The Sacred Heart of Jesus Women’s Club met every Thursday evening at the parish hall for a simple dinner and fellowship. Or womenship, as Father Mike liked to say. He handled the invocation and grace before dinner, sat with some of the ladies -- which was always a political thing to see who got to dine with handsome Father Mike – and generally mingled about after dinner when the ladies got into the real gossip. Joanie always showed up, but of course, she hated it. These were women who knew her parents, who’d watch her sometimes when she needed babysitting, who hired her to babysit some of their younger children, and a few whose sons she had sex with during high school. But now she was Sister Joanie. Which continued to amaze and stupefy the good women of Alcide and St. Martin Parish.
Mike was listening to a lively discussion at his table from a few of the women. Mostly about Felice Guidry, newly widowed wife of the newly eaten Floyd Guidry. They would all be at the funeral this weekend, of course, but the main topic was Felice. She was back on the market, and an attractive middle-aged woman back on the market made the ladies reassess their husbands’ fidelity.
Mike smiled and nodded his head, but he wasn’t paying that much attention. He looked over to the next table and watched as Joanie engaged in some chatter with her group of ladies. Joanie was holding court, and the women were paying rapt attention. This petrified Mike somewhat, because there was no telling what Joanie was talking about, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t last Sunday’s gospel. Judging by the looks on the ladies’ faces, it was pure-gold gossip.
Joanie had dressed modestly for the ladies, thank goodness. Gray slacks and a simple white blouse buttoned up high. Her signature cross was around her neck. She’d left the makeup off, or maybe toned it down, Mike couldn’t tell. Joanie looked great either way. She had her chestnut hair down and it gathered slightly at her shoulders. One of the ladies at her table took up the conversation and Joanie picked up her glass of tea and took a sip. She licked her lips slightly, nodded at the lady, and turned her head Mike’s way. She gave him a quick smile and a wink.
Damn, Mike thought. I wish she wouldn’t do that. The gesture made his heart beat a little fast, and there was a stirring down below that he quickly dealt with via a quick prayer to his namesake saint, Michael the Archangel. Mike was pretty sure St. Mike never had to deal with such things. Smiting his ex-old-buddy Lucifer and tossing him out of heaven had kept him pretty occupied at first. Running the angel corps was his full-time gig now, which was enough to keep your mind off things.
Mike wondered what was going through Joanie’s mind. Did she flirt with him on purpose, just to get a reaction? Was that just her personality? Or was there something more? His heart kind of ached for her But was it just a strong platonic emotional bond, a shared connection between two young adults who had given their lives to Christ?
Mike had been in and out of love, and bed, with enough women in his life to know what was going on. At least, he thought he did. He and Joanie had known each other long enough now that they could talk, really talk, to each other. He didn’t know her that well in high school, but after she had come over from St. Alphonse, they had made a connection. And they could talk for hours. About anything. And while she talked, he just stared at her, taking in everything about her. Her smile, her eyes, her lustrous hair. The shape of her nose, her long legs, the curve of her…
“Father?”
Mike heard his name, but it took a beat for him to readjust his concentration. It was Sandra Favreaux, a striking 47-year-old redhead with big green eyes and a big new rack across her chest, courtesy of a plastic surgeon in New Orleans.
“I’m sorry, Sandy,” he said. “What was that?”
Sandra did the geometry on Mike’s eyes, where they were now and where they had been a moment ago. She gave a knowing smile and glanced at one of the other women across the table. “You think Felice is gonna stay at her place or move to Lafayette, where her sister lives?”
Mike took a deep breath and adjusted his thinking. “Hmmm. I think she’ll stay. The house is paid for. She said Floyd had a good insurance policy, so she’ll be set. She likes it around here. Can’t see her moving to the city.”
Mike looked around the table at the women. It was not the response they had hoped for. They were thinking it would be best if Felice dropped out of the local scene. They didn’t need any new Cajun cougars running around the place.
Mike couldn’t resist. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Felice found her a new man pretty quick. Attractive woman like that. And, man, can she cook. I’d miss her around the parish.” The truth was, Mike would miss the parish income. Felice and Floyd had been generous with their financial support. He had checked just to make sure.
The subject quickly changed to the hurricane and what precautions people were taking. The citizens of Alcide weren’t fools. Experience had taught them what to expect from any category of storm. They knew which low spots would flood, which roads would be impassable because of fallen trees, how long the power would be out, and where to go until the storm passed. Most would leave to stay at relatives’ homes to the north in Opelousas, Alexandria and beyond. Just an extra 50 or 100 miles north made a big difference in storm strength and destruction.
The ladies finished their coffee and the evening began to wind down. A few volunteers stayed to clean up. Mike and Joanie made the rounds and thanked the ladies for coming.
He retreated to his office, with Joanie trailing behind. It was spacious and orderly. A big cypress desk dominated the room, handmade by a local carpenter. Two leather chairs sat in front. There was also room in the corner for a couple of more chairs and a tiny coffee table. The window behind the desk looked out into the swampy woods, dimly lit now by a few of the spotlights on the outside of the rectory. The earlier thunderstorm had passed, and the foliage on the trees shimmered with moisture. A thin bit of steam hung over the scene.
One wall of the office had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with the requisite Catholic playbooks and how-to manuals. But there were also a number of books on hunting, camping and travel, a few of Mike’s passions. The other walls featured framed photos of Mike with family and friends, from his high school years to the present.
Mike switched on a 32-inch flat screen TV that sat on a table to the left of his desk. Joanie plopped down in one of the leather chairs and put one leg over the chair’s right arm. He flipped a few channels until he found The Weather Channel. There was Jim Cantore, in a blue windbreaker, microphone in hand, on the beach at Grand Isle. The windbreaker was being whipped by a steady breeze. Even in the darkness, the TV lights illuminated an-already-angry surf piling up on the low barrier island to the southeast.
The graphics on the screen revealed Hurricane Tammy as a category two, with winds over 110 mph. Mike and Joanie listened as Cantore rattled out weather data, possible storm tracks and evacuation notices. The current track had the storm passing just west of Alcide.
Joanie said, “Great, we’re gonna get the right side.” The right quadrant of a hurricane was always the worst for wind and rain. The forward speed of the storm was added to the actual wind speed to make that side a howling maelstrom that packed a hurricane’s biggest punch.
“Gotta board up tomorrow,” Mike said. “We’ll get the men’s club on that in the morning.” He stared at the screen again, doing some math in his head. “We can probably sneak Floyd’s wake in tomorrow night, but putting him in the ground is gonna have to wait. Felice will be pissed.”
“It’ll be safer there for him,” Joanie said. She glanced away from the TV at Mike. “He’ll have both feet firmly in the ground by Monday.”
Mike didn’t bite. “Funeral home will be fine. It never floods. Us? Who knows? Might be rough.”
He tossed the remote on his desk and sat back. The insurance on the church was fairly substantial, so he wasn’t worried about the money. The deductible was a little high, but they had cash set aside for that. “I’m staying,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere, either,” Joanie replied. “We can hole up here.”
“If it goes to a three, things might get a little interesting,” Mike added.
“We’ll be fine. This church is solid. Been through hurricanes since long before you and I were born.”
“Except we’re probably on our fifth steeple in 30 years,” Mike said.
Joanie shrugged. “Gotta give something to the storm,” she said.
“Maybe we should make book on the steeple this time,” he said. “Could haul in some extra cash. I’m sure that’s legal.”
“Doubtful, but l like the idea.”
Joanie sat back and put her feet up on the front of Mike’s desk. She gave him a smile. “You ever notice how those women look at you?”
“The Women’s Club women?”
“All women.”
“Yes, with reverence and respect,” Mike said. “They hang on my every word.” He flipped through a stack of mail on the desk.
“They want to catch you when you fall.” Joanie said. “And I don’t mean down the stairs.”
“Do I look wobbly?” he said. He gave her a level gaze.
“Hmmmm. Kinda solid. Maybe.” She smiled again.
A moment of awkward silence passed between them. Finally, Joanie said, “Tell me the truth. You ever thought about hanging it up? Going civilian?”
Mike shook his head. “In it for the long haul.” Mike didn’t like where the conversation was headed. Okay, maybe a little. He felt his heart pick up a few beats.
“I think priests should be able to marry,” she said.
“I think we’ve had this conversation.”
She gave him a dismissive wave. “I know, I know. But really, you should be married, have some kids. Will that make you a lesser priest?”
“It would make me an even more tired priest,” he said.
“Protestants got it figured out,” Joanie replied. “They look happy.”
Mike wanted to turn the tables. “What about you? You think nuns should marry?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t mind a man and some kids.”
“You need the Pope’s phone number? I’m sure if you call he’d change his mind,” Mike said.
She shook her head. “I mean, look at us. We’re like a work-wife, work-husband kind of couple already. Without the perks, of course.”
Mike thought it was getting a little warm in his office. He and Joanie had these talks before. At first they had been rhetorical, just some lively debate, even though they agreed on most things. The Roman Catholic Church wasn’t a democracy. There would be no caucuses, no floor vote to change the rules. Over time, though, when their relationship had become more comfortable, the discussion seemed to have a hidden subtext that neither wanted to push.
“Okay, so if the rules changed, we could date, right?” Mike said. “But we work together. Most companies frown upon co-workers dating. Plus, I’m your boss. There’s the whole sexual harassment thing to consider.”
“My boss?” Joanie laughed. “That never stopped office hanky spanky before.”
Distant thunder rumbled from the retreating storm. On the TV, Jim Cantore was getting excited about something that was just handed to him. Mike tried to concentrate on the screen. Joanie just looked down and smoothed her slacks against her long legs.
She said, “I’d date you if we could. You know, even though we work together. That kind of thing never bothered me.”
Mike felt like he had to return the compliment. That was a compliment, right? “Same here,” he said. “Boy, that would get the office ladies talking.”
“You know, they already think you and I…are an item. You knew that, right?”
Mike sat forward. “What?”
“Really. Even the Women’s Club ladies look at us like we’re a couple.”
“That’s crazy,” Mike said. Crazy in a good way, he thought. Truth was, he caught their knowing glances when he and Joanie were around each other. They did act like a couple and people noticed. They didn’t seem to mind, either.
“So they’re saying we’re already a couple in every way except…”
“Right,” Joanie said. “Except. Except I think they wonder about even that.”
Mike was slightly appalled. “You think they think we’re messing around?”
“Oh yeah. Most of the parish does.”
Mike knew this, but chose to ignore it. This was the first time Joanie had ever broached the subject with him. “Crap. If this gets back to the Diocesan Office, we’re screwed.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Joanie said. Again with the smile that tore at Mike’s heart. “I think our parishioners like it. The good sinners of Alcide don’t’ feel so bad if their priest and nun are rolling around in the sack together.”
Mike was getting that weird feeling again. Actually, it was that good feeling again. He tried to summon St. Michael, but he was pretty sure he was getting a busy signal.