Saints+Sinners

by Saints

  Rachel Narcisse was a petite and very fit dark-haired woman, a stay-at-home wife who attended aerobics class religiously. She was very serious about the way she ran her household, the way her children were educated, the way she lived her life. Her most notable feature was the large, pair of black glasses that covered most of her face. They gave her an overly studious expression that made her appear like a modern-day Ninotchka.

  Rachel Narcisse had purchased many items at his suggestion—shoes, jewelry, and little black dresses. He remembered that her most recent purchase was a cocktail dress and a small clutch purse for a dinner, something that honored her husband for his charity work.

  She flitted back and forth to various aisles, working off a list, grabbing items to place in the cart, then replaced some of the items to their shelves before grabbing something else. She looked determined, like a worker bee. Her cart was loaded down, probably with healthy food for better brain stimulation. A small child, probably no older than two years, was strapped into the cart’s kiddie seat, his chubby legs sticking out of the slots.

  Marshall watched Rachel as she moved from aisle to aisle, shelf to shelf, reading labels and checking items off her list. When she looked up once, he waved his hand. Did she see him? She had to have seen him. But she didn’t wave back, didn’t acknowledge that he was there. It made him sad, then he became annoyed.

  When Rachel pushed her baby-laden cart to the meat section, Marshall decided he would help her with her shopping, just like he had before. Marshall walked over to the hams. He was surprised there was such a large selection, and he began to claw through the refrigerated bin in search of the biggest one. He found one, a thirty-pound beauty at $2.99 a pound. Why was it so expensive? Oh, because it was spiral-cut. Very nice.

  Rachel was off on one of her manic excursions to a nearby aisle. Marshall remembered to lift with his legs and not his back, a mantra in the world of retail. The ham weighed a ton. He cradled it in his arms, and lugged it out of the bin with difficulty, legs bent to support the treasure, back swung out so he could maintain his balance. It took all his strength to get it to Rachel’s cart, and he heaved it in, damaging a box of whole wheat crackers and squashing a small tub of yogurt.

  Marshall huffed back to his own grocery buggy, still empty. He had his back to Rachel’s cart, and he could hear that she had returned, but she didn’t appear to notice the new item that now occupied her cart. Off she went on another excursion to another aisle. Marshall rolled his empty cart a few feet, in front of the case with lunchmeat and hot dogs. He grabbed a package of bacon and then zinged it through the air to the cart, whizzing past the boy and landing in the cart.

  “You didn’t see that,” he mouthed to the child.

  Marshall turned away, headed toward the aisle with the soda pop and snacks. He was happy that the bacon hit the target the first time around. Could a truly demented person pull that off? But he was disappointed with Rachel. People really shouldn’t leave their children unattended.

  * * *

  For weeks now, the guys in the writing group had been encouraging Marshall to write his Godchaux’ memoir. The stories he could tell would make a great comic novel. If he wanted, he could write a wonderful self-help book for people who hated to shop and needed some helpful pointers to make their treks to the store less threatening. But Marshall still wasn’t ready to break his confidences.

  “I think what I’d really like to do is write some erotica,” he said. He thought erotica sounded better than the word “pornography.”

  At the next meeting, Emile Abadie presented him with a bag full of pornographic magazines and a giant jet black latex dildo that belonged to George Morrison, a group member who’d died a few months earlier. Emile had made a sweep through George’s apartment to get rid of the more salacious items before his mother arrived to bury him. He gave the items to Marshall for the purposes of “research.”

  Try as he might, Marshall failed at his attempts at erotica and pornography.

  “I just couldn’t get it down on paper,” he told Emile. “I think it’s because I have such limited experience. I’ve only been with three guys and it was all pretty vanilla stuff.”

  “What?” Emile stated. “Only three guys?”

  “Yes,” Marshall said.

  Emile stared at him, wide-eyed. “You mean to tell me that I’ve been with more guys in one night than you’ve been with in your entire life?”

  “Evidently,” Marshall murmured.

  “Give back your Gay Membership Card,” Emile said.

  “Very funny,” Marshall replied. “But I will give back that big black dildo you gave me. That thing is just gross.” He couldn’t believe that someone could actually have a sexual experience with something of that dimension. It had to be at least fifteen inches long and four or five inches wide. Plus it had the nauseating smell of latex. It made him cringe when he looked at it.

  “Your loss,” Emile replied. “You can bring it back. I bet we can find a home for it.”

  Marshall stuffed the monstrosity into an old Gucci gym bag that he’d been carrying around, intending to visit a gym for a workout. After he went to Dr. Lindsey’s, he’d reunite the odious item with its owner. If he could remember.

  * * *

  “It looks like you’re having some balance problems,” Dr. Lindsey said. “And what about your ability to remember things? It seems like you are floating off somewhere while you’ve been sitting here. Does your mind wander off a lot?”

  Marshall didn’t want to answer. “No more than usual.” He silently congratulated himself on providing a somewhat true but vague response.

  Dr. Lindsey didn’t blink once. “Are you having some difficulty with your gait? I’m thinking you might have vacuolar myelopathy, or spinal cord involvement with HIV, and it’s making you less coordinated. When you sit, do you find yourself leaning off to one side or even falling?”

  “Yes,” Marshall conceded.

  “I think it’s because you don’t have adequate postural support,” Dr. Lindsey said.

  That’s how it went for Marshall, a series of questions followed by incriminating answers, a gigantic afternoon of defeat.

  “I’m sorry, Marshall,” Dr. Lindsey said when the exam was finished. “I know it’s difficult. Do you want me to call you a cab to get you home?”

  “No, I’m going to walk,” Marshall said. There was no money for a cab. He stooped to pick up his Gucci bag.

  “Is that heavy?”

  “No, it’s just fine,” Marshall said, and he grabbed the bag before the doctor could pick it up. That was all he needed was for Dr. Lindsey to find out what he was carrying. He’d probably speculate that the reason Marshall had a poor gait was due to the fact that he was carrying around a bag with a giant dildo inside that caused him to list off to the right. He considered telling the doctor that he intended to use it as a crutch. It seemed big enough.

  * * *

  Marshall made it out the doors of the medical building and onto Canal Street, toward the river. Then he’d cut through the Quarter toward home.

  When he made it to Baronne Street, he thought he heard a familiar voice calling to him. Was that Molly Collins? It had to be. She was getting out of a cab in front of Immaculate Conception Church. She must be going to noon Mass. There were a lot of people on the sidewalk. He moved closer to the church. The sign welcomed parishioners for Good Friday and Easter services. That’s why there was a crowd. It was Good Friday. Marshall decided he’d join the crowd.

  Why was Molly Collins here in this church? Possibly she was chasing a man. Perhaps she’d found religion. No, it was more likely she was chasing a man. Molly had been one of Marshall’s most reliable customers for years. He’d found many an outfit for her, and in the process, he’d listened to her raucous stories, told in her deep cigarette-cured and whiskey-soaked voice. She’d gossiped and joked, and once even offered to set him up with a distant relative, the son of a politician from Baton Rouge. He hadn’t seen her since his day
s at the store.

  He wondered where she’d gone after calling out to him. The church was crowded, but the worshippers were beginning to sit down since the service was about to begin. He should be able to spot her now. Then he saw her, sitting in a pew just a few rows from the front.

  Oh no, he thought. Now she needed his advice more than ever. Too much animal print. He recalled that he’d warned her about this before. And the slit in the back of her blouse—too much. Visible bra straps were never acceptable.

  He slid into the same row and sat down a few feet from her.

  “Molly,” he whispered. She turned her head, then recoiled when she recognized him. She jerked her head back to the front.

  “Molly,” he said again. This time she shushed him. When he scooted closer, she turned to him and whispered, “I don’t want to see you. I’m sorry.”

  Marshall couldn’t believe what he’d heard. She’d been a friend. He’d coached her through many a potential social catastrophe. Now she wouldn’t talk to him.

  As he sat in silence while the service continued, he realized that she was like all the others, another person who’d abandoned him. Why did they do that? Why couldn’t they help him now when he’d provided so much help to them? He had his head down, almost in prayer, steaming.

  The parishioners had begun to collect in the aisle and walk to the front to receive communion. Molly stood and joined the line, but she didn’t look back to where he was sitting. She’d left behind her purse, a giant white satchel with a large center patch and intricate stitching. She hadn’t changed, lugging around a purse as big as a boxcar. She must have everything in there but the kitchen sink. Then a thought crossed his mind.

  While everyone held their heads down in prayer, Marshall unsnapped the clasps at the top of the purse and opened it. He reached into his own Gucci gym bag and brought out the monster dildo. He stuffed it into the purse with the top of it lolling over the edge like a dead eel.

  He got up to leave and managed to hobble down the side aisle, more than halfway back from the front of the church. He heard a bark-like screech, followed by a thud on the floor, then gasps from the church-goers. He imagined that she’d seen the purse opened and had begun to open it further to see what was lying inside. When she found it, the dildo was launched into the air with a shriek.

  He was happy he’d come to church, gratified that his load had been lightened.

  * * *

  “Hey Marshall, how are you? Do you want something to eat?” It was Bella, and then Ruby, who joined him at the table at Skylark.

  “No thank you,” Marshall replied. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You are looking mighty frail,” Ruby said. “Are you sure we can’t get some food into you?”

  “On the house,” Bella said.

  “No thanks,” he said. “It wouldn’t stay down anyway.”

  “Sure?” Ruby asked. “I could make some macaroni and cheese for you. That might do the trick. Whatever you need, sweetie.”

  “No thanks,” he said. “I love the macaroni and cheese here but Will tells me that it gives me bad breath.”

  He gave a little self-deprecating chuckle.

  “Will?” Bella said. “Who’s Will?”

  “Will Parsley. We worked together at Godchaux’s. You remember Will Parsley, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Bella said. She raised an eyebrow. “When did you talk to him?”

  “Just a couple of days ago,” Marshall replied.

  They just stared at him, exchanging quizzical looks.

  “Marshall, we haven’t seen Will in a few months,” Ruby said. “How did he look?”

  Marshall thought for a moment. “Fine, I guess. I just talk to him. Usually my eyes are closed.”

  He stood up and took several steps to where Emile was sitting. Emile was going over a short story that was going to be critiqued that night for the writer’s group. As Marshall was leaving, he could hear Bella and Ruby whispering that Will Parsley had been dead for more than two years. That couldn’t be right. They’d be talking later tonight.

  “Hey Emile, how are you?”

  “I’m great. Marshall,” Emile said. “You look a little down. What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m not going to stay for class tonight. I’m too tired. I just stopped by to let you know that I intended to bring back the large, black you-know-what but I don’t have it anymore. I ran into an old customer at Godchaux’s and I gave it to her.”

  “Really,” Emile said. Marshall could tell he was waiting for more information but he was too tired to explain it all.

  “It’s a long story,” Marshall said.

  “I’ll bet it is,” Emile said.

  “It was the only job I ever wanted. It was the only one I ever had. I was good at it. Why did this have to happen? Why did they all turn their backs?”

  Emile nodded his head. It was clear to Marshall that he didn’t know what to say.

  * * *

  “Are you ready?” Will asked.

  “Ready for what?” Marshall responded.

  Will Parsley heaved a deep sigh.

  “We’re going shopping,” he said.

  Marshall sat up on the bed. He felt as if a little bird had awakened inside his chest and it was cautiously spreading it wings.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “We don’t need money anymore.”

  “I don’t have any credit cards,” Marshall said. “Well, I have them, but they don’t work anymore.”

  “We don’t need those either.”

  “This must be a special trip,” Marshall said.

  “It’s very special,” Will Parsley said. “We are going on the shopping trip to end all shopping trips. Forget Canal Street. We’re going to start in New York, and then we’re going to London. And it goes without saying that we’ll be hitting Paris.”

  Marshall couldn’t believe his ears, but like everything else, it sounded too good to be true. “I can’t go, Will. I’ve got so much to do.”

  “Name one thing,” Will said in a holier-than-thou tone.

  “I thought I might finally begin to write down some of my experiences at Godchaux’s. There are a lot of funny stories. But I don’t want to name names or betray any confidences.”

  “When will you stop being so protective of them?” Will said. “Stop shopping for others. Let’s shop for you.”

  “I don’t really need anything.”

  “Yes, you do. Come on, Marshall. Let’s go.”

  Marshall thought he felt himself rise but he couldn’t tell anymore.

  “Are you coming?” Will asked.

  “Yes,” Marshall said. “I’m coming. Wait for me.”

  And without Marshall’s numb feet ever touching the ground, they were off.

  Solid Gold Saturday Night

  W.L. Hodge

  My grandfather Burton was forever trying to get me laid and he loved to dispense advice. “If you can’t be good-looking,” he’d tell me, “be excellent.” He’d go on to explain that demonstration of mastery communicated to females that a male would be a good maker of babies. Burton didn’t exactly demonstrate mastery—he never made any babies—but he told me he didn’t need to be excellent. (In fairness: he looked, and looks, like Paul Newman.) He said I, on the other hand, needed all the excellence I could get. But I don’t know. I’ve always thought I looked okay…in a dress. Burton was also forever trying to make me a man and it was as pointless as trying to get me laid—his wife Carmen raised me Catholic and I’ve known I was a girl inside since I was three years old, when I wrapped my bunny blanket around my waist like a skirt and shook my hips in the mirror while singing my favorite song (at the time): “Can I See You Tonight” by Tanya Tucker. I was in love with Tanya Tucker. Burton said there was hope for me yet.

  Most of his advice was wrong (he said chicks liked it when you stared at their titties…and when you called them titties…and when you called them chicks) but, regarding excellence, Burton could not have been
more right. Excellence works spectacularly…on me. I fell in love with the most excellent female ever tonight. My God, did she demonstrate mastery.

  * * *

  My companion tonight: Connecticut immigrant Rev. Josie Becker, the new rector at All Saints’ Episcopal Church in my “hometown” of Caledonia, Texas. Her likes include knitting, opera, and holding my hand while I cry. Her dislikes include anything I liked when I was 21. Or so I assumed. “Where can a couple of lesbians get into trouble around here?” she asked me. It was a bit disconcerting, hearing this from a priest in a sensible skirt and Keds. The lesbian-priest thing was still all so new to me.

  As was the being-called-a-lesbian thing—though I, too, was wearing a sensible skirt and Keds. Excuse me: a sensible dress and Converse. “There’s a Starbucks,” I said. “It’s inside a Target. But it’s still a Starbucks.”

  “Not enough trouble, Asa. I feel like getting stupid.”

  It was six in the evening. “Getting stupid starts after your bedtime,” I said. Her new job starts tomorrow at nine-thirty. Tomorrow is Sunday.

  “I don’t have a bedtime anymore,” she said. “I’m forty years old.”

  * * *

  I’ve been forty years old since I was four years old and I’ve never had a bedtime. I’m an architect—which means I don’t sleep, period—and when I was a kid I routinely stayed up until three in the morning as Burton spent weeknights in an RV on his jobsites and Carmen worked six nights a week managing a honky-tonk in the Fort Worth Stockyards called Waltz Across Texas. Carmen was also an alcoholic and I’d stay up to make sure she made it home. To keep myself awake I’d tape songs off the radio and recreate them on the piano. Malcolm Gladwell said it takes ten thousand hours of practice to become an expert at something and…let’s just say I got my ten thousand hours in. I was expert enough to land a gig playing cover songs at Ike’s Ivory Bar across the street from the Austin Convention Center. I played Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” at least ten times a night. I had to. I needed to pay for architecture school. I played covers for model supplies. I am not proud of this.