I remember being freaked out by the sight of the long rows of tombs when I first moved here. The locals call themcities of the dead, and that’s exactly what they look like. The small stone mausoleums are row houses for the bones of those who’ve gone on. They even have front porches and front doors so they can be opened and added to when a new family member bites the dust. I mean, for fuck’s sake!
Viking funeral… It’s the only way to go.
Maggie follows me out of the truck, carefully hopping over a huge puddle that’s collected in a depression in the sidewalk. The day is cool but not cold. Still, I roll down the sleeves of my flannel shirt.
The churchyard is as silent as a tomb—no pun intended—except for a car engine somewhere in the distance and the high yip of a dog in a nearby yard. The earthy smell of wet concrete mixes with the sickly sweet aroma of the flowers people have left on the stone steps of the mausoleums. And I swear, if I breathe deeply, I can detect the pungent scent of rot.
I’ve survived firefights, landslides, and a bombing, but none of that ever creeped me out like walking through one of NOLA’s cities of the dead.
“So what’s the story with this place?” Maggie asks.
“You remember in school how they taught us about that bad yellow fever epidemic that blew through the city?” I say.
“Killed a whole lotta folks, didn’t it?” Luc replies.
“Yeah. No one was safe, except…the people in this neighborhood.” I wave my arm to indicate the blocks surrounding the churchyard.
“Oooh. Go on.” Maggie rubs her hands together as we continue to make our way between the timeworn tombs where the dead rest aboveground, just like the living. I try to be quiet as I pass. I don’t want to disturb their sleep.
Unlike some of the more popular burial grounds in the city, like St. Louis Cemetery No.1—the historic spot where Marie Laveau is entombed—this place is empty of tourists looking for a thrill. In fact, the three of us are the only ones here, which increases the eeriness of it all.
“There was a well-respected reverend who lived in this neighborhood,” I explain. “Supposedly, he prayed to Saint Roch to deliver his parishioners from the disease. He promised that if his flock was protected, he would build a cemetery and a shrine to the saint.” I point toward the chapel at the back of the property.
“I guess his prayers were answered.” Maggie’s face is full of wonder.
“If you believe in that stuff.”
“What do you mean? What’syourexplanation for why the people here were safe when the rest of the city wasn’t?”
“Who knows?” I shrug. “Maybe it’s because yellow fever is spread by mosquitoes, and this neighborhood is farther from the river where the suckers breed. Maybe the reverend encouraged his parishioners to remain indoors.”
“Spoilsport.” She purses her lips. “A benevolent patron saint answering the prayers of a holy man is amuchbetter story.”
We’ve made it to the chapel. The door is open, so we can see inside to the gray tile floors, the wooden pews, and the altar with a carved statue of some guy in robes. Not sure if it’s supposed to represent the reverend or the saint.
The room itself is small, but the ceiling is towering. Our footfalls echo strangely, as if the chapel is ten times its actual size.
“This way.” I motion them toward the room off to the side of the nave.
“What in the world?” Maggie breathes as soon as she sees it.
Luc is more succinct. “Holy shit.”
“That about sums it up.” I smile.
“I can’t… I don’t… What am I seeing?” Maggie’s eyes race around a small space jam-packed with prosthetic feet hanging from hooks, crutches leaning against the walls, and leg braces, glass eyeballs, candle holders, and statuary. The floor is made of interlocking bricks. Each of them is stamped with one word… THANKS.
“These are the offerings of people who’ve come to ask for healing.” I reach into my hip pocket to pull out a little piece of myself. “Or the ones who’vebeenhealed and have left behind a token of thanks.”
“Guess that explains the can of corn and the SpongeBob SquarePants toy.” Luc’s mouth twists in a wry grin.
I covertly lay the circular piece of bone on the shelf closest to me. Or at least Itryto be covert about it. I forget Maggie has an eagle eye.
“What’s that?” She points to my offering. It’s sitting beside a cherub figurine.
I’m being ridiculous, but at this point I’m willing to try anything. “It’s the piece of my skull they couldn’t put back after they had to drain the blood from my brain.”
“You’re missing part of your skull?” Her eyes go to the scar near my temple, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth.
