Healing the Bayou by Mary Bernsen Page A

very classic-looking black dress that came down to my knees to wear on our outing to the cemetery. She wore a matching one along with an oversized hat with a brim that nearly covered her entire face.
    As we were readying to go, I glanced out the window and caught a glimpse of Samuel leaving the house ahead of us in a hurry. My heart sank with disappointed. He wouldn’t be coming with us.
     
    * * *
     
     
    When Aunt Vivian brought me into the city of New Orleans the next morning, I had no idea what to expect. The Saint Louis Cemetery Number 1 was thrown in the middle of one of the busiest parts of the tourist district, and there was a monstrous gathering of some of the strangest people you’ve ever met piled behind the gates of the resting place of hundreds of souls.
    Even without the other visitors it would have been crowded, given the number of crypts standing from one end of the graveyard to the other with barely enough space to walk between them.
    We patiently waited in line to get to see the memorial of my great-great-grandmother, whom was evidently a very popular figure for those remotely interested in Voodoo.
    A few of the other graves had a number of visitors, but most of the tourists were here to see Marie Laveau. The way her followers carried on made for a good show. One woman placed her hand on the marble marked with graffiti and rolled her eyes back as though she was going to faint. Of course she didn’t—she wasn’t quite that committed to the charade.
    A tombstone with a large plaque stood out among all the others.
     
     
    Marie Leaveu
     
    This Greek revival tomb is the reputed burial place of this notorious “Voodoo queen.” A mystic cult, Voodooism, of African origin, was brought to this city from Santo Domingo and flourished in the 19th century. Marie Laveau was the most widely known of many practitioners of the cult.
     
     
    The foot of the marker was littered with candles, beads, coins, and cigarettes. Triple Xs were drawn all over her crypt, and the disrespect infuriated me.
    “What, they couldn’t hold onto their crap long enough to find a trash can?” I snapped.
    “They are offerings,” Aunt Vivian informed me. “The tradition among her followers has been to write XXX, present an offering to Marie, and make a wish.”
    “So, they think she can grant their wishes from the grave?”
    “With all their hearts they believe it. Your great-great-grandmother was both feared and respected in her day, and still is by anyone who knows Voodoo today.”
    I shrugged. “To me it seems to take away from her legacy. It’s almost as if she is on display in a museum, and these leaches are coming by trying to disturb the peace she could have in death for nothing more than the sake of being selfish. She’s a tourist stop. I obviously don’t know anything about her, but I have to believe she deserves more than this.”
    Aunt Vivian looked over her sunglasses at me and leaned in close. “That’s what we thought too. So we moved her.”
    It was a surprising revelation but it was also a huge relief.
    “So then, why are we here if she isn’t?”
    “The elders and I spoke about you last night. We wanted to be sure you were trustworthy enough to know her true burial place. Come on. Let’s go meet your ancestor.”
    We casually strolled out of the circus and made our way a few blocks down the road to another larger cemetery called Saint Louis Cemetery No. 2.
    When we stepped inside the black metal gate, a chill ran down my spine. Right in front of me stood the giant oak tree from my dreams, and it scared me no less in the daylight. It was watching me, memorizing every step I took. To my far right I caught a glimpse of two slabs of concrete. I imagined the mutilated goat on one with myself on the other and became so uncomfortable I had to convince myself not to turn around and leave.
    Aunt Vivian guided me to a modest, unmarked headstone and without her needing to tell me I knew it was our destination.