Infatuate by Aimee Agresti Page A

associated with her, as you can imagine. Many believe that if they leave these markings they’ll have various wishes granted. You may also see some visitors knocking three times on the tomb.” She did this herself. “There are so many stories like this, so many superstitions, and people come looking for help. We all have our own beliefs about where to find aid when we need it, don’t we?” She shook her head, suggesting that she wished everyone who came here would just cross the street and hit up the church instead. But I could certainly understand; after seeing what I had, I knew that you needed to find hope anywhere you could.
    “At any rate,” she continued, “people also leave these various items as offerings, to entice Miss Laveau’s spirit to assist them. Unfortunately, as you can see, some insist on leaving perishable goods, which don’t stand much chance of lasting in this warm climate, and make a mess of things. Each day, if you might do a pass collecting anything rotten from here, it would be greatly appreciated.” With that she gave one final look at the site and walked away at her easy pace.
    We followed her to a tiny gray shack that seemed barely larger than some of the more elaborate crypts. She jiggled the key in the door and we entered a single, sparse room. Inside sat a wooden desk and chair, a lamp, a metal storage cabinet, and a phone. And that’s about all that could fit. I didn’t feel any air conditioning, but just being out of the sun’s rays was a welcome relief. Sister Catherine pulled sharply folded clothes from the cabinet along with several papers bearing yellow highlighting.
    “Here you are. This should be everything you need. This”—she shuffled through the papers, pulling one aside—“gives some basic painting tips. All the supplies are in here.”
    “Thank you, Sister,” we said in unison.
    She nodded slowly, eyes downcast, in that way that nuns always seemed to in movies, like when Joan and I would watch The Sound of Music at Christmastime. She shuffled toward the door and then turned around once more. “And please don’t remain in the cemetery past sundown. For . . . safety reasons,” she said, her voice taking on a heavy, chilling tone for a moment.
    “What do you . . .” Sabine started. But before we could ask any more, Sister Catherine slipped out, the last trace of her long black robe slithering away like a tail as the door shut.
    “Nuns freak me out,” Sabine said after she left, giving a shimmy like she had the chills.
    “C’mon, she was . . . sweet,” I said. Drew just giggled at us. We changed into the white cotton painter’s pants—which dwarfed Sabine and me, since they were apparently made for people twice our height—and equally enormous T-shirts with a drawing of the church on the front and STAFF in giant letters across the back. Sabine tugged at the extra material of her tee, trying to tie it all into a knot. Having little luck, she scowled.
    “I know, these outfits are pretty hot, right?” I joked, and she laughed at herself.
    With paint cans, rollers, brushes, and newspapers in hand, we made our way back to a trio of graves on our hit list. The sun seemed to have grown hotter than it had any right to be in January. I spread out sheets of newspaper on the ground around Lafon’s grave site and set to work rolling out the thick pastelike paint over the crypt. The thirsty cement soaked it up. I rolled layer after layer and I tried, above all else, to keep my mind from wandering too far down corridors I didn’t want it exploring.
    By midafternoon, I had rolled my final coat and had Lafon positively gleaming. At one point my fellow painters had given me cash and sent me on an expedition to round up some lunch, during which I discovered that the mysterious muffuletta, which I had seen mentioned in signs all around town and sounded like a species of small animal, was just a fancy name for a sandwich.
    As we were cleaning up, Drew, who looked