“Good to know, thank you,” I said after a while, just to fill the silence, since my compatriots didn’t say a word. I felt a bit out of my element with this particular breed of spiritual small talk, but I tried my best. “Now, Saint Catherine, she was the patron saint of . . .” I hoped the nun would complete my sentence, because I sure had no idea what the answer was. We reached Basin Street, where a fortress-like whitewashed wall extended the full block. The sun glared off of it in blinding rays.
“Fire,” Drew said, with surprising authority.
“Why, yes, very good. Saint Catherine wards off fire, illness, and temptations.”
My eyes darted to Sabine, a smile curling her lips. If I could have read her thoughts, they probably would have been along the lines of: Why would you want to ward off temptation? I just shook my head.
“Our church was founded during the great yellow fever epidemic here in the late seventeen hundreds.”
We followed Sister Catherine across the street, her pace slow and steady. She walked with the security of someone who knows that her outfit can literally stop traffic; no one’s going to run down a nun. Eventually we reached the open front gate of the cemetery. We heard voices, footsteps, and the fluttering of movement and activity just beyond it.
“Bringing you kids here is like having All Souls’ Day all over again, and I’ve always thought how nice it would be if every day were All Souls’ Day.” Sister Catherine stopped, looking at us with penetrating dusty blue eyes.
“All Souls’ Day?” Sabine asked.
“When people come to fix up the graves, right?” I said, recalling a mention I’d seen in my guidebook.
“Very good,” Sister Catherine said as we entered the grounds. We followed her along a narrow walkway lined with crypts of all sizes, some of crumbling brick just a few feet from the ground and boxy, the length of a casket, and others glistening white and easily the size of garden sheds. Pointed fences of thin metal spokes and black peeling paint surrounded many of them. Narrow walkways and alleys formed intersections in the gravel and dirt, as the cemetery unfolded in its miniature grid system.
We walked silently and somberly for a few long minutes, at one point needing to pull off to the side to allow a group of nearly two dozen tourists to pass. “It’s certainly the most famous and infamous of Saint Louis Number One, right this way . . .” the guide said to his followers, all shielded beneath hats and sunglasses.
Finally Sister Catherine continued. “On All Souls’ Day—and All Saints’ Day, for that matter—loved ones come to pay their respects and freshen up the grave sites.” She stopped before a beat-up crypt with patches of faded brick peeking out beneath dingy gray cement. “It’s lovely to have help on these two days, of course, but so many of these are left with no one to care for them. The truth is, our city of the dead has been suffering. I’ve been the caretaker here for many years, but I’m quite old and I can’t do the restoration work myself. With the help of kind volunteers like yourselves, we’re hoping to bring back its glory and to honor those buried here. So you’ll start right here and then you’ll be following a list of tombs we’re going to have you focus on. At some point I’m hoping to bring a contractor in to actually rebuild a few that are in particularly bad shape.”
“Great,” I said, studying our first target. The name chiseled into a marble slab in front read BARTHELEMY LAFON and a plaque described him as an architect. I’d have to tell Lance. I wondered how he was doing in that eerie house right now. It felt strange not to be working alongside him. “Looking forward to getting started,” I added.
“Cool,” Sabine seconded.
“I have some materials for you in the caretaker’s cottage out front.” Sister Catherine began to hobble back the way we’d come. “And I have some T-shirts and painter’s pants you can change into as well.” I was glad to not have to paint in my lone pair of khakis and one of my nicer blouses. Then the nun stopped in her tracks for a moment, looking at me as another tour group passed us by. “One more bit of the job, if you don’t mind,” she said. She touched my arm then waved a finger to lead us back the way we’d come; we turned down another narrow pathway. “We have a number of well-known New Orleanians represented here, which is why we get the tours,” she said in her low, rich crackle. “But really there’s just one tomb everyone comes for, as you might well know. Marie Laveau.”
We stopped before a tall, slim crypt reaching far above our heads. Much of its smooth white stone surface had been doodled on with notes of thanks, or, more commonly, Xs. So many past visitors had scrawled sets of XXX, three Xs together all across the tomb, in an array of colored markers or paint or pen. Around its base lay an assortment of items I could make no sense of: flowers (some of them dead), stones, bottles, bricks (some covered in foil), fruit that had been there long enough to rot (only the pits of peaches had been left in some cases), containers that seemed to hold leftovers from restaurant meals, books, pens, breath mints, maps, handwritten notes, candles, photos, bones, and plastic bags of herbs. “This tomb you will never paint,” Sister Catherine said sternly. “Are you familiar with Miss Laveau?”
No one said anything. I didn’t want to be that awful kid with her hand constantly up in class, but I didn’t want her to think we weren’t interested. Both Sabine and Drew looked nervous.
“Well, I do know she was a voodoo queen and also, I think, a nurse during the yellow fever outbreaks?” I offered.
“Yes, dear, excellent,” Sister Catherine said, looking at me and nodding.
“What’s with all these?” Sabine pointed to a cluster of Xs. Drew leaned in to inspect some that had been painted on, running her finger over them.
“That’s a fine question,” Sister Catherine said to Sabine, who looked proud of herself. “Well, there’s quite a bit of lore associated with her, as you can imagine. Many believe that if they leave these markings they’ll have various wishes granted. You may also see some visitors knocking three times on the tomb.” She did this herself. “There are so many stories like this, so many superstitions, and people come looking for help. We all have our own beliefs about where to find aid when we need it, don’t we?” She shook her head, suggesting that she wished everyone who came here would just cross the street and hit up the church instead. But I could certainly understand; after seeing what I had, I knew that you needed to find hope anywhere you could.
“At any rate,” she continued, “people also leave these various items as offerings, to entice Miss Laveau’s spirit to assist them. Unfortunately, as you can see, some insist on leaving perishable goods, which don’t stand much chance of lasting in this warm climate, and make a mess of things. Each day, if you might do a pass collecting anything rotten from here, it would be greatly appreciated.” With that she gave one final look at the site and walked away at her easy pace.
We followed her to a tiny gray shack that seemed barely larger than some of the more elaborate crypts. She jiggled the key in the door and we entered a single, sparse room. Inside sat a wooden desk and chair, a lamp, a metal storage cabinet, and a phone. And that’s about all that could fit. I didn’t feel any air conditioning, but just being out of the sun’s rays was a welcome relief. Sister Catherine pulled sharply folded clothes from the cabinet along with several papers bearing yellow highlighting.
“Here you are. This should be everything you need. This”—she shuffled through the papers, pulling one aside—“gives some basic painting tips. All the supplies are in here.”
“Thank you, Sister,” we said in unison.
She nodded slowly, eyes downcast, in that way that nuns always seemed to in movies, like when Joan and I would watch The Sound of Music at Christmastime. She shuffled toward the door and then turned around once more. “And please don’t remain in the cemetery past sundown. For . . . safety reasons,” she said, her voice taking on a heavy, chilling tone for a moment.
“What do you . . .” Sabine started. But before we could ask any more, Sister Catherine slipped out, the last tra
ce of her long black robe slithering away like a tail as the door shut.
“Nuns freak me out,” Sabine said after she left, giving a shimmy like she had the chills.
“C’mon, she was . . . sweet,” I said. Drew just giggled at us. We changed into the white cotton painter’s pants—which dwarfed Sabine and me, since they were apparently made for people twice our height—and equally enormous T-shirts with a drawing of the church on the front and STAFF in giant letters across the back. Sabine tugged at the extra material of her tee, trying to tie it all into a knot. Having little luck, she scowled.
“I know, these outfits are pretty hot, right?” I joked, and she laughed at herself.
With paint cans, rollers, brushes, and newspapers in hand, we made our way back to a trio of graves on our hit list. The sun seemed to have grown hotter than it had any right to be in January. I spread out sheets of newspaper on the ground around Lafon’s grave site and set to work rolling out the thick pastelike paint over the crypt. The thirsty cement soaked it up. I rolled layer after layer and I tried, above all else, to keep my mind from wandering too far down corridors I didn’t want it exploring.
By midafternoon, I had rolled my final coat and had Lafon positively gleaming. At one point my fellow painters had given me cash and sent me on an expedition to round up some lunch, during which I discovered that the mysterious muffuletta, which I had seen mentioned in signs all around town and sounded like a species of small animal, was just a fancy name for a sandwich.
As we were cleaning up, Drew, who looked graceful with her long, lean limbs but was surprisingly clumsy, managed to spill a can of paint all over her sneakers.
“Well, at least white goes with everything,” Sabine offered.
“Totally coulda been worse,” I said, trying to be nice since she looked a little upset.
I told her and Sabine to go ahead, that I would close up the caretaker’s cottage and put things away so they could have a head start getting home to let Drew clean up before our tutoring session. With an organ droning in the distance, I dropped the keys off in the church’s main office. A kind, bespectacled, fifty-ish administrative assistant named Susan directed me to leave them in a trophy-shaped urn, which looked eerily like ones used for holding remains. On the way out, my phone, the old-fashioned one, buzzed with a text message from Dante: He and Max wanted to walk back home with me but were running a few minutes late and asked if I didn’t mind waiting.
In search of a place to kill time, I wandered around the side of the church to that garden with the imposing statue and a small bench. But something else caught my eye, and I kept right on walking toward it. Lights flickered ahead from within a darkened passageway. As I got closer, I could see it looked like a cave, a cozy little hollowed-out rock formation. This had to be the grotto Sister Catherine had mentioned. Inside, the space was barely wider than my arm span, but had been outfitted with shelves that now held hundreds of lit candles. The burning scent mingled with a mustiness, but nevertheless, it felt comforting, like an old blanket found at the bottom of a chest. Along the rough walls, handwritten notes had been taped up, and small engraved plaques offering thanks mounted, some with the names of those whose wishes had been fulfilled. I scanned these messages. I wondered what they had all asked for. A warm breeze swirled outside, whistling against the cave’s opening. A quick gust whipped past me into the grotto and the flames of all the candles bent at once but only one blew out. I didn’t like the idea of someone somewhere potentially losing a wish on my watch. I removed the candle from its crimson glass bed on the shelf and tipped its wick into the flame of its neighbor. It ignited bright and strong.
You’ve got no idea what kinda business a voodoo shop can do.” Dante, excited, rattled on a mile a minute. “We just got this tour group, totally went wild, and it’s tough because the place only just opened and she’s still getting her pantry stocked and her temple set up. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two sweaty sunburned women from Alabama get in a tug of war over the last voodoo doll for attracting marriage.”
“I pity their future husbands,” I said.
“No kidding.” Max shook his head, whistling.
“And not that I’m in the market for it, but they actually have dolls for that?”
“There are dolls for everything. Love, luck, money, revenge, you name it. Someday my prince will come,” Dante joked quietly, fluttering his eyelashes. Max was scrolling through the texts in his phone, not paying attention.
“Lemme tell you,” I said under my breath. “I saw a prince on New Year’s and they’re not all that great.” Max was on the phone now.
“Sorry, sweetie. Didn’t mean to bring that all—”
“No, no, it’s cool. Besides, we’re in it together.”
“I know, thanks for that,” he said. His playful sarcasm had a way of making everything seem okay.
“So what’s your boss like?” I asked, trying to navigate away from dark topics.
“Mariette. She’s superhot but, you know, obviously not my type. She’s gorgeous and kind of mysterious. There’s this whole crazy backroom of stuff she uses in her spells and readings. We were unpacking it today and setting it up and labeling things like, literally, jars of chicken bones and alligator teeth.”
“Whoa. Hardcore.” I stopped for a minute. I wasn’t quite sure how to broach it, but I couldn’t help it when the alarms went off. “Do you think Mariette is . . .” I started softly. “One of, you know, them?”
“Totally good question,” Dante said quietly, his tone darkening just a shade as he thought it over. He had somehow survived being poisoned, brainwashed, and almost drafted into devilhood earlier this year. He played it so cool, though, that I sometimes forgot how harrowing it had all been. It made me shiver now, even in this midday heat. “I don’t know. I just don’t get a vibe from her that she’s like them. But it’s too early to know. What about your boss? Any hotties where you are?” he asked in all seriousness.
At this, I had to smile. “She’s a nun. An old nun. Sister Catherine.”
He burst out laughing. “That made my day! Very glamorous, indeed.”
Max was off the phone now, shaking his head. “Sorry, my mom, you know, checking in all the time.”
“I was just telling Hav about Mariette,” Dante said.
“She’s really cool,” Max confirmed. “I guess she had a shop years ago in another part of town that got wiped out by Hurricane Katrina and she’s finally rebuilding in this new spot. She’s a tough lady.”
“She sounds really, I don’t know, wild,” I said, imagining that supply of bones and teeth.
“Yeah. I think she’s gonna be awesome,” Dante said gushing, his eyes dancing, as we neared home.
“I’m gonna run in and grab Lance,” I said when we stopped in front of the LaLaurie mansion.
“Good. You guys are too PG-13 for your own good,” Dante said, laughing.
“You know what I mean.” I smacked his arm, rolling my eyes. “Do you wanna come in? C’mon, how often do you get to check out a haunted house?” Even in the bright, comforting light of day I still felt like it was somehow taunting me.
“Okay.” Dante nodded. “You convinced us.” He stepped up to the door and let himself right in. Max turned a wary gaze to the threshold, not quite as gung ho as Dante but following him nonetheless.
We entered into a construction site—exposed rafters above, plastic sheeting in place of walls, a paper-strewn drafting table in one corner, and all manner of scaffolding and platforms that had been rigged up.
“Lance?” I called out.
“This place is totally the ugly ‘before’ picture of a makeover. Bleh,” Dante said, touching the plastic and cringing like it might bite. The soundtrack of banging hammers and buzzing saws echoed from another wing.
“We’re back here!” Lance’s voice strained to be heard above all the activity. Dante and Max disappeared down a darkened hallway, anxious to inspect. I was about to follow when a flicker caught my eye
.
The foyer window had been left open and a lit votive candle burned on the sill. It reminded me of the ones I had just seen in the grotto. A gust swirled in, and the flame put up a fight, flickering before it was finally extinguished. That’s when I noticed something peeking from beneath it: a corner of white paper under the crystal holder. Perhaps it was a wish, I joked with myself. Though I figured it was probably just a receipt from the convenience store across the street, or a list of what the contractors had to tackle next, I couldn’t resist. I slid out the crisply folded square of smooth ivory paper, thick and luscious like cotton. And there it was, as though branded into the paper: H.
My heart stopped, as if it already knew something my brain didn’t. I leaned against the windowsill for support and opened up the slip of paper. It read:
Haven,
I’m here and I’m watching you.
Always,
L
The words swirled in my head. They terrified me and thrilled me at once. I knew that handwriting. It had once accompanied a dress, a gift for me to wear on my first and last date with him. Yes, I knew who that L. was, without any doubt. The realization chilled me, and yet I felt myself breaking into a sweat. I was much more comfortable with Lucian safely confined to my thoughts and memories, not here in this world with me. I didn’t know who he was now or how his penance in the underworld might have changed him. I really didn’t even know whose side he was on. Enough time had passed to take with it all the good things he had once been, allowing only the bad to remain. There was too much I didn’t know.
I read it again. Then, without another thought, I crumpled it in my hand, as though it might disappear if I could hold it tight enough, suffocate it. I stuffed it in my wallet, as voices bounded down the corridor, inching closer. Lance, Dante, the whole group appeared.
Infatuate Page 7
