The Passion of Mary-Margaret (41 page)

“It is. Do you know what happened to her after that? Jude kept mum as you might expect.”

I inhaled deeply. “She came back to the island pregnant, but I don't know how far along she was. Grandmom took care of her and when she had me, she hemorrhaged and bled to death right there in the bedroom. My grandmother raised me, but she died when I was seven and I went to live with the sisters at St. Mary's.”

“John did tell me about that when I started as his spiritual companion. I asked him about his maternal grandfather and he said both of those grandparents were dead.”

“As far as he knew, that was his truth. I just thought it was easier that way. Too much mystery . . .” I laid my hand atop the one he'd curled over the top of the pew. “I didn't know what else to say. And I could have been right. I just didn't know.”

“Did your grandmother give you any idea what happened?”

“I don't think she really knew. She had her ideas. My mother had lied so much to her, as you might imagine.”

“Were they even close to the truth? At least about me?”

“All I really knew about you was that you were a seminarian. She told me my mother was about to say her final vows.”

“Oh my,” he said.

“She said you raped her.”

Though it was dim, I watched as the color drained from his face.

I reached out and held him as the words sank into both of us, at the massive injustice the lie had done to both of us. He was a good man, he'd have been a good father, and here we sat, seven decades later.

“But here you sit, T—.” Jesus sat down on the bench in front of us.

I hugged my father. “We have a lot to make up for and we're both old.”

He
kissed me on the forehead and wiped away my tears, then his own.

Who was Mary Margaret the First? I believe that is the saddest part of this tale. My grandmother didn't know her and neither did Aunt Elfi. Perhaps I'll find out someday. And yet, maybe it's time to put the dear soul to rest, someone who'd beg for money, lie to those who loved her, and yet, who gave me life and sacrificed her own in the process.

Yes, rest in peace, Mary Margaret.

And rest in peace, Mary-Margaret, you have found your father and have borne a son, and have grown old with your sisters.

Rest in peace.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M COMING TO THE END OF MY TALE AND I think it's only fair I tell you how Jude left us.

In the end, he gave his life for someone like all of us, someone unfaithful and completely undeserving of a sacrifice like that. I suppose, for the faithful follower of Christ, it comes down to that eventually—if not literally, than in some other way. Perhaps we're called to serve a belligerent, selfish spouse, or tend to ungrateful children or parents. Perhaps we serve in a church or parish that expects too much and what we do is immediately criticized. Perhaps our boss gets all the credit for our hard work. I don't know. But as a wise friend of mine, an Orthodox nun, once said, “Dedicated Christian life can be summed up like this: ‘Get on that cross and hold still.'”

Not exactly bumper sticker material, that!

But true?

If we heed Saint Paul's words that we are crucified with Christ, then indeed, I'd say my friend is right.

The night Jude died, the off-season was in full swing. Early December in Ocean City would be categorized as bleak by the beachgoer, but for us, it was a time of reflection, building, and renewal. We worked on kites for the coming season and by that time we'd built a studio for me in the backyard. I didn't have the space or the materials for my larger sculptures, and Morpheus there in Georgia was cornering the market for intriguing bent wood designs. So I began sculpting with clay and I found charcoal a most satisfying substance to manipulate on the paper I began making myself—crude-edged, chunky paper at least an eighth of an inch thick.

St. Francis's on Locust Island needed new Stations of the Cross, so I made bronze reliefs that I ended up selling copies of to several churches. The years were kind for me and my work. Still no recognition or gallery showings, but Jesus sat with me quite a bit in my little shed and told me how much he liked what I was doing.

Jude took care of the kite shop on his own except from Memorial Day to Labor Day when I joined him there on the Boardwalk. We anchored kites to deep stakes we drove into the sand, some of them dipping and diving, others just soaring, scanning the horizon of the Atlantic. To some he attached twirling whirligigs; others made flapping sounds and whistles and screeches.

We didn't realize how many kite enthusiasts flocked to the beach, and Jude found himself taking special orders that he'd mostly work on through the off-months. Oh, the shop was adorable there in a little frame house from 1902. We painted the shingle siding the blue of the sky and the trim, the porch spindles, and supports a lime green. I painted a new sign every year and after about five years it became a tradition for people to walk the boards, stop in front of our store, and see what that year's sign looked like. Some were pretty, with birds and flowers, or fish and butterflies. We did Olympic themes and the Bicentennial year's sign reminded me of something on
Schoolhouse
Rock!
My favorite sign sported a peacock and an owl, birds representing Jude and myself, I suppose. Although I don't view the owl as wisdom, more as something with an ancient outlook.

John continued excelling in science and math, winning state competitions in chemistry and physics during high school. He wasn't popular, as he didn't have an athletic bone in his body, but he was so friendly and laid-back, nobody gave him much trouble. He learned early on that being unflappable was the best way to coast under the radar and get done what he needed. He's been successful at his mission because of this very trait. The day he realized he could be a physician
and
a priest, when he was in seminary, he called me. His voice was infused with relief. “I mean, I knew I wanted to be a priest, Mom, but there was more to it and I just couldn't figure out the other piece. But I met this Jesuit named Father Ignatius today.” And he rattled on from there.

John finished his undergraduate degree in two years, utilizing CLEP tests and every summer and micro session. And, well, sisters, you're basically caught up on John, so I won't say any more about that here.

The last summer, though we didn't know it was the last, Jude finally allowed me to do a lighthouse theme for our sign. He finally got over his aversion to them and I told him I'd do the typical conical variety, not the screwpile type that still stands out on Bethlehem Point.

John was in his second year of seminary when it happened. I was fifty-six and Jude fifty-eight. The life of St. Mary's felt so far behind me, except for Angie, who'd join us for her vacations, regaling us with tales of her exciting life all over the world. She never made me feel bad either. Having once been married, sexually active, and, well, Angie's celibacy came hard, she said more than once, “I may have all these battle scars, Mary, but you sleep regularly with the best-looking guy in the state. Let's just be honest.”

And I'd laugh.

You see, I did come to love Jude with that sweet married couple love, and I was blessed not to take him for granted. Sure, he began as a study in holy obedience, but it all turned into something sweet and satisfying. Sort of like a warm donut fresh from the fryer compared to chocolate mousse.

We had tough times like all couples do, life wasn't perfect. Jude never lost his rough edge and I could get “a little nunnish” as he called it. But we could iron out the wrinkles as they emerged. My goodness, I never knew how marriage could unleash a redheaded woman's temper at times! Jude thought it was hilarious, and that made me even more angry.

The night Jude left, December 12, was quite mild. We'd just come back from a thirty-day spiritual retreat, and it was one of those sorts of days in December along the coast where the wind blows a little warm and the sun shines quite golden in response, it seems. That day was no different. We decided to walk across Ocean Highway and into town to get a beer at one of the few open bars that time of year. The Dutch Mill. Right on the Boardwalk.

Now, it sounds awfully friendly and Jude worked his way around the rougher element quite well, not surprisingly, but The Dutch Mill should have been called “The Bike Lane.” The people there all knew him from the mission and they respected him. No one could pull the wool over Jude's eyes and they liked him for it. The bar was filled with locals mostly, bikers—some of whom had been on our deck at times for crabs or ribs (Jude had become fond of grilling ribs)—and some of the working girls who were tying one on to get through the night pounding the sidewalks in their six-inch heels. At least it wasn't going to be quite so cold that night.

Two strangers walked in, dressed in suits and ties, but the fine clothing seemed more like costumage than daily garb. Their attitudes were more suited to glitzy, low-cut shirts and tight pants.

Nevertheless, they didn't bother anybody, ordering beers and smoking cigarettes at the bar.

Jude nursed his drink, as did I, and we chatted with a biker couple named Janet and Ron as my husband smoked cigarette after cigarette. He never could break that habit. Honestly, he never really tried.

“After what I did, this is the least of my worries,” he always said.

I nagged him about it a little after John was born, but Jesus sat beside me one evening and said, “Let it be, T—. It's not going to matter in the long run.”

I didn't realize then, of course, that Jude wouldn't live long enough to develop lung cancer or emphysema. Still, I was glad for the heads-up. It saved us a lot of arguing.

It was important, all through those twenty-seven years, that I be on Jude's side. I can't say it any more simply than that.

So we sat there chatting with our rough-around-the-edges friends, laughing at their crazy stories from the seventies, when one of the working girls got up, stumbled a little as she walked toward the door, teetering into one of the strangers, a guy named Ted.

He turned and grabbed her arm. He'd thrown back at least four beers with a couple of shots. Don't ask me why, it must be the morality meter inside of me, but I count people's drinks. Anybody within eyeshot is going to get a tally in my brain. Isn't that ridiculous? It does wonders for the short-term memory, however.

She cried out. Her name was Barb. I liked her. Had been in Ocean City for about seven years. Runaway. Typical story other than the fact that she was headed for valedictorian and could do long division, and I mean looooooong division, in her head.

Of course, Jude sprang to his feet to try and defuse the situation, and Ted's friend, a man named Dale, did as well. What we didn't know then was that Ted had recently returned from the men's room after taking a hit of PCP.

He reached into his boot and pulled out a knife. He drove it right into Jude's chest and, quicker than you can blink, yanked it out and lodged it into the side of my husband's neck.

Jude went down and Ted scrambled out of the bar.

I saw it all. God help me, I wish I hadn't. The shock in his eyes, the dawning, but not fear. Actually, thinking about it, he looked a little ticked off at first. I don't wish to describe the noises from him and the blood. It's still too much to bear and so you must grant me a little grace in the telling of this.

There we all were, the people who he'd helped at the mission, jumping from our seats and rushing over as he crumbled.

I didn't scream or cry. I just reached under his shoulders as the bartender called the police (and more people quickly left). Even as I held him that day years before on the bay as we sat on the hood of Mrs. Bray's old station wagon and he cried and wailed as life returned to him like blood into a sleeping appendage, I held him as that same life seeped out. He couldn't speak, he just reached for my hand and looked into my eyes. I curved my other hand around his cheek. “Hang on, Jude. It won't be long before the paramedics are here.”

He smiled, one corner of his mouth barely lifting. He mouthed the words, “Thank you.” And then it was done.

It was done.

He'd lost too much blood. The paramedics couldn't save him. I stayed with his body as long as I could, slept little that night, waiting up for John, who came home right away. Together we paced in the coroner's office as the autopsy was done the next day, and rode back to Locust Island, following the hearse that transported Jude's body to the only funeral home in Abbeyville. John and I wept and laughed during the two-hour drive, remembering husband and father. I felt a little saddened by the fact that John didn't know just what a transformation had occurred, how God can work so thoroughly, binding a human life to his Own and saying, “It is good.”