Infatuate (8 page)

Our group had two others in addition to Lance, Dante, and Max. The first was a black-attired, goth-inspired girl with nose piercings named River. “Yes, it’s my real name,” she had said, rolling her eyes after introducing herself back at the house, even though no one had questioned her. The other was Drew, an earthy type in flared jeans and a weathered turquoise tunic, with the kind of wavy, sun-kissed locks that begged to be pinned with daisies.

“So, Haven and I will take science, math, and biographies,” Lance proposed. The others split up the remaining subjects, and returned downstairs in search of fiction and children’s books. I headed that way too, until Lance grabbed my arm. “Science and math are up here.” He looked over his shoulder to be sure the others were gone. “I have to tell you something.”

“Ohhhkay,” I said, following.

We climbed one more flight of stairs to find a stuffy, dark-paneled room, musty because of so many yellowed tomes.

“So, what did you see this morning, anyway?” he asked quietly as we made our way through the towering stacks, scanning for the titles we needed. We had the room entirely to ourselves.

“Just, you know, a dead body.” The thought of it made me shiver all over again. I pried out one of the books on the list.

“I think you should start taking pictures again,” he said in a serious tone. “Just to make sure we know who we’re dealing with all the time.” He crouched down to pull out a biology textbook.

“Yeah, I was thinking that too.” I had, of course, brought my camera—it was nothing special, a used digital model I’d gotten a while back. But I had learned over the past year that the equipment didn’t matter: I was a soul illuminator. When I took a photo of someone, anyone, their true aura shone through. My photos showed inner beauty or, just the opposite, could detect a decrepit spirit, a decaying soul.

“Is that all?” I asked, still somber, but a lightness was creeping in, as it sometimes did when we had these kinds of conversations that other people just didn’t have.

“Yeah, you know, no big deal,” he said as if kidding with me. We smiled at each other.

“No sweat, right?” I shook my head and returned to my sheet. “Okay, then, just four more and Darwin.” I looked at Lance and noticed that a hint of worry lingered behind those heavy frames. Perhaps I could change that. “I’ll take the bottom two, you take the top two and”—I took a slow step backwards—“I’ll race you for Darwin!” I dropped the books in my hands and took off running. His face brightened instantly.

“Not fair, you got a head start!” he called after me from the end of the aisle.

“Sounds like something a loser would say!” I snaked through the next aisle, yanking a book from the shelves, and I saw his face on the other side. In a burst, we sprinted again, agile and silent. I grabbed my other book—astronomy—and whipped around a corner, closing in on Darwin. Lance shot out from the opposite side. I scanned the numbers on the spines.
The Origin of Species
was going to be on the top shelf, which I couldn’t even reach. I dropped the books in my hands, ran and launched myself up, pulling it out while airborne. I should have landed on my feet. But Lance caught me, bringing me back to the ground.

“I still won, you know,” I needled him. I held the book behind my back, while he clasped his hands around my waist.

“I’d say it was a team effort.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.” I smiled as he leaned me against the bookcase to kiss me.

After the books were gathered, we all set up the tutoring room, and Connor gave us a crash course in teaching tips. “Don’t make anyone feel stupid and, on the flip side, if you find you’re actually not as knowledgeable as you thought on something, don’t be afraid to admit it and we’ll assign someone else,” he advised us.

“Why are you looking at me?” a jock named Tom, in a Lakers jersey, piped up. “I was kidding. I know gym isn’t actually one of the subjects.”

Then Connor walked us through a handbook on counseling. “Or, as I like to call it, ‘knowing when to call the cops,’” he said in a joking tone. Drew raised her hand. “You don’t have to raise your hand, Drew.”

“Oh, sorry,” she said meekly. “But isn’t there, like, doctor/patient confidentiality?”

“I once talked someone off a ledge,” River said, stone-faced and a shade confrontational.

“I bet you did,” Brody quipped.

“I think you mean ‘down from a ledge,’” Dante prompted.

“That’s what I said,” she said, sniping back.

And the afternoon went on until we were all well enough prepared to not inflict any scholastic or psychological damage. The rest of the day and evening passed uneventfully. Then again, when a day starts as that one had, it really couldn’t get much more . . .
eventful,
thankfully.

6. The City of the Dead

The next morning the schedule simply read,
Tour of Community Service Projects, Part 1.

“Some of the locals need some free labor, and a lot of folks are still trying to rebuild their businesses and lives or maintain public spaces with limited resources,” Connor explained as he shepherded us out of the house. “So before reporting for tutoring and counseling duties every afternoon, you’ll be on a rotation aiding New Orleanians near and far.” He stopped before the mansion next door. My pulse picked up. “Lance, Brody, and Tom, you’re here today.” I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Lance gave a wave as he went inside.

“Between you and me, I’m kinda glad not to be in that place,” I whispered to Dante.

Connor led the rest of our group on a walk winding through the streets. When we reached wide, bustling Rampart Street, he stopped.

“Haven, Sabine, and Drew, you’re at Saint Louis Cemetery Number One, just past that church there. They’re expectin’ ya.”

“Huh?” I asked. Dante let out a single staccato cackle, then flung his hand over his mouth. Connor looked up but didn’t say a word.

“Yeah, way better than a haunted house, Hav,” Dante said. “Enjoy.”

“Dante and Max, you’re at Priestess Mariette’s Voodoo Temple.” Connor pointed down the street to a sign blowing in the warm breeze.

“Are you serious?” Max asked.

“Yep. Go on! That’s a lady you do
not
want to keep waitin’.”

“Awesome,” Dante said cheerfully.

“The rest of you guys, come with me. We’re hitting a food bank a few blocks down for some Meals on Wheels action. See y’all later at the library. Make me proud!” he instructed as he left us.

The smooth gray façade of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church beckoned from across Rampart Street, its spire piercing the cloudless morning sky. According to our packets, the contact here was a Sister Catherine. Well, a nun would certainly be a change from my last boss.

Just inside the church’s heavy white-painted doors, a small tour group had gathered, their guide spouting facts in a whisper amplified by the vaulted ceiling. The only other sounds came from the creaks of the dozen or so parishioners shifting ever so slightly in their wooden pews, lost in their own thoughts and prayers. Light streamed in through stained-glass windows, speckling bits of color against the sharp white walls. I hadn’t actually spent a ton of time in any church, with the exception of the small, cozy chapel nestled within the hospital, where I had often escorted the family members of patients or, better yet, been dispatched to retrieve loved ones when there was good news. The silence here was so deep it made me aware of every clumsy step and noisy breath I took. I felt like everyone was looking at me. Sabine was slightly less concerned about that sort of thing.

“I totally love this,” she whispered to Drew, tugging on her burlap-like messenger bag. “Hav, you need one of these. Get rid of that backpack.”

“I was going for, you know, geek chic,” I whispered back, embarrassed.

“I think it’s nice,” Drew said. I liked that she was one of those people who could be counted on to be polite no matter what.

“Yeah, no.” Sabine shook her head at me. “We’ll work on it. But what is this? Hemp?”

“Yeah, but it’s really softer than it looks,” Drew said, holding it out for Sabine to pet. “I love a good hemp. Connor actually talked me into it.”

I was suddenly paying attention. “You went shopping with Connor?”

Drew shook her head. “No, I met him back home at this vegan shop I used to go to a lot, and he convinced me I had to get one. I guess he has one too.”

Sabine and I looked at each other. “That guy gets around,” she said.

“What?” Drew asked, confused. But we didn’t get to explain.

I felt the lightest tap on my shoulder, like a bird landing there, and couldn’t help being startled. I spun around to find a tiny woman in a habit, only her milky, moon-shaped face exposed. Hands clasped before her, she smiled with pruned lips. She looked to be in her seventies, at least.

“Hello, girls. You must be from the student program,” she greeted us in a delicate voice that crackled with age, like Joan’s old vinyl records, and was tinged with the sweetness of her native drawl. Crepelike folds of skin hung at her neck and creases were nestled into pockets around her eyes and mouth. Hers was a fragile face whose years gave it an added warmth. A vein-vined hand extended from beneath her robe to meet mine.

“Sister Catherine, hi, so nice to meet you. I’m Haven.” Her grip was as gentle as her presence. The others shook her soft hand and whispered hellos too.

“A pleasure to have you here, my dears. We appreciate your service. Have you seen Saint Louis Number One yet?”

“No, ma’am,” said a serious Sabine.

“It will be celebrating its two hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary next year so we’re sprucing it up. It’s quite beautiful, but will be far more stunning from the contributions of your able hands and warm hearts.”

“Thank you, we look forward to helping out,” I said, as Drew smiled. She was several inches taller than all three of us and was hunched over now, which made her look even shier.

Sister Catherine led us back outside into the warm sunshine. Her back curved slightly, making her just about my height. I wondered how tall she had once been and whether she was very hot shrouded in the drapes of that robe and headpiece.

“You’ll be spending most of your time in our city of the dead,” she began. Those words chilled my blood for a split second. She continued, “But there are such wonders in our little church. You’re welcome to explore as much as you like. You’ll find in our garden”—she pointed to an area behind the church, where a life-size statue, probably of a saint or apostle I should have known, stood watch—“the most delightful grotto. Feel free to light candles or leave messages there. We find that many prayers are answered.”

“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.