In God's House (11 page)

The Feed & Seed store, south of Amalie, served lunch to the local farmers every Tuesday and Thursday. The fare today was red beans and rice, New Orleans style, made with blue runner beans from nearby Gonzales. All day men drifted in and out of the store, drinking free coffee, discussing crops, equipment, weather, hunting, fishing and local politics.

There was a kind of uniform they wore, consisting of old baseball-style caps with lettering of some kind advertising a diesel tractor manufacturer or other farm implement supplier, and
tee-shirts
in warm weather or long-sleeved khaki shirts in cooler weather, over faded blue jeans. Some still wore cowboy boots or work boots, but many had switched over to jogging shoes.

Listening to their normal conversation one might think the men of Amalie confused what they did for how they were. If you asked one, “How you doing?” the answer would be along the lines of “Cut four acres of cane yesterday,” or “Caught a barrel of redfish on the marsh inlet last night.” They were rugged men who took their value and self worth to be a direct reflection of what they accomplished in the face of the elements. For years these were the only things they talked about.

Now a small group of men who met here early every morning had stopped discussing farming, fishing, hunting and trapping. Ever since they had learned their sons had been sexually abused by their pastor, Father Dubois, they talked of nothing else.

Elray “Poppa” Vidros was six foot six inches and 350 pounds. He had always been big and had been called “Poppa” since high school. He was legendary for a feat on the gridiron that happened fifteen years earlier. The Amalie Tigers football team, competing in the smallest classification in the state with only twenty-nine players, had gone undefeated and made it to the state championship. With seconds remaining, their opponents scored and trailed the Tigers by only one point. As they lined up to kick the extra point for the tie, Poppa Vidros began to scream, slapping his taped paws on the helmets of his teammates. They say the look in his eye was more fearsome than the time he beat up four city guys in a mall parking lot in Thiberville. The ball was snapped to the holder and when the play ended a moment later, Poppa Vidros had both the holder and the ball in his arms. Poppa Vidros charged up the field, carrying the player and ball with him, screaming savagely. The tall trophy came home to Amalie where it still stands in a glass case in the school gym next to a faded picture of the legendary team and their mascot, a one-horned cow that wandered onto their practice field every afternoon.

Poppa Vidros might have been the biggest in the group, the one who exhibited the toughest demeanor, a man who would never admit that he cried, yet there had been many times that he had walked behind the barn on his farm. Unable to find release from the distress at what had happened to his son, he wept, sometimes for a long time until he felt even sicker. The fear he had for his boy and how it would affect his life, and the pain he felt about what happened manifested itself in uncontrollable rage.

Wiley Arceneaux was much smaller and quieter than Poppa. He owned the store. He was also the cook. Lately, he had taken to unlocking the store as early as 5 a.m. because he could not sleep anymore, not since he learned what Father Dubois had done to his son. He’d lie in bed at night next to his wife, wide awake for as long as he could stand it, and when he could not take it anymore he’d quietly dress and drive to the Feed & Seed.

On some mornings when Wiley pulled into the oyster-shell
parking lot in front of the frame building, there would be two trucks already in the yard, belonging to Poppa Vidros and Tommy Wesley Rachou. Rachou’s wife was seeing a psychologist in Thiberville, but Tommy Wesley had seen no improvement.

When shrimp season was not open somewhere between Brownsville, Texas and Key West, Florida, Randy Falgout was a regular at the gathering. All of them had stood in each other’s weddings and been present for the baptism of their children and now they were bonded in a way they could never have imagined. They wanted a Catholic priest dead.

Every day they had the same conversation.

“I am gonna kill him,” Poppa said as he broke off a piece of bread. “You can make book on that. Gonna kill that fuck of a priest. Gonna keep my shotgun in my truck till I unload it in his ass.”

Wiley paced the sagging porch with a bowl of rice and beans in his hands. “I haven’t hardly slept since I heard about all this. I can’t talk to Sissy. All she does is cry about it when I talk about it. My boy acts like it didn’t happen, but he knows it happened. He wouldn’t go to school when it started on Monday… and… sometimes he wets the bed. Nine years old and pissing the bed. What does that mean? What can you do about it? And that piece of shit lawyer Brent Thomas says we can’t tell the school what his problems are.”

“That damned lawyer,” Tommy Rachou said. “Brent Thomas is a piece of shit. Always talking about his faith in the Church. He talked Celeste and me into going to see that monsignor in Bayou Saint John. Then Brent brought us to the chancery in Thiberville to see some shitbird Monsignor Moroux who scared Celeste. She said he looked like a fucking ghost.”

Tommy Rachou spat, shook his head, and continued, “That piece of shit lawyer has had our case for over six months and not squat has happened, nothing. I think that chickenshit lawyer wants to go everywhere but to court. I’ve had enough. I’m switching lawyers. I heard Kane Chaisson in Thiberville has a
pair of balls on him. I’m gonna see if he’ll take on these fuckin’ priests, smoke the Church out of its hiding place, do something for my boy. We see Chaisson tomorrow night. He knows what it’s about and told us to come after five when he’s closed so he can have all the time he needs.”

“Yeah, I’d like to go see that Chaisson fellow too,” Wiley Arceneaux said. “But Sissy’s scared of the world knowing about what happened to our boy. And that dipshit, Brent Thomas, who is a cousin by her momma or some shit like that, says no one will ever know what happened to our boy if he’s handling things. So, I think I’m stuck with him.”

Randy Falgout said, “It’s my fault. We went to that Thomas fellow and he brought in that dipshit spic from Florida. Thomas is my relation by marriage. All he wanted was me to give him names of more families with altar boys, so he could sign more cases, make more money for doing nothing. All anybody got last year was some money. There weren’t no fucking justice. Nothing happened to the bishop. Nothing happened to the fucker, Father Dubois. There weren’t no justice done. We was paid off. That little prick of a lawyer Thomas was more interested in kissing the bishop’s ass than representing our boys. The Brent Thomas turd was bad enough. And that high-steppin’ spic fruit from Florida talked to us like we’re stupid.”

Tommy Wesley Rachou walked off the porch to the parking lot and dumped his coffee on the crushed oyster shells. “Well, I’m gonna see Chaisson tomorrow and see if I can’t shake this thing up. I don’t know whose side Brent Thomas is on. I want a lawyer who is on my boy’s side.”

Randy Falgout looked at Poppa Vidros. “You go ahead. Find that priest. Kill the fucker.”

The burly man dwarfed the slight child as he walked him down the hall to where the child’s parents were waiting for them. Pointing to the voluptuous, spike-heeled woman seated behind the reception desk, Kane Chaisson said to the nine-year-old, “Donny, this is Misty, my wife. She’ll get you a soft drink and show you around – show you all these stuffed animals and tell you about the places where we hunted them. That big bear I shot in Alaska.”

The boy was gazing up at the huge bear as Donny’s parents, Celeste and Tommy Wesley Rachou, followed Kane Chaisson to his office. There were more animals, including a twelve-foot alligator, mounted on the walls of the lawyer’s private office.

“You should be real proud of your son. For two hours we talked – and we talked about everything. I needed to see him alone to know… know whether the child can stand up to the pressure. There’s going to be a lot of pressure. The question is can you stand up to it with your son?”

Celeste looked away from Chaisson. Tommy asked, “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Rachou, if you want me to take this case then there are three things you have to understand. First, I am going to see that this priest goes to prison. I will force the district attorney to do this. Secondly, this business of hiding the secret sins of this priest is going to stop. I am going to break the seal on this lawsuit and
make this public. The court and press will protect your child’s identity, but the world’s going to find out what that priest did. I want you to understand this – I am going to give your boy his day in court. We’re not going to go to the diocese with our hands out, looking for a check. We’re not going to make a deal with those devils dressed like men of God. We’re going to court before a jury, where we’ll be looking for justice.”

“You know the Church… the diocese… bishop and them, Mr. Chaisson? Do you?” Tommy asked.

“Mr. Rachou, I knew what this Church was like a long time ago. When it came time for my older sister to marry, she went to see the rector of the cathedral. We had lived in that parish all of our lives. The priest said they had rules and they followed their rules. He refused permission for her to use the church because my father had not contributed any money to the parish. Papa went to Mass on Sunday, but he was poor and had six children – hardly enough money for food and clothes. I remember her marriage in a dirty room in the old courthouse. They have their own rules and they have always been above the rule of law. With this case, we can show them that the only rule that applies is the rule of law. They preach about sins against God and sins against the Church. I read the Bible. Scripture informs us that in the eyes of Jesus Christ there’s no sin greater than a sin against a child. Donny will tell his story—”

“You’re saying Donny will have to testify… in public,” Tommy Wesley Rachou said.

“Yes,” Chaisson said.

Chaisson turned toward Celeste. “Are you sure you can stand up to this?”

“I don’t wanna… but I will. I got to.”

Tommy leaned forward. “There’s ten more boys with cases filed in secret at the courthouse in Bayou Saint John, Mr. Chaisson. I know some of the fathers are real unhappy about the way this is all being kept a secret. Nobody likes to be paid off to keep their trap shut. Could I bring some of them here?”

Chaisson shook his head dramatically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rachou. This is the only case I can take. I just want to make sure there’s no backing out by you or your wife. Somebody has to be strong enough to put this priest in prison. And someone has to be strong enough to let the world know what happened, to take the bishop to court.”

“Go ahead. We are not going to crawfish on you.”

“Fine. I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

As they shook hands, Tommy Rachou said, “Thank you. We appreciate what you are doing for our boy.”

“Mr. Rachou, I cannot give back to Donny what was taken from him by this abuse. Nobody can. But what Donny can’t get in church, he can get in court.”

The banging startled Monsignor Moroux. He was on his second cup of coffee, reading the morning paper, ensconced in the bishop’s office. As the banging on the front door of the chancery continued, Moroux stared at the cemetery through the picture window, seeking his customary reminder that no matter what the uncertainties of life might be, the end was sure. He often thought about dying, and sometimes believed death might offer the richest experience in life.

When Moroux finally identified the noise – someone hitting and rattling the glass front doors of the chancery building – he thought it might be an old man he saw often, a bum with a dog who slept among the dead out in the cemetery; or perhaps it was someone seeking a handout of money, food or spiritual advice. Whoever it was could wait until 8:30 when his secretary, Lydia, unlocked the building for business.

The knocking continued. Perturbed, Moroux sauntered down the hall, entered the vestibule, and walked into the circle of dead
popes. Through the glass door he saw an elderly man dressed in a police uniform.

Unlocking and opening the door, Moroux said in an inquiring way, “Yes?”

The old deputy wore the uniform of the Bayou Saint John sheriff’s department and he held a sheaf of papers in his left hand. Extending the handful of papers, he said, “Excuse me, Father. These were my instructions from my boss, that he got from Mr. Chaisson’s office. To come here now. Early like this. To serve these papers on you.”

Moroux signed the receipt, took the papers and simply said, “Thank you.”

After relocking the door, he slowly walked back toward the bishop’s office, perusing the papers. Most of them were legal forms in triplicate, indicating that the attached documents were being served on the Diocese of Thiberville and all the other names that appeared as defendants on the original petition. These papers did not involve Brent Thomas, the lawyer Moroux thought was handling the eleven new cases against the Church. The name of the attorney on the documents was Kane Chaisson. The plaintiffs he was apparently representing were listed anonymously because of the court seal, blackened out and replaced with numerical designations: “John Doe #7”, and “Parents of John Doe #7”.

Moroux knew who Kane Chaisson was and he understood that the last paper in the set of documents in his hands was a court order setting a hearing on September 3 to determine whether the seal should be lifted, making the contents of this lawsuit a matter of public record.

Monsignor Moroux felt nauseated. He walked across to the desk of his secretary, Lydia Domingue, and scribbled a note saying he was ill and would be in his residence. He asked not to be disturbed unless something required his immediate attention. His pace was slow as he navigated the passageway that connected the chancery to the Old Bishop’s House. Feeling too weak to walk up the steps to his own bed, he went into a downstairs guest
bedroom that he had been in only once before. He pulled off his clothes, stripped down to his shorts and tee-shirt, and slipped beneath the covers. Within a matter of minutes he was sound asleep, dreaming of riding a bike down the center of a red-dirt road bounded by deep green fields. The red-dirt road was peopled by Africans wearing bright clothing. It was a dream he had often, a curious vision in that he had never been to Africa and had never learned to ride a bike.

The phone woke Moroux. Remembering that Joe and Fanny, the husband-and-wife team who acted as housekeepers, cooks and gardeners and whom he sometimes referred to as “servants”, were off on Mondays, he picked up the phone. It was his secretary informing him that District Attorney Sean Robinette had just called, saying it was urgent that he speak with the monsignor. Moroux scribbled the DA’s phone number on the face of a holy card.

The district attorney was curt. “I have an affidavit of a Donny Rachou furnished by Kane Chaisson that alleges serious crimes against your priest, Father Francis Dubois. I am aware there are at least sixteen other victims. Our information is that six victims have received monetary settlements. My office opened a criminal investigation this morning. We will prosecute the priest. I want a meeting Thursday morning with an attorney who represents this priest. I don’t want some diocesan lawyer coming here like in the past to assure me the diocese is taking care of everything. I want to meet with a lawyer who represents Father Dubois.”

Monsignor Moroux knew there was no such person. Father Dubois had no attorney of his own. All the monsignor could manage was a mumbled, “I see. Fine.”

Moroux’s left arm was numb when he hung up. When death did not come after chain-smoking half a pack of unfiltered cigarettes, he pulled himself up from the guest-room sofa and
shuffled back to bed, hoping a dream would take him somewhere else.

When Moroux woke again, it was late afternoon. The sun was setting, the chancery office was closed. He walked to the bishop’s office, which he used as his own, and looked out at the cemetery for a long time, not knowing what to do about any of the developments of the day.

Unsure what to do about Kane Chaisson filing a motion to unseal one of the civil suits, or about the district attorney’s demand for an appointment with a lawyer representing Father Francis Dubois, Moroux made a series of phone calls. Within half an hour his core advisors were assembled in his office; diocesan counsel Jon Bendel, vicar of finance Monsignor Buddy Belair, personnel director Sister Julianne, director of communications Lloyd Lecompte, and lay advisor Joe Rossi.

The question was put on the table by Moroux. Father Dubois now required his own legal counsel: who would they hire?

Joe Rossi immediately took control. “We can get a good lawyer for this mentally defective priest. But I tell ya, 99 per cent of what passes for lawyers around here wouldn’t dirty their hands, stain their reputations by representing that pervert. I know one, a good one, who will represent anybody. He’s young, but he’s good. Let me call Renon Chattelrault for you. No, no… a better idea is to have Monsignor Belair call him for lunch here on Wednesday with all of us. Have the archbishop’s lawyer here too. Renon Chattelrault will make that meeting with the district attorney on Thursday. Renon ain’t scared of nothin’.”

Jon Bendel was cautious. In a hard voice, he addressed Rossi. “Joe, can you control Chattelrault? Sometimes that kid is like a house afire, and he can be like a loose cannon rolling on the deck, playing by his own rules, not giving a damn who he steps on. He’s young, but he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch to deal with sometimes.” Turning toward Sister Julianne, speaking in his smooth velvety voice, Bendel said, “Pardon my language, Sister.”

The decision was made. Monsignor Buddy Belair would invite Renon Chattelrault to lunch at the Old Bishop’s House.

Moroux walked everyone to the angel fountain. Lloyd Lecompte hurried to his car without saying goodbye. Monsignor Buddy Belair said goodbye to everyone too many times. Sister Julianne pulled out an apple, unlocked her bicycle, and waved farewell as she pedaled away.

That left Joe Rossi, with his hands in his pockets, rocking heel to toe, and Jon Bendel standing ramrod straight, his suit coat folded over an arm crossed in front of his starched white shirt and striped tie.

Moroux sat on the edge of the fountain.

Rossi grabbed a smoke from Moroux’s pack and lit it from matches in his own pocket.

Jon Bendel said, “We’ll go with Chattelrault, but dammit, Joe, you better be able to control him. We can’t have this sick bastard Dubois screwing things up while we buy the silence from the kids and their parents. If this thing becomes public, we’re gonna have to get it all over fast. The public will have to understand the diocese could not have prevented these things from happening to those children in Amalie – that all this was brought on by one sick priest alone and he’s got to own it, Renon Chattelrault will have to own it. That’s right, Monsignor, isn’t it?”

Moroux shrugged wearily, and Rossi and Bendel took their leave.

This time of year always brought Jean-Paul Moroux back to his youth. When he was a child, the end of summer was when he was measured for new clothes and fitted with a new pair of shoes. In the fall he sometimes felt as if he was walking back through his life, and his mood then was melancholy, reflective. During the winter, he battled depression. In summer, it was his childhood that dominated his memory. He remembered the way everything was on his family’s farm in Acadia Parish when he was a kid, how it all smelled. It made him sad on this night to remember that carefree time, and sadder to miss his mother. He closed off the bank of memories.

Jon Bendel had talked about how innocent the diocese was in all of this. Moroux shook his head slowly, negatively, and frowned. He remembered the murders. He wondered if anyone else would find out about them. He considered going into the secret archives and destroying the file. As his mind focused on the macabre memory, he forgot he had been smoking and the hot ash of his cigarette burned into the flesh of his fingers. The pain pulled him from his trance. Dropping the cigarette to the stone plaza, he plunged his hand into the pool of the fountain.

He thought of his mother again, the way she sang with perfect pitch in that soft voice. No other adult in the Moroux family had ever paid attention to him or any other child. He wished she had not died when he was sixteen, wished that he could go see her again. She was the only person who had ever hugged him or told him she loved him.

Moroux walked slowly toward the Old Bishop’s House. His mind was on the murders.