Joseph could not take his eyes from the hot blood spilling down his wrist and soaking into his sleeve. He felt as if he was watching his vocation drain away, drop by drop—every hour of his life this last decade utterly gone, utterly wasted because of his carelessness. Tears began welling too.
“Joseph.” His father was kneeling with him, his hands on Joseph’s shoulders. “Look at me, son. You’re going to be fine.”
Still Joseph stared at the gash in his hand. Breath wouldn’t come, no matter how hard he fought for it. Why was he even fighting? He was nothing now. He could never be a Priest. He might as well have slit his wrist.
“It isn’t as serious as it looks. You’re not going to lose your hand.”
He couldn’t promise that!
“Signing will be awkward for a while, that is all—and you may have some trouble buttoning your trousers.” His father was actuallychuckling! He took his medical satchel from Henry. “Do you want laudanum for the pain?”
“You don’t understand! A Priest can’t have damaged hands!”
His father paused in his rummaging. How could he be so damned calm? As if they had all the time in the world, his eyes locked with Joseph’s. “Are you telling me that if I do a poor job on these sutures, I can prevent you from becoming a Priest?”
Now Joseph’s heart stopped.Dear God…If there’d been even a chance this could heal?—
His father sighed, then bent over Joseph’s hand. “I wouldn’t do that to you, son. This is your decision, not mine. I can’t be a bad doctor any more than you could be a bad Priest.”
Joseph closed his eyes in relief and thanksgiving. He felt his father probing the wound, and he tried not to flinch. Before he opened his eyes again, he murmured, “You think I’ll be a good Priest?”
His father did not look up from his work. “You will be anexcellentPriest, as soon as life teaches you a few things.” He pierced Joseph’s flesh with a needle. “You would also have been an excellent botanist—and an excellent husband and father…”
Joseph averted his eyes. “Cathy has already given you grandchildren. They just don’t carry your name.”
“I don’t care if you give me grandchildren, Joseph. I do care about your happiness.”
“Iamhappy—I will be.”
“Are you absolutely certain, son?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Yes.”
“I shouldn’t have insulted you. I’m sorry, Joseph.” After another few minutes, his father sat back to admire his work. “I doubt you’ll even have a scar.”
Joseph stared down at his hand, wrapped in its clean white bandage. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Alea iacta est,” his father muttered.
Joseph protected his sutured handas if it were made of porcelain. He could scarcely sleep for fear he would roll on it. He visited his father’s office each morning so that he could change the bandage and inspect the wound. The cut continued to heal with no signs of inflammation, but every day Joseph peered at his palm with trepidation. The new flesh was smooth and shockingly pink. Had he thought the skin would grow back dark like his Haitian grandmother’s?
On one of these visits, his father picked up the new bandage only to set it down again. He sat on the edge of his desk, facing Joseph. “This little omen hasn’t changed your mind?”
“Of course not.” Joseph kept his eyes on his wound. “I intend to resume gardening as soon as possible.”
His father gave a dry chuckle. “In a flower bed or in the ‘vineyard of the Lord’?”
“Both.”
He was sober again. “Then while I have your attention, son, there is something I must say.”
Somethingelse, he meant. Joseph contemplated finding another doctor.
“I imagine part of your seminary training involved your responsibilities as a confessor and counselor?”
“Yes.” He would say as little as possible, Joseph decided, so that this lecture might end sooner.
“I implore you, son: do not judge your parishioners either rashly or harshly.”
