observed that the world of the mid-nineteenth century had a lust for illumination, and that whales could not possibly supply all the oil required. He therefore began to procure and sell kerosene and also invest in the illuminating gas companies that were then getting started throughout Europe. By 1870 Paris was being called the City of Light, a good deal of which light was being produced by Georges de Berville et Fils. Georges bought a large stone mansion in the most elegant district of Metz. The little house at Pony was sold and replaced by a substantial chateau, Bois Fleury, at nearby Gravelotte.
The children prospered as well. Alphonse, despite his youth, was if anything more canny than his father, as well as owning a charm that his elder could not match. He had been given responsibility for negotiation with the suppliers of petroleum. In 1869 he traveled across the Atlantic to America, where he soon became conversant with American ways of business, and met many of the leading figures of American industry, including the young John D. Rockefeller, who took an instant liking to the French youth, going so far as to bring him into his family circle, a rare honor.
Meanwhile, Jean-Pierre had entered St. Cyr. He had always loved horses and excitement and desired a career in the army. As for Gerard, the youngest boy, he had received a call to serve the Church during his education at St. Arnulf’s, and was by the year in question living at the seminary in Montigny. Thus only Marie-Ange was left at home to care for her father, although she was a day student at the convent of the Sisters of Providence, located just down the Rue Richelieu from her family’s elegant home. We know from her school records that she was a student of no great distinction, except in languages, where she excelled. At this time she was near fluent in both English and Italian; German she had, of course, spoken from childhood, along with most of the citizens of Metz. What sort of girl was she then? In answer, we have from this period some letters written by Marie-Ange to her mother’s sister, her beloved Aunt Aurore, who lived in Paris. In one of these, she writes:
I confess my heart is torn between my desire to serve Christ as a nun and my love for my dear father, and my sacred obligation to him. He has been so good to me and has suffered so much! He wishes me to come out in society and go to balls like other girls do, and after that to marry, the poor man! How I wish I could oblige him, but I cannot. I do not care for balls, and, whatever may come, I shall never marry.
It is clear from this that the vocation of the Bd. Marie-Ange de Berville came early and strong.
— FROM FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH: THE STORY OF THE NURSING SISTERS OF THE BLOOD OF CHRIST, BY SR. BENEDICTA COOLEY, SBC, ROSARIAN PRESS, BOSTON, 1947.
Eight
It is strange to be confessing to you instead of to God, but then I always thought it strange to confess to God, especially in writing. If God exists, He clearly must know the evil you’ve done without a spoken word, much less a written one. Still, penance is a sacrament. You have to confess, although they call it reconciliation now. The act of speaking is necessary to reconcile us with God and restore the sinner to His grace and friendship, although it is little used now and the confessional booths are either gone from the churches or stand empty. I missed all that, coming late to the faith, but you being a cradle Catholic should understand, if the cop in you hasn’t chewed all that up by now. I hope not. I am confessing to the Christ in you, you know, even if you don’t believe in it, still it works, although I think it is better if you are open to it. I know you are open to that part of life, if against your will.
St. Augustine says in a late work that he wrote the Confessions to excite his mind and affection toward God and he (modestly) admits that the book continues to have that effect upon its readers. He also wrote it to turn away scandal when they wanted him for bishop, and his enemies pointed to his misspent youth, deep in sex and heresy. It has been four years and around eighteen weeks since my last confession, an old-fashioned face-to-facer with Father Manes in the tin-roofed church at Wibok. If I’m uncertain about the time it’s because time flows differently in south Sudan and we don’t keep your calendar.
No, I can’t get into that yet, in confessing it’s important to keep to a strict chronology, as sin breeds upon sin. Sin is a vector, you know, not a scalar. It’s not aload of sin, it’s a velocity, either downhill or up. To return to God from a life of sin you have to retrace your steps, plot the back azimuth, undo the evil. In theory. In practice I’m not sure you can. For most people they think it’s themselves, they’re pursuing their good, oh, I’ll just take this little bit of money, oh, I’ll just take this girl to bed, and on and on, I mean all that’s just superstition, the smartest thing the devil ever did was convince people he don’t exist, but some of us can see him plain, can’t we, can feel him working in us, like watching a bug crawl up your arm, I knowyou can, Mr. Policeman, I know you can feel him hanging there just behind your shoulder, giving you thoughts you think you shouldn’t have and dreams too I bet
Avoiding again, it’s so much easier to look at other folks than your own self.
Anyway, I zoomed over to Oystershell Road on my bicycle, following the dim pencil of my little headlamp, lucky not to be run over on the way, hearing distant sirens. Hunter was counting money and he came to the door of his trailer with a sawed-off Mossberg twelve hanging down his leg. He let me in, and I saw stacks of bills, mostly tens and twenties, piled on the drop-down table, and a duffel bag open on the floor where he was tossing the counted stacks. I was pretty calm, considering, as I told him what had gone down at Gulf Avenue, omitting my own contributions. His response was to say holy shit a bunch of times and then go back to the table and ask me if I wanted to help him count up. Hunter was hard to believe sometimes.
I said we have to get out of here, out of Caluga, now, tonight, this minute, and he said no way are you fuckin’ crazy, and I told him what Orne Foy had said about Ray Bob being paid off and they would find out and he didn’t have protection anymore and if the cops busted his stupid trailer, which they would in about a half hour on account of looking for me and the cops knowing I was connected with him, he would go to Raiford and spend the next twenty years of his life getting fucked in the ass by big niggers. He sort of stood there with his mouth hanging open, so I turned on the spigots and said all about how much I loved him and wanted to get out of this shitty place get to a real city and have a life, a real apartment and do clubs and concerts and nice clothes and I would help him, etc.,
Before long we were on his funky bed and he wanted to fuck me but I blew him instead because I didn’t want to be all sticky and sweaty for the ride downstate. I recall thinking how dumb men were, it wasn’t nothing to control them, it was like they all had like this TV remote in their pants, you could change their channel anytime you wanted. Except Orne, of course, or so I thought then.
So we were off to Miami me making Hunter drive slower than he usually liked to so as not to risk a traffic stop. I did make him go to a mall outside Orlando, parked there in the empty lot as the dawn broke, eating a takeout breakfast, waiting for it to open. I wanted to get me some decent clothes and makeup, so I could disguise myself and look older. We also stopped at a used car place and traded the pickup for a four-year-old T-bird and cash. I had to explain to Hunter that we were through being trash and no one was going to rent us the kind of place I wanted for us unless we showed some class. I was going to drive up to the rental people in our respectable car dressed in my respectable clothes and pay the rent with a check with our names printed on it.
I spotted a storage locker place from the interstate and made him pull off and I rented a locker to keep our dope and cash in and we drove into the city and checked into a Ramada. Hunter was cranky because I hadn’t let him bring any dope along, but I made him clean up and we had a big meal at a Red Lobster nearby and then we bought some beer and I fucked him into unconsciousness. After that, I got the little book he kept the accounts in from his dope business and found Orne’s number. It was hard to get in touch with him by telephone. You had to call a little grocery store near where he lived in Virginia and leave a message. He called back in a couple of hours though. I told him what had transpired in Wayland (edited) and my thinking and he said it was the right thing to do but to hold tight and definitely do not try to sell any weed in Miami and he would get back to us real soon.
The next day I dressed in my outfit, which I had copied from the mommies of the gifted and talented girls in Wayland, a little tan suit, a white linen blouse with no sleeves, a string of fake pearls and kind of expensive tan shoes, panty hose, and a leather bag, and enough makeup to make me look not seventeen. I took Hunter’s cash
