CHAPTER 11
Unless you expect the unexpected, you will never find truth…
— Heraclitus (500 B.C.)
Joseph ran to church before the rest of his family woke. Thank God it was Saturday, so Father McEncroe was expecting Confessions. Joseph waited on his knees, praying and sweating, till at last the Priest entered the confessional.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Joseph pleaded. “I mean, I think I have sinned. It can’t have been pleasing to God. I didn’tlikeit; I thought I was dying and?—”
“Slow down, son.” Father McEncroe stifled a yawn. “Take a deep breath.Thentell me what happened.”
“I was asleep, but it woke me up. It felt like I had wet the bed. But I’m too old for that; I’m thirteen! When I looked, it was thicker, and whitish…” Joseph lapsed into humiliated silence.
Father McEncroe released a breath that sounded like a chuckle. “You’re growing up, son; that’s all. You haven’t committed a sin.”
“But—isn’t that what happens when…” Priests didknowabout that, didn’t they, even if?—
“You saidyou were asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Then you couldn’t give your consent. If there’s no volition, there’s no sin. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Nocturnal pollutions are beyond our control. We can guard our waking thoughts, but we can’t guard our dreams. Now, did you abuse yourself in any way last night?”
Joseph caught his breath. He knewthatwas a mortal sin. “No, Father.”
“When you woke, were you touching yourself then?”
“I—I don’t think so.” The thought was horrible: his hand wandering on its own, violating him against his will.
“Calm down, son. You have your own rosary?”
“Yes.”
“Try wrapping it around your hand before you go to sleep, with the crucifix in your palm. That should help. Do you say your prayers every night?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. Now you have something else to pray for, that you will be spared this. But I must warn you: it will probably happen again. It’s the nature of our flesh. It is weak.”
Joseph frowned. “W-What did you call it?”
“A ‘nocturnal pollution.’ As I said, I don’t need to absolve you. But I’ll bless you—how’s that?”
“Thank you, Father,” Joseph murmured. He didn’t want to be polluted. He wanted to be pure like his patron saint.
After that,Joseph did go to bed with a rosary wrapped around his hand. Hour after hour, he would lie awake in the dark, his weariness battling with his fear. His flesh might rebel as soon as he lost consciousness. He could never be a Priest if he couldn’t master his own body. He longed for the distraction of a hair shirt. His cotton night-shirt and drawers were far too comfortable. The more Joseph tried to concentrate on his prayers, the more his thoughts would stray—the more his body would respond. So he would imagine theconsequences of surrendering to impurity: the bottomless lake of fire.
This was not difficult to do as summer stalked Charleston. But in Hell, there would be no winter—no end to the heat, the agony, the gnashing of teeth. Hell would go on and on andon, forever andever—and he could earn that eternity of torment with a singlemomentof weakness.
One hot night,as he lay counting his beads, a strange odor drifted into the room. Joseph frowned. It smelled like…smoke. As if his fantasy of Hell were coming to terrifying life. He sat up, eyes wide. It could be another slave uprising. Negroes were setting fire to the city!
Joseph threw aside his mosquito netting, sprang to the floor, and peered out his window. The acrid smell of smoke grew stronger on the breeze. From his bedchamber, he could see only the upper piazza, and beyond it, the dark wall of Grandmama’s house. At least she was safe: away in the mountains, taking the waters for her health.
Still carrying his rosary and still barefoot, Joseph tucked himself through his open window. He climbed onto the piazza and hurried to the back end. There, he could peer down into the work yard. It wastheir kitchen on fire!
