The Undoing of Saint Silvanus

by Beth Moore

  Jillian—

  Gotta pull an all-nighter. Huge exam tomorrow.

  You’re welcome to sleep in my room again but I won’t be there tonight.

  See you tomorrow night if you’re around!

  ‒C

  Jillian blew every bit of breath out of her lungs as she gazed down the hall at the door to Rafe’s room. A bulldozer couldn’t have shoved her into that room the night she realized it had been Rafe’s, and anyway, she had been too scared to sleep by herself after all that had transpired. Caryn had been nice enough to let Jillian sleep on the second twin bed in her room for the past couple nights. But with Caryn out all night, she’d be just as alone there as in her own room. Her other option was another night on the Snapdragon, but she was too scared to sleep in that huge room by herself. What if somebody showed up again on the back porch? Or at the front door?

  Her best option was to take her chances back in Rafe’s room. Jillian opened the door slowly, glancing behind her to see if the creaking would draw Olivia out of her suite. The coast was clear. She turned on the bedside lamp, shut the door behind her, and dropped down on the edge of the bed. Olivia’s words to Sergeant DaCosta about the picture of Rafe and the knife swirled in her head, pinning her eyes to the closet door.

  “It’s now or never,” she whispered, getting to her feet. She opened the closet door, spying two boxes on a high shelf, pushed to the far left. She’d seen them before but never paid any attention to them and now she wondered why. Jillian had always been the curious sort. She hadn’t been herself since that day at Sigmund’s.

  Standing on her tiptoes on the seat of a chair, she struggled to scoot the nearest box off the shelf and steady it to the floor. Inside were three slender photo albums and hundreds of loose pictures. She glanced into each album to determine their order, then sitting cross-legged on the floor, pulled what appeared to be the earliest one into her lap.

  Four yellowed pictures were positioned symmetrically on the first page under the cellophane sleeve. A strip of paper in the center of the page had a date handwritten on it in blue ink. Jillian calculated the years and murmured, “Forty-six years ago this coming December 15.” The timing confirmed what she’d already guessed. The photos were from the day of Rafe’s birth. The top two pictures were close-ups of a very young Olivia in a hospital gown with a newborn in her arms. Her appearance looked every bit the part of a woman who’d just given birth, but there was a beauty and softness to her that Jillian found almost unrecognizable.

  Olivia’s smile was weak with obvious weariness but unmistakable just the same. Jillian studied the photographs closely under the direct light of the lamp. The tears in the young mother’s eyes would have seemed normal under the circumstances for almost anyone else, but Jillian could hardly wrap her mind around this tender version of Olivia. Both pictures on the bottom of the page were of a newborn in a clear bassinet in the delivery room. Baby Boy Fontaine, 7 lbs., 10 oz.

  Jillian resented the ache of emotion she felt in her throat. She shut the photo album and pitched it back in the box. Pulling her knees to her chest, she clutched them tightly, letting her mind replay every offense she had against the Fontaine family until the tenderness passed.

  She picked up the album again and determined to look through it with greater haste to minimize the emotional fallout. The album tracked Rafe’s first twelve months with only a handful of snapshots including his father. Jillian realized when she saw the first depiction of Mr. Fontaine that she’d never spotted a single picture of him around Saint Sans. Then again, there were no family pictures in the main part of the house. If any were on display under that roof, they had to be in Olivia’s private suite. Her husband had the look of a man who meant to come across tough whether or not he did. He economized on the smiles and most of the shots depicting him and the baby betrayed a hint of staging.

  The only picture of Rafe with both of his parents was at his christening. They were positioned next to the priest in the full-length snapshot, Rafe cradled in Olivia’s arms and wearing a long white christening gown. Next to the picture was a small rectangular card embossed with four words in blue calligraphy:

  Raphael: God has healed.

  Jillian gave extra attention to the picture only because it alone captured the three of them. The christening meant nothing to her and the meaning of the name, in her opinion, had proved preposterously ironic. To Jillian, religion was primarily good for making people neurotic.

  Not a single other child appeared among the photographs of Rafe’s first year. The album closed with a typical picture of a plump-faced baby covered in white icing.

  The second album was no thicker but covered a wider span of time, stretching from Rafe’s toddlerhood to early elementary school. He looked about three years old in a snapshot capturing him shirtless and in shorts and cowboy boots. Pictures of each birthday from Rafe’s second to his seventh were affixed to the pages, some with a cake, others with a gift. A few appeared to have been taken at small birthday parties, but most depicted him alone, like the majority of the other photos in the albums.

  Jillian found herself wondering why Olivia never had any other children and why all semblance of extended family seemed conspicuously absent. Rafe’s aloneness seemed so obvious in the pictures. Midthought, the absurdity of Jillian’s curiosity hit her. She’d also been raised alone with no extended family. But there was one vast difference: at least Rafe had a dad in his life.

  Jillian stared at the last page in the second album, unable to ascertain why the solitary picture yanked at her heart more than all the rest. It was Rafe’s first-grade school picture. His plump face was surrounded by the usual blue background and typical white edge. He had a smattering of light-brown freckles across his nose. He was missing all four front teeth and his hair was endearingly disobedient and disheveled. The collar of his polo-style shirt was turned up on one side and his ears stuck out just enough to squeeze a grin out of any woman with a drop of maternal hormone.

  The emotion that shot through Jillian’s chest was so new and disturbing to her that it set her on her feet. She stuck the album back in the box and closed it without flipping through the last one in search of the picture with the pocketknife. She climbed back on the chair and shoved the box onto the closet shelf.

  Just before Jillian stepped down from the chair, she reached up and pressed the edge of the other box with her fingertips. It didn’t budge. She pushed it harder, this time with her palm. It shifted only about an inch. Whatever was inside was substantially heavier than the contents of the first box. Curiosity stirred up her soul like a fork scrambling eggs. She moved the chair as close to that end of the closet as the door would permit and wrapped her left hand around the furthest edge of the box. The first try yielded nothing. On the second try, she nearly lost her balance. For the third try, she grabbed a wooden hanger and wedged it between the box and the back of the closet. Adrenaline pumping, she pushed both hands against the end of the hanger as hard as she could.

  The box tumbled to the floor and fell onto its side. The quiet of the night was disturbed by the sound of glass breaking. Jillian jumped down from the chair, wincing on her sore foot, to a stack of picture frames of varied sizes heaped on the floor, facedown, in shards of glass.

  Now she’d done it. She needed to get that mess cleaned up in a hurry before someone came in to see what all the commotion was about.

  She reached for the frame on the top of the heap and turned it faceup to throw it back in the box. It was a five-by-seven of a young man holding a dark-headed little girl, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her face pressed next to his.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE SUNDAY OF BULLY’S BIRTHDAY came with haste. Caryn refuted every excuse Jillian could contrive to get out of going and capped it off with the claim that Bully’s big day would be a colossal disappointment if Jillian didn’t show up. “How can you let that sweet guy down? Does a hand-delivered pink-iced cake donut mean nothing to you?”

  Jillia
n used the inconvenience of the whole ordeal as a last-ditch effort to dissuade Caryn and threw in a side of fear. “We’d have to walk from the trolley stop to his house and back in the dark. What if that freak has been watching us and follows us?” That’s when David added considerable poundage to the pressure by offering them his car.

  Jillian instantly protested. “You said you had something to do! Isn’t that why you backed out on the party? You’ll need your car.”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I will not,” he responded with a mischievous grin. “What I need to do is right here at Saint Sans. I met a man last week who does piano repairs, and he said he’d be willing to look at that old organ and see if there is any resurrecting it. It’s not really his specialty but he says he’s worked on a few. This evening was the only free time he had. As much as I hate to miss the big occasion, y’all will have to go on without me. But take heart and go in considerable style.” He stuck his hand out with his car keys.

  Caryn snatched them up like a sixteen-year-old who’d just gotten her driver’s license. “Can I run an errand with your car first?”

  “Be my guest,” David replied.

  Caryn returned from the task a couple hours later with a gift bag she presented to Jillian. Carefully folded inside the white tissue was a beautiful cranberry-red cashmere sweater.

  “I got myself one too!” she said, laughing infectiously.

  “The same one?” Jillian was horrified.

  “Nope. A winter-white one, in an ever-so-slightly different style, but I’m planning to look fabulous in it. I’ve got a red wool scarf I’m putting over it. You want to borrow my black one?”

  “And look like twins?”

  With that, Caryn turned Jillian toward the mirror over the buffet in the great room and stood right beside her. “Do we look like twins to you?” Jillian gave in to a laugh. “Anyway, the black scarf’s plaid. I’ll grab it.”

  Jillian had to admit the sweaters and the colors suited both her and Caryn as if they’d been tailor-made. Even Olivia looked at them with something like admiration on her face, but she stopped short of saying anything. David finally pushed them out the door.

  Caryn did the driving as Jillian read the directions off the back of the invitation.

  Jillian eyed all the cars parked up and down the street, darkness obscuring the house numbers. “So, which house is Bully’s?”

  “Jillian, are you kidding me? Head toward the music. That’s where you find a party around here.”

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  Caryn dragged Jillian by the hand up a driveway and into a spacious backyard packed with people laughing and chattering loudly over the music. White lantern-style lights were strung in five directions from a pole in the center of the backyard, and a mesquite fire snapped and crackled. A small band was positioned on the far side, playing music the likes of which Jillian had never heard—or ever dreamed of wanting to.

  Jillian had never seen that much food at a party in her life. Long folding tables were covered with platters loaded with fries, hush puppies, coleslaw, new potatoes, and corn on the cob. Steaming over large portable burners were big pots that looked almost like cauldrons.

  It occurred to Jillian that Olivia might have fit right in with her broom as long as she didn’t have to make small talk with anybody. But a lot of the fun had gone out of calling Olivia a witch. Jillian had somehow started feeling a little guilty about it, though she couldn’t imagine why. The antisocialite had earned it.

  Mrs. Winsee certainly brought out a different side to Olivia. A strange gentleness had tempered the climate at Saint Sans that week while they all tried to engage the old woman. She was making progress. A security camera had been installed on the back porch, with additional lighting, so Olivia felt confident enough about Mrs. Winsee’s safety to let her sleep in her own room. Several days that week Mrs. Winsee sat in a chair in the great room close to the fireplace. She hadn’t spoken much except in endearments to Clementine, who regularly rubbed against her ankles and napped on her lap. She hadn’t said a word about Mr. Winsee. That was the worst part.

  Olivia had been sitting at the dining table with Mrs. Winsee, trying to coax her into eating, when Caryn and Jillian left. On the way out Caryn had said to her, “Mrs. Winsee, I’m about to take Jillian Slater to a La La. I gawn teach that girl till she shake a leg!”

  Mrs. Winsee’s eyes sparkled and Jillian could have sworn she grinned.

  That almost made Jillian feel it was worth agreeing to go to the party. But now that she was here, every excuse she’d offered to keep from coming seemed twice as valid.

  As if on cue, Bully made a beeline across the crowd, threw his arms around both Jillian and Caryn. “Y’all came!” He scooped them up in a group hug that nearly got their wool scarves in a tangle.

  “We wouldn’t have missed it! Happy birthday, Billy La Bauve!” Caryn’s words were warm. For the next fifteen minutes, Bully dragged Caryn and Jillian all over the backyard, introducing them to people Jillian found obnoxiously friendly. She’d been hugged by at least half a dozen total strangers. Bully’s brother picked her right up off the ground, and his mother planted a big kiss on her cheek. She made a mental note to take extra vitamin C when she got home. If she ever got home. This could be the longest night of her new life.

  Jillian had never expected to be glad to lay eyes on Officer Sanchez, but since the woman was among the few familiar faces, getting cornered by her was a reprieve. She’d also spared Jillian the obligatory hug, a point in her favor.

  “Bully is so happy you guys came, Jillian. Thanks for doing it.” Officer Sanchez spoke with obvious sincerity.

  “Well, Caryn made me.” At least Jillian cracked a smile with the comment.

  “I’m glad she did. He’s such a great guy. Really, he is. And don’t even think his mama doesn’t love him.”

  They both glanced over at Mrs. La Bauve, pouring potatoes in the deep fryer with her face beaming like she was born to throw a party. The whole atmosphere was surreal to Jillian. For one thing, she’d never seen Officer Sanchez out of uniform. Her thick brown hair, usually pulled back in a tight ponytail, was loose and long. She was wearing more makeup than usual and dangling earrings, but then again, so was Jillian. Officer Sanchez was dressed much like Caryn and Jillian, too, in jeans and a sweater, but with a short leather jacket thrown over it.

  “Well, now, that’s something you don’t often see,” she remarked, with a sideways glace at Jillian.

  “What?”

  Officer Sanchez nodded toward the gate. “Sarge at a party, and not looking like Sarge.”

  Jillian almost didn’t recognize Sergeant DaCosta. His casual dress and cowboy boots made him look years younger than he’d seemed the first time she’d seen him at Saint Sans. Of course, he didn’t have all that bad news weighing down his brow and an angry woman to tell it to. The man sauntering through that gate looked downright cheerful. In the dim light, his caramel-colored hair appeared almost blond next to his brown jacket, and his cheeks were flushed by the cold. Jillian watched him walk over to Bully, shove a small wrapped present into his hand, and hug him. They laughed and talked for a moment. Then he stepped over to Bully’s mother and embraced her like they were old friends.

  “Don’t you think?” Officer Sanchez asked, interrupting Jillian’s thoughts.

  “Don’t I think what? I’m sorry. I can’t hear over the music.”

  “Don’t you think this is a great backyard for a party?”

  “Yeah, it is. Oh, my gosh. Is that Caryn? Who’s she dancing with?” Jillian exclaimed.

  “I think that’s one of Bully’s old classmates.”

  “But how does she know him?”

  “She may have just met him. Folks into zydeco have their own special bond. The band starts playing, and if you don’t have a partner, you just look around and see who’s game and get out there and let it whirl. It’s not really about the romance of it.”

  “It’s the
worst music I’ve ever heard.”

  The officer laughed. “It grows on you. You better get used to it if you’re sticking around. Are you?”

  “Not planning to.”

  “Well, I know one man who might be a tad disappointed if you don’t.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  As the question rolled from Officer Sanchez’s tongue, Bully came right toward Jillian with a smile on his face with edges that could have met on the back of his head. Worse yet, he was two-stepping, with one hand on his belly and the other hand extended toward her. “Care to dance, young lady?”

  “Me? No!” Jillian glanced around, scrambling for a fast excuse. “I’m—I’m starving!”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Nobody goes hungry at this house.” Bully shouted over his shoulder, “Mama? This girl right here can’t dance till she eats. Somebody start scooping.”

  Before Jillian could think the next clear thought, Bully had shoved her onto a bench right in the middle of a crowded table and set a large white tray in front of her, piled three inches high with crawfish. He couldn’t have been prouder if he’d presented her with a soufflé in the shape of a swan. “Mmmmm, mmmmm,” he moaned. “You can’t do better than that!” He grabbed a mudbug off her plate, shucked the peel, and threw it in his mouth as he gestured to the people on Jillian’s left to scoot over so he could sit down.

  Suddenly every eye within spitting distance was on Jillian, glaring at her like the success of the entire evening hinged on what she did next. The birthday boy’s face was one spicy breath to her left. His shoulders were squared toward her and his gaze was focused tightly enough to bore a hole through the side of her head. Jillian couldn’t think of a single time she’d ever used the word bliss, but if that wasn’t the expression on his face, she was bereft to name it. She had one split second to decide whether or not she had it in her to fail him.

  She picked up a crawfish, tried to peel it without looking, squeezed her eyes shut, and stuck it in her mouth. Caryn would later swear that she’d also held her nose but Jillian never admitted to it. What was without question, however, was the longest drawn-out gag reflex that had ever transpired on this side of the French Quarter. Eight people had cleared the table by the time she opened her eyes. To everybody’s considerable relief, all that projected out of Jillian’s mouth was the crawfish, which landed right in the middle of her tray, inexplicably causing Bully to also gag.