Dead Letter Office, Parish Mail #1

Chapter: 2

Parish Mail is written like a TV series–there are over-arching mystery and romantic story arcs that extend between the episodes, while each episode has a smaller case that is presented and solved. Along the way,  the reader will get the opportunity to make several small decisions. These choices do not impact the overarching storyline, however certain combinations “unlock” clues to the series’ mystery, which are embedded in the text. 

At the end of the certain chapters, readers will get the chance to vote on one of two choices. The path that gets the most votes will get posted on Wattpad.  New chapters will be posted every Thursday. 

CHAPTER 2

The sun is going down now, and I’m in a house full of people. I’m still trying to explain to myself what happened in the cemetery. Probably it was someone, maybe a kid, playing hide and seek with me. It would be easy to dash away and vanish between the graves. Or it was the wind. The fact that I didn’t see or hear anyone, and that there wasn’t any wind… well, that’s the part I’ve given up trying to make sense of.

My grandparents live in a gorgeous, big place on Elm Street in the Garden District, a white two-story 19th century house with columns and a curved, tiered porch that reminds me of a wedding cake. Despite its size, it’s full to capacity now with friends and family. And food. So much food. The dining room table is practically groaning with casseroles and other dishes, a sliced cold ham, baskets of homemade biscuits, trays and trays of deviled eggs. In the kitchen is still more food, including what I guess to be a huge pot of gumbo, though I’m not quite sure what that is yet. I count five different colors of JELL-O salad.

Jane bustles around the kitchen, pulling out clean plates, finding room for excess dishes in the fridge, marshalling a couple of male relatives to find more chairs for the lady guests. She’s making herself too busy for people to approach and offer their condolences, and I can appreciate the tactic. My grandfather doesn’t need any such diversion. He’s standing against the wall in the front living room–parlor, I guess you’d call it in a big fancy house like this–looking out the window and sipping a tumbler of whiskey. He’s formidable, tall and broad and taciturn, and everyone is leaving him alone.

“Celia, dear, the chafing dishes have gone out,” Jane says, handing me a book of matches and nodding toward the dining room table.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say reflexively. Jane smiles at me as I go, pleased and surprised. One thing about growing up in a military family: you develop excellent manners.

I relight the little cans under the chafing dishes, glad for something to do. Mom is examining the buffet, only a few cold vegetable crudités on her plate so far.

“Deanna, honey, you have to eat,” Aunt Hunter urges her. “You both do,” she adds, catching my eye.

Mom smiles politely. “We are,” she replies, but Hunter frowns at the nearly empty plate and its sad little carrots and pieces of broccoli, not believing. Mom is slender, but she’s not looking for diet items on the table. She’s looking for something without meat in it and having very little luck. A vegetarian’s going to have a tough time of it in New Orleans, I think to myself. Even the green bean casserole clearly was made with cream of chicken soup.

I’m not a vegetarian, though, and help myself to the ham and a big scoop of macaroni and cheese flecked with bacon, so creamy and thick that my fork can stand upright in it. I find a chair in a corner and eat, hoping the guests will leave me alone like they’re leaving my grandparents alone. They do, but I feel their eyes on me.

Technically I have met a lot of my family before, including Jane and my grandfather, but I was a baby and don’t remember. Whatever happened between Dad and my grandparents during that visit was bad enough that they didn’t really speak for almost my entire life. Growing up, I could tell that this was something that neither Mom nor Dad wanted to talk about, so I never found out why I only knew the one set of grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Lurie and their home on wheels. But in the days since we arrived in New Orleans, I’ve caught bits and pieces over half-heard conversations that stop as soon as I enter the room. My grandparents wanted a lot for my dad, and my mom and a life in the Navy wasn’t part of that. Staying in New Orleans, going to the right college, choosing a respectable profession, and marrying a local girl “of quality” was the plan. And my dad was never big on following someone else’s plan. I’m more than a little like him that way. I watch my mom talk to Hunter and her friends, and see them take note of Mom’s tattoos and her informal, decidedly not high-society manners. Now that I know his family’s disapproval of Mom was partly behind Dad’s split with them, I’m impressed at her bravery in moving us out here.