PROLOGUE
Charleston, South Carolina
September 1822
The characteristics of a saint are: deep humility, blind obedience, dove-like simplicity and a complete detachment from things of Earth. These virtues, however, are not incompatible in living saints with some defects and lingering imperfections.
— Bishop William Stang,Pastoral Theology(1897)
Joseph knew he was committing a terrible, terrible sin, but he could only draw closer. He’d been alive ten whole years, and he’d never seen anything so beautiful. It occupied the very center of the painting. Soft and round, smooth andcrowned—there, between the lips of the Christ Child, unmistakable: the perfect pink nipple of the Mother of God.
Joseph should be imitating his patron saint, who stood at the edge of the canvas. White-haired and lumpy-faced, Mary’s husband seemed oblivious to his wife and Son, peering at a book through the spectacles on his nose. Much as Joseph himself liked to read, he could not imagine concentrating on lifeless pages in such company.
Draped in rich robes and her own golden hair, the Blessed Virgin gazed down serenely at her divine Son. The Christ Child’s arms encircled Mary’s right breast possessively, His green eyes pointing out of the painting as if He sensed Joseph’s unholy stare.
“Joseph!”
He jumped and closed his eyes. Only then did he realize his mouth was open too.
His sister Cathy continued behind him, from the threshold: “Haven’t you found it yet?”
Joseph turned quickly, to distract her from the painting. He’d completely forgotten why he’d come into Papa’s office. Mama, Cathy, and Hélène were knitting something for the children at the Orphan House, only their scissors had broken. Joseph had been seated nearby at the piano-forte, and he’d offered to fetch another pair from Papa’s office.
Huffing with impatience, Cathy strode to his desk. Joseph tried the drawers of Papa’s medical cabinet and found scissors. On their way out of the office, he and Cathy passed the painting of headless Saint Denis, the one their father had had for years. Joseph had never seen the portrait of the Holy Family before. Papa must have brought it back from Paris.
In the parlor, Mama signed her thanks for the scissors by touching her fingertips to her mouth and then gesturing toward Joseph. She would not be smiling if she knew why he had lingered in Papa’s office. Mama snipped whatever needed snipping, then returned her attention to her work.
Joseph sat down again at the piano, but as he stared at the pages in front of him, the notes became fuzzy. He dropped his eyes to the keys, but all he could see was that breast, that nipple. Were all women so beautiful?
Were all boys as wicked as he was?
Joseph closed his eyes tightly, and still the vision lingered. He tried desperately to pray, but the words would not come.
Fortunately, before too long Papa returned from visiting patients. Hélène ran to show him the mess of wool she claimed would soon be a mitten. Papa praised it and kissed the top of her head.
Joseph ventured: “Papa?”
“Yes, son?” he answered as Hélène scampered back to Mama.
“May I go to church before supper?”
“Is the choir practicing today?” Papa sounded confused, though Joseph didn’t see his expression because he couldn’t meet his eyes.
“No, sir.”
“Joseph? What’s troubling you, son?”
His sisters stopped chattering to each other, and Joseph felt their stares. Mama must be watching too.
Papa moved a chair next to the piano stool and sat facing Joseph. When Papa spoke, he sounded very grave. “You want to go to Confession, don’t you?”
Joseph nodded miserably. He’d committed a mortal sin. His soul was in peril. What if the negroes tried to rebel again and weren’t caught as Denmark Vesey had been? What if they killed Joseph in his sleep tonight? He would go straight to Hell. He deserved it.
“Whatever it is you think you’ve done, Joseph, you know you can talk tomeabout it?”
Again he nodded. But his earthly father couldn’t grant him Absolution, couldn’t make his soul clean again.
“You do realize that most people confess only once a year?”
