Infatuate by Aimee Agresti

unfolded in its miniature grid system.
    We walked silently and somberly for a few long minutes, at one point needing to pull off to the side to allow a group of nearly two dozen tourists to pass. “It’s certainly the most famous and infamous of Saint Louis Number One, right this way . . .” the guide said to his followers, all shielded beneath hats and sunglasses.
    Finally Sister Catherine continued. “On All Souls’ Day—and All Saints’ Day, for that matter—loved ones come to pay their respects and freshen up the grave sites.” She stopped before a beat-up crypt with patches of faded brick peeking out beneath dingy gray cement. “It’s lovely to have help on these two days, of course, but so many of these are left with no one to care for them. The truth is, our city of the dead has been suffering. I’ve been the caretaker here for many years, but I’m quite old and I can’t do the restoration work myself. With the help of kind volunteers like yourselves, we’re hoping to bring back its glory and to honor those buried here. So you’ll start right here and then you’ll be following a list of tombs we’re going to have you focus on. At some point I’m hoping to bring a contractor in to actually rebuild a few that are in particularly bad shape.”
    “Great,” I said, studying our first target. The name chiseled into a marble slab in front read BARTHELEMY LAFON and a plaque described him as an architect. I’d have to tell Lance. I wondered how he was doing in that eerie house right now. It felt strange not to be working alongside him. “Looking forward to getting started,” I added.
    “Cool,” Sabine seconded.
    “I have some materials for you in the caretaker’s cottage out front.” Sister Catherine began to hobble back the way we’d come. “And I have some T-shirts and painter’s pants you can change into as well.” I was glad to not have to paint in my lone pair of khakis and one of my nicer blouses. Then the nun stopped in her tracks for a moment, looking at me as another tour group passed us by. “One more bit of the job, if you don’t mind,” she said. She touched my arm then waved a finger to lead us back the way we’d come; we turned down another narrow pathway. “We have a number of well-known New Orleanians represented here, which is why we get the tours,” she said in her low, rich crackle. “But really there’s just one tomb everyone comes for, as you might well know. Marie Laveau.”
    We stopped before a tall, slim crypt reaching far above our heads. Much of its smooth white stone surface had been doodled on with notes of thanks, or, more commonly, X s. So many past visitors had scrawled sets of XXX, three X s together all across the tomb, in an array of colored markers or paint or pen. Around its base lay an assortment of items I could make no sense of: flowers (some of them dead), stones, bottles, bricks (some covered in foil), fruit that had been there long enough to rot (only the pits of peaches had been left in some cases), containers that seemed to hold leftovers from restaurant meals, books, pens, breath mints, maps, handwritten notes, candles, photos, bones, and plastic bags of herbs. “This tomb you will never paint,” Sister Catherine said sternly. “Are you familiar with Miss Laveau?”
    No one said anything. I didn’t want to be that awful kid with her hand constantly up in class, but I didn’t want her to think we weren’t interested. Both Sabine and Drew looked nervous.
    “Well, I do know she was a voodoo queen and also, I think, a nurse during the yellow fever outbreaks?” I offered.
    “Yes, dear, excellent,” Sister Catherine said, looking at me and nodding.
    “What’s with all these?” Sabine pointed to a cluster of X s. Drew leaned in to inspect some that had been painted on, running her finger over them.
    “That’s a fine question,” Sister Catherine said to Sabine, who looked proud of herself. “Well, there’s quite a bit of lore