The Passion of Mary-Margaret (32 page)

“It's over,” I told him.

He sighed, his breath mingling with wind and winging out over the water latticed with moonlight. I laid my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Jude.”

He pulled me close, cradling my head against his chest, rubbing my cheek with his hand. “And for the life of me, I can't believe it, or figure out why. But I'd be a fool not to grab hold of it with both hands.”

“You've always been good at that.”

“Yeah, yeah I have.”

For the sake of Jude's privacy and out of respect for the dead, I'll just leave the details of Jude's life on The Block up to your imagination. I suppose what you dream up will depend upon your own past experiences, but suffice it to say, you probably haven't a clue unless you walked in the type of shoes Jude walked in. But please don't judge him. He was beautiful to me.

Surprisingly, there was an element on the island that thought Jude was crazy for marrying
me
! It's easy to suppose the pure virginal person is half-cocked for marrying the boy who squandered himself, body and soul, on strangers. Indeed. What woman in her right mind marries a former male prostitute drug addict? The drug addict, well, that's not quite so sensational. But certainly, there's something beyond the pale about the prostitution aspect. As well, there are some who would look down on Jude for his past, even though they did the same thing for all practical purposes. They just didn't get paid for it. For the life of me, I can't understand that sort of splitting of hairs. At least with Jude there was no pretense the liaisons were anything less than transactional and any less devoid of meaning.

However, a couple of Jude's wilder buddies from high school days were more than happy to fill him in on the fact they thought his “marrying a nun” (even though he wasn't) was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard. I knew Jude wanted to punch their lights out.

“Well, at least you're getting a redhead!” one friend called after us about a week before our wedding. “I hear they're wild in the sack.”

Jude just raised a hand as we walked on. That was a tame comment compared to most. But then he turned on his heel and headed over to his old friend from high school, a guy named Ben Cropper.

“Ben, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“You bet. This'll be good.” Everybody laughed.

They walked down to the corner and I stood near the bar where the group gathered. No use pretending to be otherwise engaged, I just planted my feet and watched the conversation I couldn't hear. Some of the women, dressed in tight shirts and skirts, stared at me, and I tried to smile, but I knew they didn't trust me. I couldn't blame them one bit as I stood there in a skirt covered with old roses and a pink blouse, an “almost nun” to boot. There's something so otherworldly about the Church, something that causes outsiders to distrust us. And when you are devout, well, so much more of which to be suspicious. It's a little creepy to the uninitiated.

The conversation seemed civil enough, little body movement until Ben ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

I heard his words. “Aw, man, Jude.”

They shook hands a minute later and Jude joined me. He threaded my arm through his and we continued down the street.

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him the truth. I told him I have syphilis and you're marrying me so you can take care of me as I die.”

“Why did you tell him that?”

“Because that's what you're signing up for. People should know. You deserve that, Mary-Margaret.”

“But your privacy! Jude, they didn't have to become aware of this.”

“It doesn't matter. I'll be gone soon enough.”

“That's not what I want to hear.”

He kissed the top of my head and we walked toward the dock, and the tackle shop, and my apartment that was soon to be his.

The next day, Sunday, he showed up at my door fifteen minutes before Mass over at St. Francis's. He wore a suit and tie and stood there looking over my shoulder as I said, “You're going to church with me?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course. I was just gathering my scarf and purse.

Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”

“No thanks.”

Discomfort seemed to mill like ants between his skin and his clothing. I whisked a pink headscarf off the counter and grabbed my purse. Regina Bray had made me a pink dress for church and with a pink cardigan, buff pumps, and purse, I felt like I looked quite smart, but not having any fashion sense, I have no idea whether I ended up looking smart or like Ethel Merman in an Audrey Hepburn getup. I didn't have many new clothes, but she made sure everything worked together.

“Ready?”

“You look pretty, Mary-Margaret. Pretty and fresh-looking.”

“Thank you. I'm still a little shocked to see you.”

“There's still a lot you don't know about me. It's not all bad.”

He took my hand as we walked up the street toward the church. The aromas of bacon and coffee settled around us and I thought of the breakfast I'd
make after we returned to the apartment.

We sat through the liturgy of the Word, listened to Father Thomas's homily, after which began the liturgy of the Eucharist. Jude knew the Creed, the Gloria, when to sit, stand, kneel. Everything. And when it came time to file to the front to receive Communion, he followed me. He crossed his hands over his chest, bowed his head, and received a blessing from Father Thomas, the same words the priest said to me all those years ago when his eyes turned into the eyes of Christ. He laid his hand on his head. “May almighty God bless you with all the gifts of the Holy Spirit.” He removed his hand.

Jude said, “Amen,” then followed me back to our seats.

I just looked skyward and said to Jesus,
You've got some explaining
to do, my Friend.

I honestly never pictured that day in my mind. As a little girl, I didn't dream of my wedding, plan a menu, figure out who, at that time, would be my maid of honor and who would be my bridesmaids. I didn't have but one baby doll so I never dressed a doll up in bride clothes. Mint green, soft pink, or sky blue bridesmaids' dresses? Who cared? In fact, I'd only been to one wedding in my life and that was Angie's. It was a beaut! She was such a snappy, sassy, and cute bride.

We figured the least fanfare the better in regard to the actual ceremony. Some of the best things happen quietly. Johnson Bray made my dress, a tea-length silk satin with rosettes scattered on the skirt. The simple bodice was covered by a short jacket with three-quarter sleeves. I wore my grandmother's mantilla, the webbing of the lace almost snapping beneath the pressure of my fingers. Regina Bray curled my hair and applied makeup, something I wasn't used to doing myself.

“You look lovely, Mary-Margaret,” she said, turning me to face the mirror over her bedroom bureau.

I did. Fancy? No. But a little shinier than usual? Yes.

Angie entered the room wearing Regina's yellow chiffon dress and carrying a bouquet of yellow roses. “You look beautiful!”

“Really?”

Do you see? I'd never really been told that by anybody other than Jude. And honestly, at the time I thought, what did he know? He was just trying to sleep with me.

I looked at myself in the mirror, really looked at myself, and I realized I looked nothing like my mother. The hair was most likely the raping seminarian's, but I always liked it.

“Really. You ready? Your groom is waiting.”

Mrs. Bray smiled and handed me my bouquet, a full, sidearm bouquet of calla lilies.

No. I never saw that day coming. I pushed each sadness aside. I'd only have one wedding day whether I wanted it or not!

With the amount of Divine maneuvering this took, I knew I wouldn't go through it again after the syphilis took Jude.

“Can I just spend a few minutes alone?” I asked the ladies, and they understood, filing down the steps for a quick cup of coffee before the ceremony.

I sat on the edge of the bed picturing him there with me and I felt certain the sweetness of his breath whispered upon my cheek as I finally arose and walked toward what was probably one of the strangest marriages ever arranged.

“Only you, Jesus.”

I placed my hand on the doorknob and slowly separated the door from its frame. My future wasn't secure. I was joining myself to this man, but I had no idea what was going to happen after I did. And how was I going to convince him to sleep with me?

First things first. Marry the man, Mary-Margaret. I could hear the words in my grandmother's voice and I couldn't help it—I laughed out loud.

God help me
, I prayed. So this is what cold feet feel like.

Perhaps it wasn't too late to run back into the arms of Sister Thaddeus.

But would I really have run? It's a question I can only guess at, and thankfully, I don't feel the need to figure that out all these years later.

Oh dear. I put this thing down again. I'll get back to the wedding, but I have to tell you about my first day in Swaziland.

Fr. John Keller, my son, is forty-one years old now, a fact that astonishes me. He doesn't look much like me, other than the pale complexion and the red hair, and John's isn't the color of carrots my father's and mine was, but darker and richer like rust in the rain. His red hair is now going a little white at the temples and, unfortunately, he has my grandmother's propensity to gain weight around the middle even on rice and beans.

He did inherit his father's eyes and nose, so when the sun catches him from the side and he smiles, the corners of his eyes pushed up by his cheeks, I see his father in him. And then there's the beard. A great red beard!

When he came toward me in the Johannesburg airport, I was a little surprised to see him in surgical scrubs. It's not like the Jesuits wear a habit or such, but I don't know, you expect to at least see the priestly collar and a black shirt.

“Mom!” he rushed toward me, face lit up like a blowtorch.