The Undoing of Saint Silvanus

by Beth Moore

  “Hi, Mama!” he yelled.

  “Hi, Son!” she yelled right back.

  And he made quite a splash, too, when somehow the happy notion hit him to swim out of the baptistery instead of walk. And, my, how he could kick when he swam. One thing was for certain. That boy had been baptized and so had Pastor Sam.

  “Our second candidate for believer’s baptism is Miss Jillian Slater.”

  When Jillian walked into the water, wearing a white choir robe and a white turban around her head, half the congregation gasped. Adella told her later, “You looked just like royalty, like a Christian Cleopatra! So beautiful and radiant with that deep-olive skin against that white garb.” Every jaw on the entire Atwater pew went slack to the ground.

  When Pastor Sam invited family and friends of the candidate to stand, the residents of Saint Sans managed to come to their feet all self-aware, but then a fair ruckus broke out in the sanctuary as people stood up all over the room, even in the balcony. Jillian blinked away a pool of tears in her eyes over the unexpected outbreak of affection.

  “Miss Slater, do you confess your belief in Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior before these witnesses today?” Pastor Sam asked.

  She nodded and said yes, her lip quivering.

  “And do you wish to profess your love for him and your commitment to him as you identify in his death, burial, and resurrection?”

  She spoke louder this time, full of conviction, iron in her blood. “Yes. Yes, sir, I do.” When he nodded at her, giving her the signal, she cupped both hands over her mouth and nose.

  “Miss Jillian Slater, my little sister, it is my great honor to joyfully baptize you this day in these sacred waters. I do so in the name of the Father who gave his Son for you, the Son who gave his life to make you his spotless bride, and the Holy Spirit who dwells within you and seals you unto the day of redemption. Buried with Christ in baptism—” Pastor Sam ducked her head briskly under the water so she’d never forget it, and as he lifted her head drenched and dripping with grace, he proclaimed loudly, “Raised to walk in newness of life.”

  The whole place erupted.

  The Fontaine fortune took a hard hit in June. It was all Zacchaeus’s fault. The pastor at Olivia’s church read the story of the repentant tax collector on the Sunday just before the first anniversary of Rafe’s passing. Olivia didn’t even stay for the sermon. She came straight back to Saint Sans and paced the great room floor. The second Jillian and David walked in the door from Benton Ave., they all ate fried shrimp po’boys with Mrs. Winsee.

  They’d barely wiped the grease from their chins when Olivia asked to speak with Jillian alone. “I’m going to my banker tomorrow to find out how much financial gain came to the Fontaine trust from the Steadman Nolan lawsuit years ago. And I do mean all of it, interest and everything. And I’m going to give it away. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not asking your permission. I’m just telling you because we’re family.”

  Jillian could hardly pick her jaw up off the floor.

  “Thank God, your money is safe and sound in separate accounts that all belong solely to you,” Olivia added. “Your father’s inheritance was established before the Nolan gain and never profited from it. It’s unalloyed. The irony is not lost on me that I’ve rarely been angrier with anybody on this earth than I was with your grandfather when he refused to put a single penny of that win into our only child’s hands. All those years ago, God foresaw this day and protected that money just for you.”

  “Oh, my gosh, O. My mind is spinning. How much do you think it will be?”

  “I expect it to be at least half. I think it’s safe to say we were twice as wealthy after that lawsuit as we were before.”

  “How much will be left?”

  “That’s not for you to worry about.”

  “Then we’ll share mine! O, I will always take care of you just like you’ve taken care of me.”

  “I believe you, Jillian, but I am confident it won’t come to that. I haven’t been a big spender. I won’t be rich, but I will be a long way from poor.”

  One day late in August, Jillian pulled out of the parking lot in Olivia’s car, leaving her final cooking class of the summer term.

  The location of the school had caused her to face the old haunt over and over again where she’d first run into Crawley and gotten tangled up with Stella. It seemed to be God’s way with her: Let’s take it head-on, Jillian, you and me. This particular day, she took a corner right by a man crumpled, sun-worn, and passed out cold on the sidewalk. It was a common sight in certain sections of the city. She had no real explanation why this one moved her like it did. Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was something about his big mop of hair. Maybe it was the way he looked dead before he really was.

  Whatever it was, it moved her to take the next left instead of a right and head toward one of the most famous cemeteries in New Orleans. She’d have to search to find his grave. She’d never been there and wasn’t certain her grandmother had been since the burial. They’d not gone on the anniversary of his death. They’d gone, instead, to put cashier’s checks in Steadman Nolan’s name on desks at homeless shelters, rehabs, food banks, and various ministries to the poor like free legal advice and aid for the mentally ill.

  But today was Jillian’s day to stand at that grave. She parked the car and began her search. She saw no office in sight nor a single other soul. Finally she spotted it—the Fontaine family monument.

  Jillian stood right there in front of the graves of three generations of her paternal line: her father’s grandparents, her father’s father, and next to him, a marker that read Olivia Constance Arseneaux Fontaine. Underneath was the date of her birth, a dash, and a space left blank. Jillian’s heart bled warm through her veins. “Please, Jesus,” she whispered, “see fit not to be in a rush to fill that in.”

  Jillian shifted her gaze to the marker next to her grandmother’s. She knew it would be right there. She knelt down and traced the etching with her index finger.

  Raphael Weyland Fontaine

  Under the date of his birth and his death were five words that so unsteadied Jillian, she sat all the way down on the ground.

  Rest now, my beloved son

  “Dad,” Jillian whispered so quietly, she could hardly hear her own voice. “It’s me, Jillian.” It wasn’t that she thought he could hear her. She no longer believed in ghosts or lingering souls of the dead. She knew they all had someplace to go. But some things just needed to be said.

  “I wish we’d known each other. Your mom told me I loved you when I was a little girl, and from the pictures, I think she’s right. I wish we’d never left you. Dad,” she whispered again, tears dripping from her chin, “I’m sorry I hurt you. And I know you’re sorry you hurt me. I want you to know I forgive you. I also want you to know that I’m getting to know you. I thought it was too late, but I’ve realized it isn’t. I’m finding bits and pieces of your life. I don’t have much, but I know this: you’re not who I’d imagined you to be. I’m so sorry your life was so hard.”

  She placed her forehead on her knee and wept. “I have just one more thing I want to tell you today. Your mom. She loves you so much. She just trapped her love for you deep in her heart and closed it up tight so it could never escape and so no one could ever touch it. Don’t think ill of her. She’s extraordinary. That’s all I really have to say right now.”

  She came to her feet, stared a moment longer at the marker, then turned around and screamed as she ran right into an old man.

  “Sorry I scared ya, miss. I ain’t stood there long but I didn’t want to disturb your vistin’. I was afraid you’d get away before I could give you this.” The man handed Jillian a rubber-banded bundle of a smudged envelope and several small, folded pieces of paper. Jillian was alarmed at the sight of her name written on the envelope. “I been keepin’ an eye out for ya for months. I’m the groundskeeper.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re really scaring me. Who is this from? Who would know I’m her
e?”

  “I figger the card’ll say all that. It’s off with me then.”

  Jillian rushed to the car. She unlocked the door, jumped in, and relocked it. Her hands were shaking as she opened the envelope and pulled out a note card.

  January 25

  Dear Jillian,

  It’s been one month to the day since you told me you needed time. I’ve rehearsed pounding on your front door a hundred times and not taking no for an answer. But something tells me that’s not what you need. Something tells me you need a man who will take no for an answer. So I’m waiting.

  I’ve done some praying myself—and not just about you but about a lot of things that needed sorting out. I asked God how I was supposed to know when you were ready. All that ever came to me was that you’d be well on your way to finding out who you are and why you’re here the day you show up at your father’s grave. Maybe I’m wrong, but I felt like God put that on my heart as a sign. So if it’s true, and you’re on your way and you’re ready to get to know a man still drawing breath who wants to know you, I’ll be waiting.

  Cal

  Jillian dropped her head on the steering wheel. Seven months had come and gone since the date on this letter. Surely Cal had moved on with his life since then.

  Jillian couldn’t bring herself to read the other notes. She drove home praying and trying to profess her faith out loud like she’d been learning to do. All the way back to Saint Sans, she thought back over the last eight months. She headed toward the back entrance of Saint Sans, stopping off at the trash can to pitch in the wad of papers. One fell open.

  April 25

  Still waiting.

  It was Cal’s handwriting. Jillian’s heart jumped into her throat as she retrieved the notes from the trash and laid them on the small table on the back porch. There they were, in order.

  February 25

  Still waiting.

  March 25

  Still waiting.

  April 25

  Still waiting.

  May 25

  Still waiting.

  June 25

  Still waiting.

  Got a puppy.

  July 25

  Still waiting.

  Really bad puppy but I like him.

  He’s keeping me company in the meantime.

  The last one was in ink that couldn’t have been more than forty-eight hours old.

  August 25

  Still waiting.

  Still hoping.

  CHAPTER 61

  OLIVIA TIED THE SASH on her robe and slipped her feet into the house shoes at the edge of her bed. She ran a brush through her hair and clipped it back with a barrette. Eyeing the full-length mirror on her closet door, she chided herself, “The day’s half gone, Olivia Fontaine. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  She couldn’t recollect the last time she’d slept until eleven. She’d been up most of the night with Vida, who’d worried her half to death with a low-grade fever and a terrible cough. She’d had her in the doctor’s office the afternoon before and was none too pleased that Doogie Howser didn’t seem more alarmed and she didn’t mind saying so. She’d have her back in that office this afternoon whether they had an opening or not.

  “I’m allergic to cigar smoke,” Vida had said some hours ago from the bed, her voice as weak as herbal tea. “If I’ve told that man once, I’ve told him a thousand times.”

  Olivia put an extra pillow behind her head and fluffed it. “I’ll have a word with David. I feel sure he’s the instigator. We need to keep you at an incline just like this, so don’t rearrange these pillows, okay? Nod your head like you’re listening to me.”

  “Well,” Vida had warbled instead, trying to talk with the thermometer under her tongue, “I fear he’s got a willing accomplice. Where’s our Jilly Bean?”

  “Sound asleep. It’s 4 a.m. No classes tomorrow, so I’m hoping she gets to sleep in. She’s been going a hundred miles an hour.” Olivia took the thermometer out of Vida’s mouth, held it steady right below her bifocals, shook it back down, and jotted 100.2 on a small pad of paper.

  Vida gazed off somewhere wonderful. Olivia could tell that by the expression on her face. Then, afoot, Olivia supposed, in that land far away, the old woman whispered, “Sweet, sweet dreams, our little Jilly Bean.”

  “It’s time you were having sweet dreams yourself.”

  Vida closed her sleepy eyes.

  “I’ve got your monitor on nice and loud in my room. That prescription cough medicine should be working better than this. I intend to ask the doctor this afternoon if you could handle something stronger. I’ve about had it with him treating us like a pair of eight-year-olds.”

  Vida didn’t respond. Olivia sat beside her on the bed and put her hand on hers, and instead of patting it this time, she rubbed it gently for a good long while until her own eyelids grew heavy.

  Olivia sure hadn’t meant to sleep until eleven. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” she asked Clementine, who yawned as if two old women had kept her up all night poking her with knitting needles. “We better go check on our patient. I think I hear her stirring around in there.” Olivia walked over to her monitor and turned it up to its highest volume.

  “And use the air freshener when you’re done in there, mister! Sometimes I can’t go in there for a week!”

  Olivia smiled and shook her head. “I’d say they’re both up. Let’s go make me some coffee and open you a can of tuna.” Clementine stretched everything from her nose to the tip of her tail before hopping off the bed and scurrying in front of Olivia to beat her to the kitchen.

  Olivia walked by Jillian’s wide-open door and stuck her head in to say good morning but stopped short when she caught no glimpse of her. Rounding the hall into the great room, she came to a screeching halt in her house slippers at the sight of an enormous mess on the dining room table.

  “Good grief. This is what I have to get up to after going to sleep at 5 a.m.?” She pulled her glasses out of the pocket of her robe and slid them on. Her heart skipped a beat. She picked up the piece of paper propped between the salt and pepper shakers and read the note punctuated entirety with exclamation marks.

  Don’t kill me, O! I’m coming back to all of this and I’ll have it all cleaned up before dinner! Don’t move anything! I have a system! I’ll be back soon! A friend dropped by unexpectedly and we’re grabbing something to eat!

  I love you!

  “Since Caryn’s at the library,” Olivia said to Clementine, “I’m guessing Jillian’s out with the Virgin Mary again.” What that meant was Flo Deever’s girl. She and Jillian had become good friends at small-group Bible study, being the youngest and all. “I guess they’ve got Jesus with them.” He’d been over at Saint Sans just last week crawling all over the place and pulling the cat’s tail and eating fuzz out from under the Snapdragon. Olivia had had to excuse herself to her room to avoid a nervous breakdown. She had nearly been in the clear, with her bedroom door shut, when she’d overheard Vida saying, “I’ve got a great idea! You two girls get out of here and go have you a little fun and Olivia and I will babysit!” With that, she’d headed back to the great room.

  Olivia folded up Jillian’s note and stuck it in her pocket as she stared at the table. A cardboard box half full of pictures and family paraphernalia was at one end and most of the remaining surface was covered with snapshots and school pictures, certificates and report cards, homemade valentines, juvenile artwork, and the like. Olivia picked up a small booklet and opened it. The pages were filled out with dates of infant immunizations in the familiar penmanship of an awfully young mother.

  Olivia inhaled all the way to the bottom of her lungs and exhaled. She hadn’t seen any of this in years and supposed she’d never seen it all at once like that, spread out on the table for the world to see. Clementine rubbed against Olivia’s ankle, mewing for some breakfast.

  Three new photo albums were in a stack on the table. The two on the bottom were still sealed with plastic wrap. Olivia opened t
he top one at the middle and tilted her head to look inside. The page was still blank. She slipped her fingers under a few other pages closer to the front and took a peek. They were blank as well. Jillian had obviously just gotten started.

  Almost without thinking, Olivia opened the front cover of the album, expecting to find the same. She laid it all the way open and stared at the page. It was as far as Jillian had gotten. Affixed to the center of the page was a small rectangular card. On it were four words embossed in blue calligraphy.

  Raphael: God has healed.

  Olivia lifted her chin as the noon sun sprayed the garden, making velvet of yellow rose petals and satin of purple moons. Clementine jumped on the windowsill and swatted at a dragonfly perched unbothered on the opposite side of the glass.

  CHAPTER 62

  “MORNING, LIEUTENANT! You getting used to that new rank yet?”

  “Nope. And I hope you’re leaving the good off the front of that morning to save words, Dolores,” Cal said back to the dispatcher. “Or are you trying to keep from saying it’s a bad morning?”

  “It’s a New Orleans morning, sir. Just around the block they’d call that a crapshoot.”

  “Yes’m, they sure would.”

  “But I can tell you it’s a hot morning and you can bet every dime you’ve got that it’ll be a scorcher today.”

  Cal glanced at the gauge on his dash for the outside temperature. “Yeah, I heard it’s supposed to hit 103 today.” He grinned. “That weather report came compliments of Emmylou DaCosta telling me I needed to stay hydrated.” He knew Dolores would appreciate the source since she had adult children of her own. He’d seen his mom that morning when he dropped off Buford, who was, best as Cal could tell, the worst-behaved puppy in the state of Louisiana. Thankfully, his mom had grown just about as attached to that boxer as he had.