The Passion of Mary-Margaret (26 page)

It was at that table I sat, pictures of private parts with sores and lesions staring up at me, affirming the decision I made years ago to remain chaste. Who would take a chance if this might be the outcome? I simply didn't have the psychological makeup to understand it. It couldn't have simply been people are stupid. I've known smart people who can't control themselves sexually. I could only assume it filled a place I didn't possess. Lord have mercy, I wanted to throw up.

You probably think I have a problem with nausea. But here's the thing, I rarely actually regurgitate. I get that sick feeling in my stomach and so I yearn for a slice of Aunt Elfi's homemade bread and a glass of cold Coca-Cola. That always made me feel better.

The photos were glorious indeed. I wondered where Jude's chancre had been deposited on his body by whoever passed it on. Any spot was bad and all for different reasons. And the people I pictured who might have given the disease to Jude! Oh dear! For the sake of myself and all who will read this, and I may just decide to burn it after all is said and done, I'll just leave that to your imagination. Some things I'd rather not relive, thank you very much.

I realized I'd have to find a way to put his past behind him entirely, and I hoped and I prayed he'd do the same. If he kept bringing it up, over and over again, after I've said it's all gone as far as I'm concerned, it was going to be a very sad state of affairs indeed.

If I could convince him to marry me at all.

Marry me?

Seeing me at all would be a good first start.

I kept on reading. Yes, he was obviously in the secondary stage. Rash all over his torso, the soles of his hands and feet, and there could be another kind of rash, a grayish, raised area around the delicate parts. And oh my! This was too much!

Jesus!
My heart cried out.
Please tell me this is too much! Do you hear
me sitting here at the library? Do you smell this musty journal? Do you see these
pictures? Can you possibly understand how I feel right now?

Other symptoms of secondary syphilis include sore throat, swollen joints, fever, aching muscles, and hair loss. Other than the hair loss, is it any wonder he thought he had some sort of flu? LaBella, being the conscientious mother she is, went to a medical book for kids and saw strep right away. I remember having it myself once when I was six, that little pinprickly rash all over my chest and belly and, oh, my poor throat, barely able to swallow anything but cracked ice and cold soda. I sat on either Grandmom's or Aunt Elfi's lap for three days. It wouldn't be hard to guess who it was that let me have as much soda as I wanted.

The next morning would tell me whether or not he wanted me to come out. I knew Jude. He was smart. He would have read up, at least a little, on what was going on. And he would have seen that the symptoms come and go and then bury into latency in some people. Maybe he was waiting until it seemed like he was better. I decided I'd give him that out.

Each day for the next two weeks, standing on Bethlehem Point, the summer warming up but good, I raised my binoculars at least three times a day. But no sheet waved over the railing of the lighthouse.

Mr. Bray taught me how to sew some simple garments. A straight skirt with a zipper, some easy, belted dresses for day wear. I asked Mrs. Bray if she'd pick out the fabric. She chose soft floral patterns, and silky, feminine greens and yellows and pinks. For my birthday, they bought me a pair of buff-colored pumps with a bit of a heel. Very pretty shoes.

I figured by the time Hattie hung the sheet, I might even have an entire wardrobe ready for married life.

What to do about a wedding gown was yet another matter. That could wait until the future looked a bit less foggy.

Jesus, if Jude doesn't fall in line with your plan, does that mean I failed?

He didn't answer. I didn't think he would. A part of me wanted Jude to be obstinately opposed to a life with me—a large part, in fact. But I couldn't pray for it. That would have been like praying for a Mercedes when you know children are starving not only in Africa or China or where have you, but in your own hometown.

I tried to remember all of Jude's sterling qualities during those days of waiting. He was honest, handsome, hardworking (yes, that takes on a different slant depending on the line of work, but he worked the crab boat for years), loyal (in an odd way), and consistent. Certainly I could have forced the issue and had Mr. Cinquefoil take me back out to the lighthouse, but it wasn't as if I wanted to hasten the whole affair. If we needed a white sheet to proceed, by golly, a white sheet would have to be hung! The surrender aspect to it seemed like a tidy metaphor as well.

I had as much time as it would take, and as far as I was concerned, the longer the better.

The Brays procured me the job at the Consolidated School for Negro Children. I'd be teaching English to all the grades and art to the seventh and eight graders. The salary come September would be pitifully small. However, Regina Bray's cousin offered to let me, and someday Jude, stay in the apartment above the tackle shop rent free, utility free, and I doubted we'd need a phone, so that bill wouldn't need to be paid.

What if Jude didn't want to live on the island?

Well, of course, that might have been a possibility, but I'd wait and see how the path before us unrolled. It could be straightforward, or maybe crook off to the side and take us someplace else. But until Jesus gave me word otherwise, I'd stay close to the lighthouse, close to home.

I did ask Jesus to tell my mother I was sorry not to have fulfilled her dream for her. He said not to worry; Mary Margaret the First was just fine with his plans for me.

Finally, in mid-July, while I was helping with the yearly carnival at St. Francis, not to mention
planning my curriculum for the next year, the white sheet flapped in the swift air of a briskly windy day. Whitecaps danced on the waters of the bay, and I decided Jesus wouldn't mind if I waited until the waters settled down.

“I don't,” he whispered, leading me to believe he was looking for steadfast obedience, not utter recklessness. A comfort, to be sure. It's the difference between ministering in a war zone and walking down the middle of the street during sniper fire. There is a place where faith and prudence can meet even in danger zones.

I spent that day sitting at the point, reading books on art history from the library. Oh, we'd do fun projects, but these children wouldn't escape without a working vocabulary of artists, schools, movements, and techniques. We'd start back with the Egyptians and the Phoenicians. A project with hieroglyphics would be a big hit. They could write their names on parchment to mimic papyrus.

Of course, I could do a long unit on African art. We could make masks and bowls, baskets, and try our hands at textiles.

Oh dear! It would cost so much money. I needed to keep praying.

“Yes, T—, you do.”

I looked beside me where I sat out on the point. “You came!”

“It's been a little while.”

“I've missed seeing you.”

“The time is coming soon for you to woo Jude. Have you thought of how to do it, my dear?” He stared out over the waters toward the light.

“I have no idea.” I sighed so deeply I know it went straight into his heart. “I don't have any experience in this sort of thing.”

“Which is perfect. Jude doesn't want experience, do you think?”

“No.” That made me feel a little better. “Can I tell him about you, us?”

“No, my dear.”

“But how am I going to convince him to marry me without letting him know this is your idea?”

Jesus threw back his head and laughed, long and full and with great gusto. I looked around me. Surely the whole island could hear. “Oh, T—. That's the last thing in the world that would convince Jude.”

“True.” I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. He placed his hand over mine.

“Lord, what's Jude's name in heaven?”

“Well, normally that's for him and me to know, but you've been trustworthy so far with the secret things, so I'll tell you. His name in heaven is Jude too.”

“My goodness!”

“Yes. Sometimes people get it right. Isn't that interesting?”

I nodded.

We sat while the sun set, looking out over the water, the light swinging around like it always did.

“I love lighthouses,” he said.

“Me too.”

MY GOODNESS ME, TIME HAS ONCE AGAIN ROLLED ALONG and here I am with this notebook again. It was a busy winter. Hattie passed away on Valentine's Day. We buried her over by the Presbyterian Church. After everyone had left, Gerald and I stood together by the grave and held hands, saying little. Just sighing. Sigh after sigh. Until the sun set and the light revolved from the lantern of Bethlehem Point Light.

“Look how it whisks across her tombstone, Gerald.”

“That's nice.”

Finally, after the chill of the dark began to settle deep into my bones, or so it felt, his voice bled through the intermittent darkness. “I guess I could just give up, but truth is, MM, I've been without her a good while now.”

“Yes, you have.”

“And I survived.”

“You did.”

“And I hate that assisted-living place. All those old people around all the time. It's downright beginning to bug me.”

“We'll spring you out of that place tomorrow and find you somewhere to live.”

“Good. The sooner the better.” He knelt down. “Well, Hattie, my sweet, I'll see you tomorrow.” He swiveled his spine and neck to face me. “Lucky for me, Abbeyville's a little town.”

He kissed his fingertips and patted her grave.

Oh, Hattie.

The next day during a morning walk with Blanca—we both decided we needed to start walking after New Year's—at the marina where people keep their sailboats and motorboats, I noticed a sailboat for sale. Thirty-five footer, rather new.

“Gerald!” I rushed into his room. “How would you like to live on the water again?”

By the end of the month, that's just what he was doing.