“Papa!” He wheeled across the piazza toward his parents’ open window. Within, a lamp was already lit. The thin white curtains swayed in the slight wind, shifting for just a moment so that Joseph could see inside.
The rosary dropped from his hand. The cord must have snapped: the beads clattered on the piazza, bounced over his bare feet, and careened in a dozen directions. Thoughts of the fire fled just as quickly. He was mistaken; the mosquito netting had distorted things; he couldn’t have seen?—
But heheard, too: Mama, so careful never to make sounds, was moaning.
The curtains swayed aside once more, and Joseph glimpsed itagain, the hideous tableau. His mother’s delicate, expressive hands reduced to bloodless fists, gripping vainly at whatever bound them to the bedposts. Her own stockings? Between her spread arms, her head tilted unnaturally to one side. Her beautiful face was screwed up in such pain that she had to bite down on her lip, and tears trickled from her closed eyes. Her skin was flushed with shame, and every inch of it was bare, her pink nipples rising from the tangle of her golden hair. And Papa—Joseph didn’t know what he was doing to her; he didn’t want to know—but he saw his father’s dark head moving between Mama’s white thighs.
Joseph clamped his eyes shut and stopped his ears with his palms. What kind of monster would— To a woman who could not even cry out for help in words anyone would understand! He hadbound her hands—the only way she could beg him for mercy.
The men in that drawing room had known:“Can you imagine a more perfect wife?” “You could do anything you liked to her.”
His father had said it himself: he was a hypocrite. When he’d explained with his medical books how men and women joined together, hadn’t his father insisted that thewoman’shappiness must be the man’s first priority?
When his father had lied without hesitation, practically stolen another man’s property, and bellowed at Joseph in the forest,thatmust have been the real René Lazare, not the kind man he pretended to be when everyone was watching. His father hated nuns and flaunted a sacrilegious portrait of the Virgin. How could Joseph have deceived himself for so many years that these were aberrations? The truth had been screaming at him all along.
He’d known it all his life. He’d been born eight months after his parents’ wedding.Eightmonths, not nine. How many times had his father told the story? Joseph was born early; they were worried about him because he was so small; they’d kept him close to the hearth for warmth. All that must have been an elaborate lie.
Joseph understood now: he’d been conceivedbeforehis parents married. Theyhadto marry, because his father had raped Mama and forced her to become his wife, whenshewanted to become a nun. It was Joseph’s fault. Mama was trapped with this monster forthe rest of her life because she had been expecting Joseph against her will…
A profound, urgent clanging penetrated his thoughts then: the bells of St. Michael’s, sounding the alarm. A deeper banging noise erupted somewhere much closer. Gingerly Joseph relaxed his hands till he released their seal over his ears. Between the peals of the fire bell, his father cursed and Mama whimpered. Very slowly, Joseph opened his eyes. Mercifully, the still curtains concealed the inside of his parents’ bedchamber.
In the hall, Henry’s voice boomed: “Master René, sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s our kitchen on fire.”
“The fire’s here?” his father answered. “Is it spreading?” Joseph heard him moving around in the bedroom, heard cloth rustling.
“No, sir. I think we nearly got it out now.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“My ma’s arm, some. Can you come see her?”
“Of course.” His father’s voice seemed to come from the hall now. Then Joseph heard quick, heavy steps on the staircase and soon on the lower story of the piazza.
Joseph supposed he must reappear. He must not add to Mama’s worries. He hoped his father had had the decency not to leave her bound. Joseph glanced down at the remains of his rosary, then snuck back to his window. He crawled inside his bedchamber so he could come through its door and everyone would think he’d just woken.
In the lantern-lit hall, his sisters were trying to pry details of the catastrophe from May. Mama stood beside them in her frilly white wrapper, her tears dried. When she saw him, she turned. ‘Joseph! Everything is all right.’
It was not. He’d nearly convinced himself he’d imagined the hideous tableau. But when Mama signed, her sleeves fell away from her wrists. Pink still wreathed her skin in the pattern of her bonds. She realized he’d seen the marks, blushed again, and yanked down the white frills to cover her wrists. Then her attention returned to his sisters. The fear vanished from her face. Mama did not suspect that Joseph knewwhyher wrists were pink.
As soon as his father returned, Joseph would confront him.
And then? What would that accomplish? His father would only laugh, because he knew Joseph was powerless to stop him. He was nothing but a boy. If only Grandpapa were still alive! Hemighthave been able to free Mama, but no one else could. The monster had married his victim: Mama belonged to him almost like a slave. She was his wife, so he could do anything he liked to her. The law did not protect her, and neither would the Church. She was his till one of them died.
This mockery of a marriage must, somehow, be part of God’s plan. For enduring such suffering on Earth, Mama would be spared even an hour in Purgatory.
When they all returned to bed, Joseph lay awake for a new reason, dreading what he might hear. He begged the Blessed Virgin and Mama’s patroness, Saint Anne, to watch over her.
But his father was insatiable. For the first time in his life, Joseph wished he were as deaf as his mother.
Mama was a living saint.On the stairs the next morning, she smiled at her husband and accepted his arm as if she had not cried out beneath him a few hours before.
Though Hélène knew nothing, she was still fretful. Not only was their cook injured, they no longer had a kitchen. “Are we going to starve, Papa?”
“Of course not,ma poulette.” He crouched down to her level as if he were a caring father. “First thing this morning, I asked Henry to take a message to your Aunt Véronique and Uncle François. They’ve already responded that we are welcome to join them for breakfast.”
“But…what about dinner?”
Their father only laughed.
