.
Joseph did his best not to limp, though he felt like a cripple. “Is there still ice outside?” he asked Thomas in a whisper.
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