Page 3 of Priestly Sins

“We’re having a reception at the house. Please join us.”

“I’d be honored. Thank you.”

Louisianians know how to throw a funeral. And they do. First the solemn, reverent wake. Then the resigned, but dignified mass. And lastly, the party that follows. The suit jackets and ties come off. The wine, the liquor, the coffee, and the food are served — the full spread and the family reunion, the laughter, the stories. Then again, Louisianians just know how to throw a party.

I shake hands and I hug necks—their term, not mine. No self-respecting man from Boston would ever say “hug a neck,” but when in Rome—or in this case, New Orleans—you roll with it.

The stories about the deceased flow with the beer—the savory and the unsavory. Theremember whensgo on and on until I leave the party and fake a show of sympathy for the asshole we laid to rest.

And I’m sure long after that.

No tears now, although they will come later.

If I know one thing, I know God comforts the mourning.

If I know two things, it’s that I, too often, make that introduction.

Leaving the deceased’s old Colonial, I head to my Benz and roll out. Once I’m out of the neighborhood, I slide back the sunroof and adjust the radio to some nineties rock. Don’t look for “Ave Maria” from me. It has its place, but I hear it enough at work. And it’s about to be that sad, somber, darkest time in the liturgical year. Besides, I need the breather.

I take the long way home and follow the tree-covered streets through neighborhoods and then just ‘hoods, until I happen upon a whitewashed, brick shop with patina-colored shutters—real shutters that might suffice against a Category 2 hurricane, but never more than that. It has white metal tables and chairs outside with pink flowerpots full of bouquets of those plastic, spinning flowers that whirl when the wind blows. They’re slowly turning this way and that. The sign above the door reads Petites Fleurs.

I park and consider it as I walk to the front door. Clean flower boxes hold pansies and something else looks to be pushing up from the soil.

Inside smells like spun sugar and vanilla. The sweetness is so overpowering that it takes a moment or two to acclimate. There is a little dark-haired girl in the hallway that leads toward what I assume is the back door. Her ear is pressed against a wall near a door. I’d think the ringing of the bells over the front entrance would have surprised her enough to distract her, but after watching for a few moments, her ponytail swishes and she darts toward the front, only to stop dead in her tracks, staring straight at me.

Our standoff quickly ends as a woman with honey-colored hair comes flying down the hall, a string of unintelligible curses falling from her flame-red face. She assumes the same pose as the child so I’m facing down a pint-sized girl and a real-sized woman. A beautiful woman.

She recovers faster than I do, placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders and plastering on a fake, customer-service smile while tilting her head.

“Father?”

“Yes.”

“Can I help you?”

“I wanted to pick up a few desserts. What do you recommend?”

“The ‘petty-floors,’ of course,” pipes the girl with the bright hazel eyes.

“Tell me more,” I say, nodding to her and tilting my head to the glass cases, as if asking her a question.

She bounds up to the display case and plasters her now-evident dirty hands onto the curved glass. “See? Petty-floors.”

Sure enough there are petits fours staring back at me, each with flower shapes either carved into the poured icing or decorating the top. Petites Fleurs. Clever!

Still addressing her, I ask, “Which is your favorite?”

“The pink ones, but they all taste the same, silly!” And with that, she bounds off toward the back, skipping away.

“Silly,” I mumble. I said it aloud, apparently, because the rambling apologies from her mother begin immediately.

I turn and give her my most genuine smile. Wish I could remember the last time I smiled this big.

“Don’t apologize. It’s cute. I can’t remember the last time anyone called me silly.”

She stumbles to the back of the counter, averting her eyes, and then holding mine for a beat longer than I expect.

“What can I get you?”