Free New Orleans Noir by Julie Smith Page A

wondering if I had made a mistake.
    He opened another door and there was a young priest behind a desk typing.
    “Please leave,” Father Murphy said, and the priest moved quickly out of the room. When we were alone, he pointed to a very large leather chair. Then he pulled another chair close to it and sat down next to me.
    “What can I do for you, Helen? Are you finally responding to the letters I’ve been sending you?” he asked with a stupidly coy smile.
    I paused for a moment, trying not to show how afraid I was as I looked for the right words.
    “It’s about Father Fitzpatrick.”
    His face suddenly drained of its ruddiness. He leaned forward until he was so close to my face that I could see his nose hairs.
    “What about him? Did you find him lying drunk in his own filth in a gutter? He’s a disgrace to himself and to the Church, and to associate with him proves that you have no self-respect. To the world you consort with niggers like he does. They don’t see you as a colored woman. They see you as a white woman who’s an embarrassment to her race.”
    I stood ready to walk out on him and slam the door hard enough to shatter the frosted glass window.
    Father Murphy sighed, and took my hand. “I apologize for that. Please don’t tell your father. He needn’t be reminded how bad my temper is.”
    I refused to respond with words; instead I glared, wanting very much to slap him across the face. Maybe he didn’t respect me because I was colored, but I did respect myself and I refused to be insulted by any man, and I didn’t think he was much of a man.
    “I never understood you, Helen. You’re a beautiful young woman; you could marry well, but you lower yourself. You could live a good life and leave New Orleans and no one would ever have to know that you’re a Negro. You must realize you have friends who want to help you better yourself.”
    “I’m not here for my benefit. The situation with Father Fitzpatrick is out of hand. Negroes are enraged and won’t stand for drunken louts disrespecting and sometimes threatening them because they come to Sacred Heart to make a novena.”
    “I encourage anyone to come to our church—the Germans, the Italians—but I draw the line at Negroes. One can’t be open-minded about what is unnatural. These blacks need to know their place.”
    I sighed deeply and tried to remain civil, though my blood boiled and I could feel my face flush with anger.
    “Knowing one’s place may be important, but Father Fitzpatrick came to Sacred Heart to talk things out and you insulted him, and then you were both rolling in the street. That can’t go on; someone is going to get killed.”
    Father Murphy abruptly shouted, “You defend that fool, Fitzpatrick! He can go to hell! What is done is done. I will deal with him. What about you? Why do you keep company with such a man? You need to ask yourself why you live as though you are colored; you have a choice. You can turn your back on those people and trash like Fitzpatrick and live with dignity. I’ve talked to your father about this and he refuses to say more than you’ve made your decision and that you’re stubborn. If you were under my roof I wouldn’t allow you to degrade yourself associating with those who are obviously your inferiors. You aren’t the same as the common Negro any more than I am.”
    Furious words burst from my mouth: “The English think you Irish are dogs. I’m not interested in your opinion of the colored, as I’m sure you’re not interested in the English’s opinion of you. My father came here to find his fortune and he did; he took up with a colored woman who loved me as he does. I am as colored as she was, and I’m proud of that.”
    “You’re young,” he said with an odd smile. “Your sentiments are admirable. It would be good if this could be worked out.”
    The anger was gone from his voice, and then Father Murphy moved his hand down to my thigh.
    “Helen, I can give you far more than your