Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  “Interesting defense,” Rose piped. “But, either way, Douglas either lied to my great aunt or, at the very least, omitted the truth about his situation. Guilty!”

  “Yes, guilty as a rat in a cheese shop,” Lizzy added.

  After a couple of trips to the restroom and some bottled water, tempers cooled and empathy replaced vitriol. All agreed that Luzia was a victim, either by design or by happenstance, and the trio drifted back to puzzling together what might have become of the beautiful Portuguese woman alone in America and stranded in Cape Charles.

  Lizzy imagined Luzia walking the streets on cool nights, thinking about home, avoiding strangers, keeping her doors locked, and sitting on her porch stroking Mateus, always wondering when she would hear from Douglas. Waiting for six months, maybe even a year seemed reasonable. But nearly two years without word? Most, even hopeless romantics, would have abandoned hope.

  “Why wait? Why not head home or at least to a city where she could have met people who spoke her language?” Carter asked.

  “Maybe she liked it here,” Rose said. “Maybe it was as simple as that. Or maybe she never gave up hope that Douglas would return. Remember, the war ended in November 1918. Maybe Luzia figured Douglas had remained deployed. Maybe she figured they needed him for a while to help put things back together over there. Hope is a strong drug. It gives you a hangover for a long time. It’s hard to shake off.”

  After hashing out a few similar scenarios, the trio ended their discussion where it started, trying to decide once and for all what happened to Luzia Rosa Douro, the invisible woman. Answering this would require one more trip to see the Wizard of Oz—Cyril Brown.

  CHAPTER 19

  CYRIL AND BEST buddy Mac were well into their routine of bad-mouthing each other and the opposing political parties when the trio approached. Coffee had stirred the cobwebs in their heads from the night before, but it hadn’t loosened them. They all had had at least two glasses of wine over their limits and barely slept as their conversations about Luzia Douro formed shapes in their brains.

  Rose had dreamed that night of seeing her great aunt standing on a ferry boat bound for Norfolk, waving to those on shore, smiling. She had screamed to her great aunt, who seemed oblivious. Luzia just evenly waved her hand like a wobble figurine attached to a dashboard.

  Lizzy had rested on Rose’s couch, leg raised on pillows, imagining walking the streets of Cape Charles arm in arm with Luzia, speaking in Portuguese about music, fashion, and art, smiling at neighbors sipping sweet tea on their porches, and gossiping about those frequenting the houses of ill repute scattered in dark corners of town and sightings of well-heeled industrialists cruising on Mason Way in their gold or burgundy Fords.

  Carter had slept more soundly than the two women. His main thought was what Luzia must have looked like and whether she was as hot as her great niece, Rose.

  ***

  “Mornin’ gents,” Carter said. “More titillating doom and gloom today, I see.” He squatted to read the headlines Mac and Cyril no doubt were sparring over. “TRUMP SAYS ‘LOCK HER UP’ ” read the largest on the front page.

  “You shouldn’t use that word around ladies, son,” Mac said and scowled at Carter.

  “What word?” Carter replied, dumbfounded.

  “You know, the T word,” Mac whispered. “Tits. It’s disrespectful.”

  “That’s not what he said, you old fool.” Cyril chuckled. “He said titillating. Titillating. Just keep your yap shut and stick to what you know, which ain’t much.”

  “Abraham Lincoln would be so proud,” Carter quipped. He looked at Rose and Lizzy, who were giggling.

  “Lincoln? Overrated!” Cyril barked. “Warren Harding—now there was a great Republican.”

  “There he goes again with this Harding crap,” Mac said. “What about Harding’s mistresses and the Teapot Dome Scandal? Congress damn near threw him out of office.”

  “Fake news!” Cyril said.

  “Mr. Brown, sorry to interrupt your lofty repertoire, but may we have a word with you? It won’t take long.”

  “Sure, Miss Rose. What can I do ya for?”

  “First of all, thank you so much for the materials you provided to us. They’ve been extremely helpful in helping us figure out what might have happened to my great aunt. But, it seems we’ve hit a dead end—no pun intended. We think my great aunt died here in Cape Charles, and maybe even in the fire at the old bank, you know, where the pub is now. Or maybe she didn’t die there. We just don’t know. We can’t find any record, other than those old bank ledgers Carter found in your attic.”

  “Right, I’m following you. So, what do you need from me?”

  “Well, where would someone without family be buried? Are there places with unmarked graves or where the town put people who were homeless or unidentifiable?”

  “Good question,” Cyril said. He scratched his chin. “You know, cemeteries are scattered all over the Shore. Lots of families buried their own right on their farms or in their yards. There are lots of private cemeteries too. And churches used to chip in to take care of their own when someone died and was without family or money. I wonder, what religion do you think your great aunt was?”

  “Most definitely Roman Catholic. We even have priests on my mother’s side of the family. One relative used to carve crucifixes for churches in Portugal and Italy. Palo Douro, I think his name was.”

  “Well then, I’d suggest speaking with Father Ricardo at Saint Mary’s,” Cyril said.

  “Which church is that?” Carter asked. “This town has almost as many churches as it does stray cats. There seems to be one on every corner.”

  “Yeah, we got loads of each.” Cyril laughed. “Lots of sinners and cats here, I guess. Plenty of job security for soul savers. We got Methodist, three or four Baptists, Catholic, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Eastern Orthodox, even a couple of those whack-a-do New Age ones. No mosques though, thank goodness. Yeah, I’d say there’s one church for about every eighty people, including children, who live in town.”

  “Lots of sinners here is right,” Mac chimed. “The biggest one is sittin’ right here. Cyril reads the Bible each night because he’s looking for loopholes. Don’t get near him in a lightning storm is all I can say.”

  Cyril snickered and gave his buddy a high-five. “Touché, you old goat.” Then he turned to Rose. “Like I was saying, Miss Rose, go see Padre Ricardo. Maybe he can help. But don’t say that I sent you. He’ll slam the door in your face and probably call in an exorcist.”

  ***

  Saint Mary’s was just six blocks from where Carter, Rose, and Lizzy stood. On the walk over they agreed that Rose would do the talking, and that they definitely would not say that Cyril had sent them.

  Father Ricardo, a short, round man with heavy cheeks and stumpy legs, was watering flowers in vases on the church steps. He turned and flashed a smile that lifted his cheeks almost to the corners of his eyes. Rose extended her hand and the priest turned off the hose nozzle then wiped his damp hand on his khakis.

  Rose introduced the entourage and quickly explained their quest. Carter thought she would have made a fine newspaper journalist by the way she condensed the story of Luzia into a few sentences.

  Then the priest led them inside, down the long church aisle flanked by stained-glass renditions of the stages of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection. The main altar was small but ornate, with a life-sized carved rendering of Jesus hanging spread-eagle, nails in his palms and feet, his head bloodied by a crown of thorns.

  “Rose, I want you to see something up close.” Father Ricardo walked her up the two steps and onto the altar, then to the wall behind it holding the crucifix with a bloodied corpse.

  “Extraordinary,” Rose said. “It looks so real. It’s beautiful, purely from an artistic perspective. The pain in the man’s face seems palpable. The detail is exquisite—so lifelike. It gives me chills.”

  Rose looked over her shoulder and saw Carter sitting casually in the fr
ont pew, legs crossed and arms folded. Lizzy, however, was at the altar steps. She was kneeling with her palms pressed together as she stared into the bloodied face of her Savior.

  “Closer,” the priest beckoned as Rose approached the foot of the cross, its feet the size of her own, the spikes through them the size of her thumb.

  “Look at the base of the cross. Do you see letters? Read them out loud so your friends can hear.”

  “Presente de Luzia Rosa Douro. Oh my God!”

  “Indeed,” the priest said. He smiled again, and his blue eyes beamed with the intensity of headlights. “Your great aunt obtained this for the church dopo la morte, capire?”

  “Sí. Yes, Father.”

  “There is a signature by the artist. See it?” the priest asked. “Look right here.” He pointed to a small mark near Christ’s feet.

  Criado por Palo Douro.

  “My God . . . again. That says created by Palo Douro. Had to be Auntie Rosa’s relative.”

  “Her brother, your great uncle,” said the priest.

  Carter approached the cross to get a look for himself. Lizzy, still kneeling, blessed herself, closed her eyes, and began to pray.

  “This happened long before my time, but as I understand it, Miss Luzia came to Saint Mary’s often,” Father Ricardo said. “Some of our parishioners spoke Italian, and Luzia spoke Portuguese. The languages were close enough to understand each other. Apparently, Luzia was childless and unwed. But, she was engaged to someone in the war and living in a boarding house here waiting for him. The man never came for her, but Luzia kept her faith that he would. She prayed almost every day and thought that, perhaps, if she made a more substantial gesture to God and the church, her fiancé would return to her. So, she wrote her brother and commissioned this magnificent carving.”

  “Father, you said, in Italian, that she made the gift in memoriam. So, she was gone by the time it arrived?”

  “Yes, my dear. Luzia had died, apparently in a fire. The church buried her at a small gravesite over by Oyster. There used to be a Catholic church there too. But it washed away in the Labor Day hurricane of 1935. Not much left there now. Most of the grave markers are gone. I’m afraid Oyster, and a lot of these small coastal towns, will suffer the same fate someday. God is punishing us for ruining our planet, I fear.”

  ***

  Rose sat on the front steps of Saint Mary’s. She felt stuffed with feeling and needed a few minutes to absorb all the emotional calories the morning had delivered. It was a flood of information that washed over her like a storm tide. She needed to catch her breath and get oxygen to her brain. The priest handed her a cup of coffee and carried a mug of his own. Lizzy and Carter took the cue and left to give their friend and the padre some quiet time.

  “May I join you?”

  “Sure, Father. Thank you.”

  “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, a lot to absorb, for sure. I’m feeling sad for Luzia but happy to know that at least she had someone here to talk to and that she wasn’t entirely alone.”

  “People are often more resilient than we give them credit for,” the priest said. “They find ways to find strength.”

  “Luzia must have had a strong constitution, Father. Truth is, we think that Luzia’s supposed fiancé had no intention of marrying her. And we know that he was killed and that Luzia was supposed to rendezvous with him here, in Cape Charles. She waited for him, almost two years best we can tell, living here in the dark and under false pretenses. And, Father, I think she’s still here.”

  “How so?” the priest said.

  “Father, I’m a parapsychologist, a scientist trying to establish protocols to prove—or disprove—afterlife and the paranormal. As such, I hold open the possibility that we continue to exist in some form after we die. Perhaps that existence is internal only, meaning that the deceased live only in our imaginations. Or perhaps those manifestations we see or sense are some form of energy, or thought, or perception. I can’t know for sure—no one does. But whatever is going on, I sense that my great aunt dwells in this place. Does any of that make sense?”

  “Perfect sense, my dear. There are aspects of our conscious lives that we do not fully comprehend. I get that and embrace it. Do I believe we exist in some form after death? You bet. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be in this line of work. It’s why I am a priest. It’s why I believe in a power far greater than us. The concept of life after death is the taproot of nearly all religions. Without that bedrock faith beneath our feet, we have no incentive to lead good lives.”

  The sky rumbled to the south and Rose looked up, spotting gray stacks rolling in over the Bay.

  “Thunderstorms. That time of year I guess,” she said.

  The priest looked skyward and nodded.

  “Father, sounds like we’re searching for the same thing, but from opposite ends of the spectrum. You rely on blind faith in your religious dogma as validation that we live after death. I, on the other hand, place faith only in those things backed by what’s tangible or can be verified. Faith is anathema in my world. Forgive me, Father, but accepting something as fact without proof seems like the lazy way out.”

  Father Ricardo lightly patted Rose on the shoulder. He gave a light sigh, like Yoda trying to figure out how to coach the stubborn, young Luke Skywalker.

  “Rose, I hear this a lot—the science versus faith paradox. I’ve read many texts about it. I consult my conscience and Bible about this all the time. What I have concluded, after four decades of being a priest, is that the faith world and science world are more compatible than dissimilar. The difference is how we perceive what we experience.”

  Thunder boomed as clouds eclipsed the remaining rays of the noon sun, and humidity drew beads of sweat to the surface of the priest’s forehead. “Living here has been a delight,” he said, “but I’m really not sure how people endured before air conditioning.”

  Father Ricardo sipped his coffee and quieted himself, not wanting to proselytize. Rose was clearly beyond his persuasive reach, with an intellect likely more developed than his own. She was more colleague than subordinate.

  “My dear, as a professional you at least acknowledge the possibility of life after death, correct?” Father Ricardo asked.

  “Yes, that’s correct. In some form, not necessarily physical.”

  “Okay then, you also try and verify paranormal events to give them credence, correct?”

  “Yes sir, in general terms.”

  “In religion, we acknowledge that certain events cannot be fully explained, like the resurrection of Christ or the aspiration of Mary Magdalene. We simply suggest that if you believe these things to be true, then they are true. That’s essentially what the Bible teaches: Belief and prayer create our reality. Those beliefs live in our mind and conscious. Religion—church—provides affirmation of those beliefs. It provides a venue for people to experience their faith.”

  “Sounds like a fancy way of promoting group think, Father.”

  “It is group think, precisely. And those in my business see that as validation, not as weakness. Remember, Rose, there is strength in numbers.”

  “Yes, but it seems you’re selling afterlife insurance policies. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Father, but organized religion presents fairy tales as fact. I mean, come on now, walking on water, healing lepers, a virgin mother impregnated by an angel, Adam and Eve—really?”

  “How can you be so sure those things aren’t real? You base your beliefs on proof. So, where is your proof, Rose? How is a belief that Christ rose from the dead different from a secular person, such as yourself, believing that they heard a voice or saw a spirit? It’s really just a matter of context. The afterlife only lives as concept if you believe in it. Those who channel spirits only do so because they believe they have some ability to connect with those who are dead. Conventional religions like mine, at their essence, legitimize those beliefs. They say it’s okay to believe in spirits and that afterlife is the promise of God. We
are, you see, essentially operating from the same premise, Rose. In my world, we simply accept as fact what you’re trying to prove or mock. The way I see it, we believers are a step ahead of you. We’ve arrived at the spiritual place you’re struggling to find.”

  “So, padre, just like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz, you do believe in ghosts.”

  The priest giggled at Rose’s jest. “Well, we have a different name for them, but yes.”

  “Okay, Father, then allow me this question: Do you believe the dead are among us? Do you believe the spirit of my great aunt Luzia resides in Cape Charles? Because I do. I think Luzia is still here. I don’t think she ascended to some mystical heaven or perished in hell. I think she’s still waiting for Douglas. I think she helped us find you. I think she wanders these streets and buildings waiting, and that makes me sad.”

  “If you believe that then it is real, because it lives in your mind, Rose. You may not be able to prove it or see it, but it’s real to you. You feel it, sense it. That’s what Catholics call faith.”

  “I have faith in my beliefs, Father, I do. But as a scientist I need more than wishful thinking. I need explanations. I want to stand up and scream to atheists and agnostics and faithless people that ‘You’re wrong, and I can prove it.’ I want to believe, desperately, that things we intuit, feel, or see that aren’t quantifiable are in fact substantive. I want to believe that there is more to life than dying and then darkness. What a horrible scenario! Frightening, really.”

  “Maybe that is hell,” Father Ricardo said. “Ever consider that?”

  “Very convenient argument, Father. If you flip that around, what you’re saying is that those who don’t believe in life after death are living in hell, or destined for it. How insidious.”

  “You’ve got some anger inside you, Rose. But that comes from the frustration of walking in the dark. You’re gonna get lost from time to time.”

  “As a child, I wanted to believe in Santa Claus, and it gave me great joy when I did. But, it turned out to be a lie. Religion—all of them—is at best a well-intentioned deception, just like Jolly Saint Nick. It’s group rationalization intended to make us feel hopeful and to control how we behave. But in the end, it can’t be taken as literal, which means it’s more fiction than fact. I prefer fact.”