Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"Don't you find it a little too hot to be wearing a choke collar like that?"

I would have laughed if I hadn't been so hot from wearing this choking clerical collar when I stepped off the ferry at Daufuskie Island and into . . . what exactly? I had expected a town of some sort, not just a small collection of time-worn buildings on the wooded land running up from the public dock. There was a small marina next to the dock, but this looked more like a private home compound than the center of island life. It wasn't just the collar that chaffed; I was in a shirt and trousers rather than a cassock, but they were black. Black most certainly wasn't a color to be wearing on the South Carolina coast on a summer's day.

"It's a clerical collar. It identifies me as a priest," I answered. "You wouldn't be Frank Chisolm, would you, or know where I can find him?"

"Yes, that's me. Frank. You must be Mr. . . . Father Blackwood. The minister of my church wears a T-shirt and shorts in this weather. I figure you could do the same."

"Your minister? So you aren't Catholic?"

"We don't have any Catholics on the island, as far as I know—well, until you arrived just now—unless it be some those fancy people in the enclaves along the coast, who don't come further onto the island—just boat themselves over to Hilton Head or Savannah as they wish. Don't know what religion any of them are; we don't mix with them. This is a Gullah island and we're all Baptists here. Freewill Baptists back to the time when we were slaves."

"Well, you do have a Catholic now. A Catholic priest. And this, apparently, is Saint Mary's parish of the Charleston Diocese."

"Yes, I was told that when I was hired to meet you and help you get set up. That was news around here, I've gotta say. We had a good laugh at that. All this time we've been a Catholic parish, and we didn't know it. You could have seen me almost bend over laughing when I found out that the building our women had been using as a bingo hall is actually a Catholic church owned by the church. The ladies have been good about moving out, though. They even helped dig out the brush around it so you can get to it more easily. You've got a good line of credit to put the building to rights—and the house that goes with it."

That was the one good thing Andy had done for me. He'd set up a generous line of credit. I'd been told I'd need it too. And he'd had someone hired to help me get established here. I don't know if he realized that the man who was hired, this Frank Chisolm, was a hunk and a half. He was black, but of a mix with white. On him the mix looked good. He wasn't any older than I was, from the look of him, and muscular, but not overly developed. He was lanky and walked with grace. His hair was black and straight and came down to his shoulders when he didn't have it pulled back in a ponytail to keep it out of the way and him cooler, which he often did when he was working.

His smile was languid, sexy, his amusement contagious. The first thing he'd said to me coming off the ferry had been criticism of my dress—but he had said it in such a way that it hadn't offended me a bit. It also had signaled to me that saying the Catholic community here was inactive would be a gross understatement. My parish may not have anyone to serve but me. Of course, my sins were so numerous and deep, that I might be as much as the Lord could handle on this island.

I was surprised that our conversation was so easy as we walked up into the small group of buildings at the public dock, one of which was a combined grocery store and pharmacy, not much more than a convenience store and the other a larger souvenir shop. Frank told me that tourists coming over from Hilton Head provided most of the money that came into the island. Beyond that it was mostly subsistence farming among the Gullah community, the ancestors of the freed blacks from the Civil War who had remained in scattered communities across the Carolina coasts. The culture was no stronger anywhere than right here on Daufuskie Island, which had remained remote.

I could tell from Frank's drawl and the loose, but manly way he walked—more of a saunter—that the lifestyle of the island was laid back and slow moving. It also was easy going. It was clear from his response—the response of a Baptist, whose sect pretty much dominated the island—to a Catholic priest that he was accepting and unshockable. I wondered if he'd be shocked to know that I'd been sent here to hide away the sexual sin of a bishop. Well, to be fair, it was my sin too, and making the best of being banished to the edge of civilization here was a penance that I had decided to accept as no more than what I deserved to serve. I would be as celibate from henceforth, I had declared to myself, as the bishop no doubt believed—falsely—that he would be.

Still, that was hard to resolve as I followed the young Gullah half breed up the rise to the community buildings and watched the roll of his steel-like buns under the loose material of his shorts. He was wearing white cargo shorts and a very loose T-shirt. On his feet were skimpy rope sandals covering strong-looking feet with long, plump toes. He exuded sex, and, although I knew what he was wearing must have been cheap, I was equally sure that he could have been photographed for a yacht ad in a glossy magazine and been a sensation of style, grace, and sensuality.

"What are these?" I asked as we approached the souvenir shop building.

"Golf carts—or modified ones," Frank answered. "There are no cars on the island. We move in these. You'll want to buy one for your church and your own use. I could help you locate a used on in good condition. It isn't far from anywhere to anywhere on Daufuskie Island or any hurry to get there, so much of the transport is by foot. But transfers from elsewhere like you and the day tourists need these carts. And your luggage requires the use of one, of course."

It was only now that he seemed to notice that I was lugging two heavy suitcases. He hadn't offered to carry one or both for me. I actually had found that satisfying—that he didn't give me the impression of being subservient. In fact, if I were to guess, I would take him as a dominant—which was quite all right with me. Not that I assumed he was attracted to men, of course.

The cart ride wasn't long. The road—more like a narrow, shell-paved drive—entering the island from the public dock area was called Haig Point Road. Taking this for about a half mile to the Melrose Plantation area on the central-east shore of the island, one of eleven original plantations that covered the island at the time of the Civil War, we came to an intersection with the Avenue of the Oaks, which led into Melrose. Saint Mary's Church and rectory were located on the Avenue of the Oaks near this intersection. The landscape was almost all scrub, with scrawny pine trees. The few building in sight were weather-beaten and in an advanced stage of melting back into the scrub.

I stood, almost in disbelief, and looked at the two run-down buildings, both of weathered wood that once had been white, but no more. Both were small. The church appeared to be leaning, although Frank assured me that that was an optical illusion caused by the lack of balance of the foliage engulfing it. It hit me how hard this penance was going to be to fulfill.

Standing at my side and looking at the same buildings I was, Frank said, "You're lucky. The buildings are in better condition than most that the Gullah live in on the island. The walled vacation estates of the millionaires along the island's coast, are, of course, a stark contrast to these. But if you want any of the Gullah to be attending your church, I suggest you do little more than repair the window and door frames and put on a coat of paint. We are one with the earth here. We aren't much for putting on airs."

Somehow, this bucked me up—and even more so when he added, "Tom and I will be here tomorrow to start helping you with the repairs."

I wasn't going to have to do this alone. He added, though, "Which should we start with first? The church building or the house you will live in?"

"The church, I think," I piously said. "God's work first."

He laughed. "Maybe you shouldn't answer that until you've seen the inside of the house."

He was right. We started with the house first. Somehow it didn't matter that much. It was just a joy to have him there, working with me—in fact, doing most of the work. I could not have done it without him. I would not want to try.

The downside is that, although my determination to remain celibate in fact remained intact, any determination I might have had of not fantasizing in the moments of lying on my bed at night and drifting off to sleep of a man like Frank covering and moving inside me did not hold.