Office of the Dead - an excerpt

I began writing Office of the Dead shortly after publishing my New Orleans murder mystery Big Easy. Somewhere along the line, I got sidetracked and began writing Bones of Skeleton Creek in earnest. Now, I am back to Office and here is a chapter excerpt from the book.

Office of the Dead Excerpt

I’d taken a sabbatical from the Catholic religion for the past few years . Today was different. My ex-wife Mimsy had succumbed to cancer after a year-long fight. I called her once during her ordeal and it puzzled me that her new husband so readily let me talk to her. When she answered, her voice seemed throaty and distant, likely from the heavy pain killers she was taking, and she didn’t seem to know who I was at first.

“Mimsy, it’s Wyatt. I called to see how you’re doing.” I didn’t really mean it when I said, “Is there anything I can do for you?” The last thing I wanted was to see the beautiful woman I’d married ravished by cancer, her long dark hair gone, face sallow, body gaunt as a refuge and hope waning from her once gorgeous eyes.

“Fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you so much for calling. Please don’t hang up.”

I could only imagine what I had done or said to cause her to think that I would hang up on her. Maybe it had something to do with the palpable neediness so apparent in her voice that it fairly dripped from the receiver. We had a five minute conversation interspersed with long pauses, as if she were trying to catch her breath. Finally, her husband took the phone from her.

“Thank you so much for calling,” was his unexpected response. “You don’t know how much we appreciate your concern. She’s very tired but please call again. It really helps her spirits when someone calls.”

Her husband, Rafael, was a strange man that I’d met once before. His words were almost a plea. I could hear his own desperation and realized in an instant that he loved her far more than I’d ever thought about. All I could think of to say was, “Try to hang in there.”

Mims and I had met in college. I was on the rebound, she was the new girl in town. I was looking for a good time, she wanted a house full of babies. Ultimately, neither of us got what we wanted. Our marriage ended seven years, to the day, after it began. Too many harsh words and broken dishes had left us less than friends and we soon lost touch. It didn’t seem to matter because my life went further downhill from there.

My hallmarks for years, alcoholic indulgence and unbridled anger, soon grew worse. The sleazy client I’d shoved down the stairs filed a bar complaint on me and I quickly learned he had far-reaching connections. I was disbarred and spent the next six months in a drunken haze, managing along the way to insult, incite and generally piss off almost every friend I had. Everyone except Bertram Picou.

Bertram owned a bar on Chartres Street. A very eclectic bar. Finding me at a local soup kitchen, he’d given me a room upstairs and a steady ration of shit until I finally gave up the bottle for good. He and Lady, his trusty collie, had stayed with me through my abusive ranting, tearful tirades and suicidal jags.

Whenever I begged for whiskey, Bertram would give me a glass of lemonade. Before long, lemonade became my crutch. That was seven years ago. Now, it was a dull February evening, a chill breeze blowing up from the Gulf of Mexico, as I stood alone outside St. Validius Cathedral, buying time before going in to view Mimsy’s coffin and see her husband Rafael and all her grieving relatives that still thought of me as part of the family.

The same church where I’d been an altar boy and where Mimsy and I had married. Unable to move, I stared at the moon, vivid tsunami memories crashing over my brain, flooding it with guilt and my own dire grief I dared not express. A tap on the shoulder shattered my mental musings and I wheeled around, staring into Father Alphonse’s teal-blue eyes.

“Wyatt Thomas, I thought you must be dead!”

My old Parish priest had changed but little, his slate-gray hair somewhat whiter, the wrinkles of his face slightly deeper. His voice hadn’t changed, resonating deep from within his barrel chest, his words accented by native Italian even though he hadn’t left New Orleans in the past fifty years.

“Father, you’re looking good. Long time no see.”

My words sounded inane, even as I spoke them. Father Alphonse only smiled, either not noticing or probably just overlooking my lack of communication skills.

“So are you, my son. Thank God you’ve come back to the Church. I’ve been praying for you.”
“I’m not here for myself, Father.”

I know you’re here for Mimsy’s vigil. I’m sorry it was her death that brought you back. At least you’re here now.”

“I was thinking about skipping the vigil.”

“Nonsense,” he said, grasping my shoulder. “I’m here for support. We’ll go in together.”

Father Alphonse was very persuasive and there was no way he would take no for an answer. He pushed me ahead of him, through the heavy cypress doorway of St. Validius, not giving me the chance to bolt and run.

When the hallway of the old church opened up to me, I took a deep, almost inadvertent breath of antiquity and recognition. The long forgotten odor of the church caused poignant memories to accost my senses, even more than my thoughts and aversion at peering into Mimsy’s open casket.

“Are you okay, my son?” Father Alphonse asked.

“I was an hour ago.”

Father Alphonse grasped my hand and squeezed. He kissed me on the forehead. Not a sexual kiss, but like a father would give his boy an empathetic show of affection to reassure him there’s not a monster under the bed. I’m sure it had the same effect on me as I headed back down the darkened hallway with strengthened resolve.

We soon reached the door to the anteroom. When we opened it and entered, I saw Mimsy’s mother Betty. As I did, my newly found strength wafted out of my body quickly as it had arrived. Too late! Seeing me, she grasped me in her meaty arms, held on tightly and began crying on my chest.

“Oh, Wyatt, I don’t think I can handle this.”

It was all I could take. My own tears, dammed inside for so long, welled up and flooded down my face. Soon, sobbing uncontrollably, I was in a group hug with half the family.

The first person I saw when we all finally got control of our senses and pulled apart was Rafael, Mimsy’s bereaved husband. I knew it was him, having once been introduced. With the exception of Father Alphonse, he was the only person in the room without tear-streaked cheeks. Still in a daze, I gravitated toward him.

“You’re Wyatt,” he said, shaking my hand. “Thanks for calling Mimsy. She talked about it for days.”

“I didn’t know it would mean so much.”

“You can’t imagine,” he said. I could smell from his breathe that he’d had more than just a mind-steadying drink or two. He maintained his grip on my hand, almost as if he were holding on to a buoy in a storm. Still, he seemed lucid and spoke in a confidant manner.

“Thank you so much for coming tonight. It would mean a lot to Mimsy.”

“I almost didn’t come. It feels so strange. This is really the place for her family and not me.”

Rafael shook his head. He was taller than me and just as slender, his curly hair and moustache dark and full as his eyes. “She was closer to you than any of them,” he said, rancor clouding his words. Before I could reply, he said, “Please forget I said that.”

Rafael let go of my hand, just as Father Alphonse appeared through the crowd of grieving friends and relatives. “Wyatt, come with me,” he said, frowning and ignoring Mimsy’s husband. It was then I noticed that Rafael was standing alone amid the crowded room. A circle of space surrounded him, separating him from the rest of the family that all seemed to have their backs toward him.

“I was just talking with Rafael.”

"Please,” Father Alphonso said.

The old priest led me back out into the hallway. “What’s so urgent, Padre?” I asked.

Father Alphonso put his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer, as if he were about to convey some conspiratorial information. “Rafael is no longer with the Church. He was defrocked. Even though he technically will always be a priest, he no longer can hear confession or perform the duties incumbent to the Church.”

“I didn’t know. What did he do?”

Father Alphonso paused before answering. “His mother is a witch.”

I waited for further explanation but got none. It sounded like a joke but Father Alphonso wasn’t laughing. “You mean like a double, double toil and trouble type witch?” I finally asked.

Father Alphonso nodded. “Exactly.”

“You don’t believe in that malarkey, do you?”

The good Father didn’t smile. “Real evil exists, Wyatt. It’s not a joke and it’s certainly not malarkey.”

“What did she do? Moreover, what did Rafael do?”

“She casts spells and prays to the Devil. He is her son.”

“Didn’t the Church know that before they ordained him into the priesthood?”

My question brought an even graver look to Father Alphonse’s face. “We are men and women of God but we aren’t mind readers or seers of the future.”

“What exactly did Rafael do to get defrocked?”

“He deceived the Church. He had no right to infiltrate the priesthood”

“So you think he’s some sort of spy for the Devil?”

Father Alphonso didn’t answer my question. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “You think you know more about good and evil than the Church?”

My mouth opened but my words were slow in coming. When they did, it was only to say, “Father, I’m sorry.”

We reentered the church’s dimly lit inner sanctum where vigils for the faithful were generally held in the St. Validius diocese. Mimsy’s casket, surrounded by many wreaths of gorgeous flowers, sat at the far end of the room. Candles burned on either end of the coffin.
I could see it was open and Mimsy’s friends and relatives were clustered around it, some kneeling in prayer. Mimsy’s father and mother were at the head of the casket, Betty’s tears still flowing profusely. I made my way through the mourners, knelt before the casket and said a short prayer.

I continued kneeling, staring at the floor, dreading the inevitable glance into the coffin. When I finally got off my knees, Betty hugged me again, sobs of grief wracking her body.

“Oh Wyatt, I can’t even save a lock of her hair.”

Catholic’s love relics and often clip a lock of hair to place at the family altar to remind them to pray for the deceased. Mimsy’s real hair was gone and the wig on her head seemed more appropriate for a Vegas show girl. She had a rosary clasped in her hands and there was a crucifix on the closed portion of the coffin. I wrestled myself from Betty’s grasp, bent over and kissed Mimsy’s forehead..

Betty was still distraught and I fished my keys from my pocket. I still carried the brooch Mimsy had given me so many years ago and opened it to reveal a locket of her hair. I showed it to her then pressed it into her hands.

“Forgive me for not giving it to you long before now,” I said.

I endured several more minutes of crying and thanks. Saddened and deeply troubled by my glimpse of Mimsy, I finally managed to tear away from Betty and her husband Mike. After paying my condolences to the rest of the clan, I hurried out the door and down the darkened hallway to the parking lot outside. Father Alphonse intercepted me as I went out the door, grabbing me by the arm.

“Wyatt, I need to hear your confession. Let’s do it now.”

“I’m not ready. I may never be ready.”

“It doesn’t matter. God and Satan are wrestling for your soul. Don’t let Satan win.”

“Father, you’re being melodramatic,” I said.

The old priest didn’t return my smile. Instead, he grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You have serious issues you need to resolve. I can help.”

“I’m too upset to deal with this right now,” I said, pulling away and hurrying across the darkened parking lot. “I’ll call you later.”

I didn’t turn around as I walked away, already knowing the look on the old priest’s face and not daring to see it. Except for the cars of the mourners, the lot was deserted. I started walking toward St. Charles Avenue, hoping that when I got there, I wouldn’t have long to wait for a streetcar. Headlights from a car coming up from behind startled me. It screeched to a halt and a familiar voice called out my name.

“Wyatt, let me give you a ride.” It was Rafael, smiling from the open window of a silver Cadillac Aviator that flashed in the moonlight. A tugboat on the River blew its whistle before I could answer. “I don’t know what Father Alphonse told you but I promise not to cast an evil spell on you.”

Grinning, I opened the door and climbed into the plush leather passenger seat beside him. The vehicle smelled brand new. “Nice car,” I said.

“Thanks. You must be wondering how a defrocked priest can afford such an expensive car.”

“Actually, I was wondering how anybody can afford such an expensive car.”

We both laughed as Rafael turned up Napoleon Avenue. “Where to?” he asked.

“Picou’s bar on Chartres. I have a room upstairs. It’s in the Quarter,” I added.

“I lived in the Quarter when I met Mimsy. She helped me get a job as a rent-a-priest.”

“A what?”

Rafael laughed again. “I work for the cruise lines that sail out of New Orleans. Many passengers are comforted to sail with a Catholic priest and the company I work for pays me very well.”

“But you’re —“

”Not a priest? Actually, I am. Once a priest, always a priest. Technically, I can no longer function as a priest. As the ship’s chaplain, I can perform marriages, conduct services and the such. The passengers don’t know I’ve been defrocked and the cruise line I work for doesn’t really care.”

“Hey, it’s no business of mine anyway,” I said. “I’m just glad you were able to take care of Mimsy during her time of need.”

Rafael’s smile disappeared with the mention of Mimsy. “I think I’m still in shock over her passing. I somehow never really thought the cancer would kill her, even when she was in constant pain and on oxygen twenty four hours a day.”

“Why was she so happy to hear from me? Our marriage didn’t exactly end on friendly terms.”

“Toward the end, everyone, family and friends, seemed to desert us. Sometimes days would go by without the phone ever ringing. Maybe it was the aura of impending death about her everyone was afraid to face. Sometimes I would call a friend of hers, or someone in her family. When they answered the phone, I’d hand it to Mimsy and tell her they had called her. I don’t feel guilty doing it because it always perked her up. Occasionally, an old friend, or an ex-husband would call unexpectedly. It was then I knew there is a God up there.”

“I wish I did,” I said.

“Oh, there’s a God, all right. And the Devil. Sometime it’s hard to tell the difference.”

I had little time to ponder his cryptic words as we neared the lights and noises of the French Quarter. Mardi Gras was in full swing, the venues crowded with revelers. Most of the streets were cordoned off by the police, allowing only foot traffic in the Quarter. Rafael stopped the Cadillac on Canal Street, near the intersection with Rue Chartres.

“Sorry I can’t get you any closer.”

“Thanks for bringing me this far. There’s a parking lot down the street. Sure you won’t join me at Bertram’s? I’ve got lots more questions to ask you.”

“Not tonight, my friend,” he said. “A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey awaits me.” Before I could walk away down the stoop, he lowered his window and said, “Wyatt, my mother has a shop near Royal and Toulouse. It’s called Madeline’s Magic Potions. You obviously have lots of questions and she may have some answers for you.”

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