Free Infatuate by Aimee Agresti Page B

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