The Undoing of Saint Silvanus

by Beth Moore

  “You still going with the stuffed flounder?”

  “No, she changed her mind.”

  “Again?”

  “As of last night at bedtime, she’d settled on creole shrimp and cheese grits.”

  “The one with the andouille sausage?”

  “Yes. Imagine that.”

  “It should be some mild consolation to you that the girl will leave with good taste. Dessert?”

  “She wants to take a container of pralines home with her on the plane. I told her I’d send her some, but she insisted on my making them right in front of her so she’d know just how to do it. We’ll make those together later this afternoon. Our formal dessert is David’s rum cake. He made it last night so it could soak for twenty-four hours.”

  “You’re messin’ with me now.”

  “You’re welcome to stay. You may as well see it through. You brought her here.”

  Adella supposed those last four words conjured up as many mixed emotions for Olivia as they did for her. How Adella and Olivia had survived that whole debacle with Jillian was anybody’s guess but God’s.

  “David and Caryn have offered to take her to the airport tomorrow morning. At least I won’t have to go through that ordeal.”

  “What?” Adella couldn’t button her lip to save her life. “Olivia Fontaine, you thank David and Caryn kindly for the offer, but you tell them in no uncertain terms that you will take your own granddaughter to the airport.” She wasn’t about to let her get away with regressing like that.

  “I don’t think I can do it. It would be too awkward there on the curb. I don’t know what I’d say. We’ve all got our limitations, Adella. You’d get along better with the rest of humanity if you’d recognize that.”

  “You drive me crazy, Olivia Fontaine. Stark raving mad. No wonder Mrs. Winsee runs around here in her unders. I’ve got no problem with limitations, I’ll have you know. But I do have a problem with renaming preferences ‘limitations.’ Here’s what you say on the curb, plain and simple: ‘I love you, Jillian. I’m glad you are my granddaughter. I don’t want to lose touch with you.’”

  “It’s easy for you to say stuff like that, Adella.”

  “No, it’s not! It’s worth it to me to say stuff like that. You don’t say that kind of thing because it’s easy. You say that kind of thing because it’s true and you want the person to know it. You look them in the eye and say it even if your face turns red and you break out in a sweat.”

  “I don’t think I can do that without making a fool of myself.”

  “Why? Because you just might shed a tear? So what? What would be wrong with her seeing that your heart hurts to see her go?” Adella stood and put her hands on her hips. “My grandmother Waddell and I stood at my granddaddy’s casket together when I was sixteen years old. I was trying to stay strong and keep a stiff upper lip for her sake, but she wasn’t buying it. She took me by the hand and said, ‘Baby girl, you let those tears fall and I’ll let mine, too. The pain of a hard good-bye is the heart’s tribute to the privilege to love.’ We stood right there, hand in hand, and cried together with no shame. To this day, it is the sweetest memory I have of my grandmother. Now, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and let your sorrow pay tribute to the privilege you’ve had to get to know this young woman and like her enough to wish she didn’t have to go.”

  The front doorbell rang. Adella walked toward it in a huff and never gladder to be in one. She’d felt like crying all the way over here today thinking about saying her own farewell to Jillian. What she needed was to get good and mad at Olivia, and then she wouldn’t feel so sad. In fact, she had a good mind to spend this very day recollecting all the ways that woman had nearly put her in a padded cell.

  Come to think of it, Jillian herself had been as big a pain in the neck as Adella guessed she’d ever had. Just the thought of how that girl acted when they pulled up in front of Saint Sans for the first time was enough to churn up the acid in Adella’s stomach. Then there was all the stomping off and the stolen money and the pregnancy test and the what all and what for and every conceivable what-on-earth. It was nonstop theatrics. Always something to worry about.

  And why else had Adella been late to work that morning except that she had to go to the police station to get those ridiculous pajamas? She was going to have to wash and dry them right there at Saint Sans because they stank to high heaven from who-knows-what-else was in that evidence room. And then she was going to have to go hide in the garage and wrap them in tissue and put them in the gift bag she’d picked up at the Walgreens. That’s how it had been from the first day she’d laid eyes on that girl.

  Adella rubbed her tingling nose on her sleeve and opened the front door just in time to see the UPS truck rolling away from the curb.

  “You expecting a Christmas order?” she asked Olivia as she walked back through the great room with the package.

  “I can’t recall if I’m expecting anything else or not. What’s the store?”

  Adella read the return address. “Huh. It’s not from a store at all. It says it’s from Saint Andrew’s.”

  Olivia glanced at the box. “Is that a hospital?”

  “No, it’s that old Methodist church on North Rampart.”

  “The Vieux Carré?”

  “That’s what it says. What do you think it is? It’s fairly heavy.”

  “My telepathic abilities don’t kick in until after my second pot of coffee, Adella. You’ll either have to wait until I have consumed it or open the package for yourself.” Olivia got up and turned on the flame under the water kettle.

  Adella pulled a slender knife out of the acacia block, sliced through the packing tape, and opened the flaps of the cardboard box. “Whatever it is, it’s been wound in enough bubble wrap to take me till Christmas to open.” After fiddling around inside the box, she added, “It’s two different items they’ve got mummified here.” She set them both on the counter, still wrapped tight, before pulling out a sealed envelope and waving it toward Olivia. “And here’s this.” It bore the printed return address for Saint Andrew’s, but it wasn’t addressed to anyone.

  Olivia reached for the canister of coffee beans. “Read away. I’m listening.”

  Adella tore the envelope open and pulled out the sheet of letterhead. “It’s addressed ‘To whom it may concern.’”

  “Are you concerned?” Olivia asked dryly.

  “You know full well that I can hardly bear the suspense.” That was the truth if Adella had ever told it.

  “Then get on with it.”

  To whom it may concern:

  These items were found recently in a storage room that had to be emptied for renovations. The large closet unfortunately had not undergone inspection in many years and had become a dust-collecting depository for articles with unclear destinations. Most of the contents were taken to the Dumpster, where they belonged. Thankfully, our custodian had the wherewithal to retrieve these two articles before they were never to be seen again.

  We have no idea how these items came into our church’s possession. Our guess is that they were sent to us by the Methodist council when the doors of St. Silvanus were permanently closed. We felt that it was appropriate to send them back to their proper home. They are treasures indeed to those who hold such things sacred. If you have no use for them, please contact us at the number above, and we will happily drop by and pick them up. Several of us would be pleased to see what you’ve done with the old church anyway.

  Blessings to all of you this holiday season.

  “The letter is signed by the pastor’s admin,” Adella stated, as curious as a cat.

  “Well, don’t tarry then. We might as well see what the good people of Saint Andrew’s consider ‘treasures indeed.’”

  Adella had already cut the tape on one of the items and started unrolling a laborious stretch of bubble wrap before Olivia could say indeed. “Would you looky here?” She held up a rather sizable gold-plated chalice. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

&nbs
p; Taking it from her hand, Olivia studied the cup carefully.

  “This right here can only be one thing, shaped this way,” Adella deduced, picking up the other item. “It’s got to be the bread plate.”

  Sure enough, it was. Olivia slid her palm along the bottom of it and then held the plate eye-level, studying it from the side. “He has a few small dents in him, but most one-hundred-year-olds do, I’d say. They call this a paten, don’t they?”

  “Yes’m. That’s correct. Why do you suppose they think these belonged to Saint Silvanus?”

  Olivia gave Adella an innocuous look and turned the plate over. The words were engraved in the center.

  Saint Silvanus Methodist Church

  Est. 1918

  “Well, the cup says no such thing.” Adella turned it over to prove it. “It just has a small—”

  “SSM,” Olivia interrupted. “Which just might correspond with Saint Silvanus Methodist. Adella, you may as well go ahead and give in to the reading glasses more than once in a blue moon when you think nobody’s looking. They’re coming to take you over sooner or later.”

  “SSM also corresponds with Sister Smart Mouth, and my confusion was understandable since it would have been addressed to the same residence.”

  Both women were so preoccupied with the relics, they didn’t hear Jillian walk into the great room until she set her phone down forcefully on the kitchen island. “I’m not going,” she announced, sounding as mad as a shot hog.

  “You’re not going where?” Olivia inquired, getting back to the business of coffee beans.

  “I’m not going to San Francisco.”

  “Of course you are. You’re just getting the jitters.” Olivia turned on the grinder.

  “I do not have the jitters, O!” Jillian yelled over the loud whir.

  Olivia shut off the grinder, poured the grounds into the French press, and turned to face her granddaughter. “Whatever you have, you’ll be over it by morning, because I promised your mother you’d be on that plane and on that plane you’ll be.”

  “You can put me on a plane if you want to, O, but it will not be to San Francisco. I don’t care where else you send me. Put me on a plane to Haiti. But I don’t want to go to San Francisco. Please, O.”

  Adella started to butt in but Olivia gave her the stop signal with the palm of her right hand and appeared serious about it.

  “Jillian, let’s turn down the histrionics a bit and talk reasonably.” Adella could tell Olivia was measuring every word and trying to stay calm. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Look for yourself!” Jillian picked up her phone and handed it to Olivia.

  “Hmmm” was all Olivia said.

  Adella looked good and hard at Olivia and then did the same with Jillian. Throwing both her hands up, she said, “Don’t either one of you mind me. I’ll just stand here and get the twisted gut.”

  “May I?” Olivia asked Jillian, holding the phone tentatively toward Adella.

  “Be my guest!”

  Adella snatched the phone out of Olivia’s hand and read the texts not once but twice.

  Hi, Mom! Hope you’re getting over your jet lag. I’m almost packed. Heading to the airport late tomorrow morning. Looking forward to seeing you. Feels like forever. Did it work out where you can come get me? It’s OK if you can’t. I can take a cab. Just let me know.

  Hi Jillian! Still jet-lagged but deliriously happy. I have a surprise for you! Someone I’m anxious for you to meet. He’s coming with me to pick you up. We’ll be the ones in baggage claim looking like newlyweds.

  As much as she hated to admit it, Adella could think of only one thing to say. “Hmmm.”

  “Can you believe it?” Jillian’s voice was at fever pitch. “That’s what she was doing in France after she’d demanded that I come home as soon as the doctor said I could fly. She was on a honeymoon!”

  Adella muttered, “Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish. One fine kettle of fish.”

  Olivia sucked in her top lip and jutted out her chin. “Adella, if you wouldn’t mind meditating silently for a moment while I remind Jillian how undone her mother was over all she’s been through. Your mother loves you, Jillian. You can take my word on that one because it doesn’t come naturally to me to take up for—”

  “Jewel.” Adella couldn’t help herself. The licking she’d like to give that woman with her purse right now wouldn’t be fit to be rated PG-13.

  “Jade,” Olivia corrected. “Adella, don’t you have something to do?”

  Jillian hardly took a breath. “I didn’t say she didn’t love me, O. I know she does. She always has. But I don’t have it in me right now to move in with her and another new man. It’s too much.” She shook her head. “I am so tired of being the extra person in the house. I’m so tired of bouncing around and not belonging anywhere. I just want my own place.” She turned and walked back toward her room, defeat rolling from her shoulders like she was five decades older. “No worries. I’ll go to San Francisco.”

  “Oh no, you won’t!” Adella and Olivia said the words in unison as if they’d practiced for months. They were so shocked by their perfect synchronization, they glared at one another like they were looking into a carnival mirror.

  Adella was glad Olivia spoke first. After all, she had no claim on Saint Sans except on her knees in her prayer closet.

  “Jillian, this is your home. You belong here. You are not an extra. Not anymore. You can live here as long as you want. And when the day comes that you want a place of your own, this will still be your place to come home to. That room will be yours as long as I’m alive.”

  Jillian had stopped to listen but she didn’t turn around. With her back to her grandmother, she apologized. “I’ve put you in a difficult position, O. I’m so sorry. What other choice did I leave you but to say that?”

  “Jillian Slater, you have plenty of money to get a place of your own. It is in an account with your name on it as we speak. It won’t buy you a mansion unless you want to spend every dime of it right off the bat, but it will afford you a small place with ample character that will be more than sufficient. The money was your father’s, and you are his sole heir. The banker is awaiting your signatures on the appropriate documents. I’d planned to have you sign them before you flew out in the morning.”

  Jillian turned and stared at Olivia with equal parts shock and confusion. She shifted her gaze to Adella.

  “Don’t look at me, honey. This is the first I’ve heard about any of this.”

  Olivia took a deep breath. “You have enough to check into a hotel in San Francisco until you find a place to live as long as you don’t tarry. You have my blessing to do that, Jillian. Or there might be another city you prefer. A city, say, for instance, with a poorer view than the Golden Gate but embarrassingly better food. You have options.” She cleared her throat. “The only thing you don’t have is no place to go. You don’t have to decide right away. Take some time to think about it.”

  Jillian held her chin up and met Olivia’s gaze. “I don’t need time, O. I want to live here. With you and David and Caryn and Mrs. Winsee. With Adella in and out all the time and with Clementine rubbing against my legs and getting cat hair on my pillow. I want you to read me every book in your library. I want to finish college. I want to know the difference between a gardenia and a camellia. I want to learn to cook like you.”

  No one moved for a moment. Then Olivia brushed off her slacks and walked to the refrigerator. Pulling out a pound of salted butter, she said, “That’s asking a lot. The cooking and all.” She set the butter on the counter with a nice, crisp whack. “Go get your stuff unpacked and hide that suitcase under your bed, and put on the closest thing you have to some praline-making pants. But before you do one bit of that, I want you to call your mother.”

  Jillian instantly looked at the screen on her phone.

  “Did I say text your mother? I did not. I said call her. You make it right with her.”

  “Jade doesn’t know anything is
wrong,” Jillian protested.

  “That’s fine, but if you’re going to stay, it’s got to be with her blessing, whatever that may look like between the two of you. You can’t make a home anywhere you’ve moved out of spite.”

  “Very good, Olivia!” Adella was impressed, plain and simple. For all she knew, Olivia might have learned that from her. She’d ask Emmett later if he’d ever heard her say such a thing.

  Adella stopped by Jillian’s room before she left that afternoon and found her organizing her closet.

  “Why have you got your purse, Adella? Aren’t you going to stay for supper?”

  “No, baby. I thought I’d get on home to my three men, seeing as I’m not having to say good-bye to anybody in particular tonight.”

  Adella could tell Jillian was a little disappointed, but she knew this was the right thing to do. Her place was in her own refrigerator. “But I brought you something.” She handed Jillian the silver gift bag with a bright-red ribbon on it.

  “Should I wait for Christmas?”

  “I think today will be just fine. It’s nothing fancy.”

  Had Adella known what Jillian’s face was going to look like when she pulled out that old sleepwear, clean and pressed, she’d have had her camera ready.

  “My pajamas!”

  Jillian threw her arms around Adella and cried like a baby. Between sobs, she caught her breath and blurted out, “Thank you. For everything.”

  Adella held the young woman tight and patted her back. “Oh, now, you quit that crying and get in there and help your grandmother with those shrimp and grits. You can at least fry some bacon, can’t you?” Jillian smiled and nodded, her face dripping like a dishrag. “I’m gonna go home and rest up. God only knows the refereeing I have ahead between you two Fontaine women now that this has gone at least as semipermanent as my old double-wide. Don’t think I won’t be asking for a raise either.”

  Adella made it to the car and shut the driver’s-side door just in time. Had she not turned up her Donnie McClurkin Christmas collection, no telling who would have heard her squalling and carrying on. At least this way somebody not minding their own business might think she was singing.