The Undoing of Saint Silvanus

by Beth Moore

  The coffee wasn’t bad, but it sure wasn’t Olivia’s. The company turned out considerably better, however. To a slight degree, the woman on the other side of that round Formica table resembled Jade. Her hair was brown but streaked with highlights that hadn’t been retouched in a good three inches. It was long, naturally curly, and wild, like it hadn’t had a brush through it in months. The look was intentional, of course, and as far as Jillian was concerned, it worked. Stella looked the part of this gritty rectangle called Jackson Square.

  Stella was striking in a mysterious sort of way, but she had a rough edge to her. She wore a colorful ankle-length gauze skirt, a tube top, and lots of costume jewelry. Jade was more refined and her version of the same outfit would have been at least five times as expensive, but at first impression, Stella was the strong, independent free spirit that Jade pretended to be.

  “So you need a place to work and a place to live.” Stella summed up the story that had taken Jillian two refills, one orange juice, and one trip to the ladies’ room to tell. Even then, she’d abbreviated it.

  “Yeah. That’s about it.” Jillian twisted a curl at the back of her neck. The heat and humidity had swollen her coarse black hair to twice the size it had been when she left Saint Sans this morning.

  “Well, maybe I can help you out. I live nearby—in the cheaper section, of course—but I can keep an eye out. As for a job—” Stella grinned—“ask and you shall receive.” She pointed at a sign tacked on the wall close by. Wait Staff Wanted. No Experience Needed.

  “Here?” Jillian was indignant.

  “Let’s see. You’re a waitress who can’t get a job reference because you’re in trouble with your lover who also happens to be your boss and you’ve got no permanent address. What do you want from me here? Can you dance? The pay would be better by a long shot.”

  Jillian had passed enough of those seedy establishments on her walk over to the square to know exactly what Stella was talking about. “No,” she said emphatically. “Yuck.”

  By the time Jillian caught the trolley heading back to Saint Sans, she’d filled out an application to make minimum wage peddling deep-fried dough, and she was clutching a piece of paper with a stranger’s name and number on it like it was a life preserver.

  CHAPTER 12

  APRIL 1918

  DURING THE WEEKS following the groundbreaking, the foundation was finished and the frame began to rise from the ground almost by itself, sleek and tall and taller still to the eye than it could actually be. The standing-seam metal roof, as handsome as it was, only served to condense the structure. Capping was inevitable, of course, but all the hammering hunched its shoulders somehow.

  This nascent city church resembled its rural Methodist sisters in shape and, some might say, in modesty of size. Vieux Carré had yet to catch the plague of Protestantism, but on this side of town, churches of like persuasion were popping up like Louisiana cotton. Let no one claim this patch of ground was city backwash. A thriving college was only a few blocks away and one of the charter members of this fine fellowship hung his hat every weekday morning at the door of Gibson Hall. This was prime real estate, and with reputations to uphold, rural wood siding was snubbed in favor of brick, baked till the red was streaked with brown like a tongue after a chocolate drop.

  The public applauded imagination in its hotels and theaters but, more often than not, found consolation and propriety in a church that looked its part. For those, Saint Silvanus delivered. Not counting the abbreviated entryway, the chapel was of typical dimension, twenty-five feet wide and fifty feet long. It was topped by a high roof, rising majestically to a twelve/twelve pitch.

  Ten tall Opus Francigenum windows stretched up the walls of the chapel, five on each side, all trimmed in thick planks, painted white. With the exception of one large stained-glass picture at the front of the sanctuary, they’d opted for Queen Anne style—clear glass edged with green, red, and yellow squares that directed armfuls of antiseptic sunshine onto the laps of listeners. The arsenic-green storm shutters framing each window were ordered by necessity more than aesthestics, but they were surprisingly pleasing to the eye. A miniature pair of the same Gothic windows, shorter and squatter, were set eye level in the double cypress-wood doors.

  Long before the sanctuary was finished and furnished, children boosted one another up in laced palms to peek through those front windows. Churches held mystique for children in those days. Did religious men build a place and hope God would move into it, or did they sense God there on the barren soil and try to cage him in like a wild beast? And once he was inside, did he brood there all night by himself? Eat wafers and drink wine? If a soul were brave enough to sneak over here at midnight, could he catch a glimpse of the Holy Ghost sweeping across those floors, like a white vaporous tablecloth pinched up at the center? Most children were as scared of an empty church as a cemetery after dark. But on Sundays even God seemed to play nice. The subject was moot anyway. To church they would go because their parents said so. And better to make a friend of God than a foe.

  CHAPTER 13

  “WHY ON EARTH didn’t she apply for a job around here?” Olivia demanded of Adella, as if the woman had all the answers. Goodness knew she usually spoke as if she did.

  “I don’t know. Probably because the restaurants around here are upscale enough to be put off by a young adult applicant who can’t supply a reference.”

  “So she’s not planning on going back to California anytime soon?” That didn’t make any sense to Olivia. These things usually blew over, and even if this one didn’t, it was a big state. Jillian could live a hundred miles from the man and never lay eyes on him again. “This all seems so rash.” She paused, hoping to no avail that Adella would say something. “Well, then, if she insists on staying in New Orleans indefinitely, I can get somebody over here closer to hire her. I have enough connections in this area to—”

  “That’s kind of you,” Adella interrupted, “but you know she won’t let you do that for her. And anyway, she can’t afford to live remotely close to this place and you know it.”

  “I do not understand why her boss can’t just act like a professional and let her list his restaurant as a reference.”

  “I don’t either,” Adella agreed, “but there you have it. She says she can’t. Now that her week is up, I offered to let her move in with me and Emmett and the boys for a while, until she can get the money together to find a place to live. She said thanks but no thanks. I don’t know what she thinks she’s going to do.”

  “But why does she want to live here in Louisiana where she doesn’t even know anybody?”

  Vida Winsee burst through the door to Olivia’s private quarters at just that moment, nearly scaring the life out of both of them. “Girls, hurry! In here! Quick!”

  The three women came close to getting wedged in the doorframe as they scrambled into the hall like the house was on fire. Instead of finding someone asphyxiated, there was Jillian, back against the wall next to a window to the garden. Her index finger was over her mouth.

  “Shhhhhh,” Jillian cautioned with a smile that made her look like a shy little girl. She pointed out the window and there, no bigger than a pair of thumbnails, were two squirming creatures. If they hadn’t been cradled by a nest and surrounded by pieces of cracked shell, none of them would have known they were birds.

  By sundown, all six of them—Olivia, David, Vida, Caryn, Jillian, and even Adella—were hiding in the hall, taking turns peeking around windows like amateur spies. “This just beats all,” Adella whispered.

  David had a big pot of chili with beans simmering in no time. As he set out bowls and corn chips, he commanded, “Somebody turn down the thermostat and we’ll play like a northern’s blowing in!” No one was surprised when Jillian insisted on one of her own frozen meals, but she’d at least joined them in the food genre and chosen a spicy black bean burrito.

  Everybody ate in the great room that night. They kept the lights off and candles lit and their voices
low. Adella told them that they needed not go to extremes since the cardinals were accustomed to the regular goings-on in Saint Sans, but they’d all been hit upside the head by a happy hatching.

  The chatter over supper was heavily imposed upon by every conceivable bird idiom, none of which would have been remotely funny under less auspicious circumstances. David started it when both Olivia and Vida insisted on saltines with their chili instead of corn chips. “It’s clearly true. Birds of a feather flock together.”

  When Jillian asked Caryn why she wanted to be a doctor and she said it was all she’d ever wanted to do, Adella chimed in, “I guess you could say she’s gone and put all her eggs in one basket.”

  Jillian was accused of crying “fowl” over the meat in the chili, and when David called her a vegan, she responded, “I’m a vegetarian, birdbrain. There’s a difference.”

  Though Olivia didn’t add much to the conversation, she did catch herself holding back a smile now and then, shaking her head over the foolishness. When Adella asked her teasingly why she didn’t get herself a houseful of decent renters, she finally brought the house down. “Well, I suppose because a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

  But Vida stole the show. “Say what you will, all of you, but it was I alone who performed in the musical Bye Bye Birdie.”

  “Oh, do tell!” David egged Vida on, clapping his hands and winking at Jillian, who was far too young to have the least familiarity with the title.

  Vida stood and took the center of the room. “I played the part of Mae Peterson, Albert’s mother, to rave reviews of course. It was a terrible shame that she had not one solitary solo. Everyone said so. But Mr. Winsee always maintained I could have played the part of young Kim McAfee magnificently. I memorized all her lines in the event that they might need an understudy.”

  Then right before their eyes, Vida did it. She cleared her throat and sang every word of “How Lovely to Be a Woman” from memory, complete with dramatic hand gestures. The only time she missed a beat was when she dropped onto the Snapdragon for theatrical effect and had considerable difficulty getting up. Once David pulled her back to her feet, she regained her momentum and brought the number to a grand finish.

  “Right he was!” David exclaimed with shameless flattery but not a hint of ridicule. “Bravo, Mr. Winsee! A talent scout of the highest order.”

  Jillian joined in the applause, looking a little shocked, but grinning.

  “Life at Saint Sans does not get better than that, Jillian Slater. If you need more than that, you’ll have to pass this old house by.” David was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t realize the awkwardness he’d invited center stage until it was too late.

  “Oh, that’s right, Jillian. You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? Where are you headed?” Caryn inquired innocently.

  “Yeah, I’m packing up. I’m going to stay with a new friend for a while.” The next few minutes were loaded with questions no one in the actual loop felt prepared to answer.

  Olivia cornered Adella at the kitchen sink, rinsing chili out of the bottom of the bowls. “Tell her she can stay another week. Or until she finds a place.”

  “You tell her!” Adella insisted in an equally strident whisper. “She won’t believe it’s sincere unless you tell her yourself.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can!”

  “You’re the house manager.”

  “You’re the grandmother.” Adella nearly growled the last word as she shut the back door on her way out, leaving Olivia no choice.

  “Jillian?” Olivia said as she tapped the door to Jillian’s suite. “Can you open the door for just a moment?”

  She’d almost given up when Jillian cracked the door. When Olivia saw what her granddaughter was wearing, she almost lost her train of thought. The pajamas seemed a little out of character for a young woman with a dragonfly tattoo, but admittedly, Olivia hardly knew her. “There’s no sense in you packing up all your stuff and moving two times. Why don’t you just stay a little longer, until you find a more permanent place?” Olivia could feel the heat in her face and wondered at that moment why she had to make everything more difficult.

  “It’s not that much stuff. I can get all of it in one suitcase. Adella let me borrow one. You could be charging for this room. I have a place to land for a few days. It’s fine.” Jillian folded a pair of jeans and placed them on the end of the bed.

  “I never charge for this room.” Olivia immediately wished she hadn’t said that, but she had, and Jillian looked at her for the first time since she’d opened the door. “I keep it for my own guests. I sometimes have—well, guests. They come and go.” She had a feeling Jillian could tell she wasn’t really the guest-having kind. But the girl would have to admit it was a lovely room, furnished to the last touch with antiques, the true value of which might be beyond her appreciation. “I don’t need to rent this room. It’s fine for you to stay a bit longer.” She defaulted to her blunt side.

  Her progeny returned the sentiment. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “It wasn’t pity,” Olivia responded, taken a bit aback. “It was—”

  “Or your guilt,” Jillian interrupted.

  “Guilt?” Her face burned hot. “And what exactly would I feel guilty about?” She was incensed, but she did not intend to give Jillian the chance to answer the question. “Very well, then. Suit yourself. You’re a grown woman.”

  She turned to walk across the foyer to her room.

  Jillian surprised her with her next words. “Maybe a few days? If it wouldn’t matter a whole lot, if I could just stay a few more days, that would really help. I should find out soon if I’m going to get hired at that donut place.”

  Olivia had her hand on the doorknob to her own suite, but after a moment’s pause, she turned around to face her only child’s only child. She saw Rafe standing there.

  No, it really wasn’t Rafe she saw so vividly in Jillian’s face. She saw herself standing there in that doorway as if the antique mirror in that very room had been pulled into the hall and rewound forty years.

  She took a deep breath as if to push something down and responded with a thin tone coming from the top of her throat, “Yes, yes, of course. I mean, no, it wouldn’t matter. Please do, until you find a suitable place. That shouldn’t take terribly long.”

  They each nodded slightly as if the strings of two puppets were held in the same set of hands. Then they simultaneously turned around and closed their doors.

  CHAPTER 14

  HAVING SOME OF THE PRESSURE OFF to move right away worked wonders for Jillian. She had been bluffing when she told the others she had an invitation to stay with Stella. She had planned to throw herself on the woman’s mercy, but she was glad it hadn’t come to that—at least not yet.

  She knew Adella’s offer of her guest room was sincere, but when she left Saint Sans, she wanted to make a clean break, a fresh start. She’d gotten the job at Café Beignet and was scheduled to begin the first of next week. It had crossed her mind that her enthusiasm over such an abysmal paycheck was itself pathetic. But at least it wouldn’t be difficult to memorize the menu like she’d had to do before. Full order or half order? That was the only relevant question. “Of course, I’d never eat one,” she declared when she told the others she’d gotten the job.

  “Goes without saying!” David responded with his palms out. “Unthinkable!”

  Jillian rummaged through the pantry, setting items on the counter one by one. “I’m going to show you bunch of Creoles how to eat a breakfast that won’t kill you by lunch. This is what we served at Sigmund’s and we couldn’t keep them on the shelf. I’ve been craving them all week and grabbed the stuff at Langenstein’s a few days ago.”

  “Need some help?” David asked.

  “Are you kidding? And let you take the credit? I don’t want a single Southerner in this kitchen. Out.” Over the next hour, Jillian stirred up homemade bran muffins chock-full of raisins, apple chunks, walnu
ts, and fresh shredded carrot. Even the dubious couldn’t hold their noses high enough to escape the smell of heaven as the muffins baked. When she pulled them out of the oven, deep brown and glistening, they’d peaked a full inch and a half above the tin.

  “They don’t need butter,” she said as Olivia set out a cold stick on a china plate.

  “Maybe they don’t, but we do,” her grandmother replied. “A Louisianan could be thrown into septic shock from sudden butter withdrawal. We’d have to taper off slowly to avoid a seizure, but most of us would not want to risk it.” Olivia, Mrs. Winsee, and even stick-thin Caryn sliced their muffins shamelessly right down the middle and stuffed them with enough butter to drip down the sides in thick golden tears. Half a stick of butter was gone before a single crumb passed a lip.

  “Well, from the look of things, it must be colon-cleansing day at Saint Sans. And to think I nearly missed it.” Adella had thrown open the back door and was standing behind them, a sight to behold. The usual red purse hung on her shoulder, but her top and her jeans each sported a little extra bling. She had on open-toed heels and white tissues woven between her toes to guard a fresh pedicure.

  “Adella! The door!” Caryn cried out, but it was too late. Clementine flashed through the six-inch crack like she’d been a missile aimed for launch. All five of the residents nearly ran Adella down as they dashed out the door.

  Jillian took stock of the situation and tried to bring some order to the chaos. “Someone head for the bush and stand guard! The rest of us, snare that cat!” And the chase was on. Domestic feline turned African cheetah, and by the time they were in hot pursuit, she’d left a cold trail.

  At one point David managed to grab the end of her tail as she darted over the gate but she whipped around and bit him until he screamed like a girl. “I’m bleeding!”