Revised for Publication

In 1952, I was eighteen and had just graduated from a technical training course at Keesler A.F.B. in Biloxi, Mississippi. Restless and underemployed, I anxiously awaited orders that would send me to the war in Korea. With a long weekend to burn and New Orleans temptingly close, I quickly checked the bus schedules. My parents upon hearing my plans urged me to visit an old friend of the family, Father Edward Murphy, whom they assured me, was a man who could introduce me to the city without letting it “corrupt” me.

Even then, I suspected that New Orleans was more powerful than any priest.

Father Murphy had already achieved local legend status long before my bus rattled into the station. A gentle, silver-haired giant with a stooped back and soft voice, he moved through the world as if reluctant to disturb the air. He had recently written a best-selling novel about Mary Magdalene, then donated every penny of his royalties to the poor of his mostly Black parish. The city adored him for it.

I wrote him a letter to tell him when I would arrive. Within days, I heard back from him, letting me know that he would meet me at the bus station and “take care of everything.”

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He stood waiting when I stepped off the bus, wearing his somewhat threadbare black suit that had weathered more decades than I had years. His clerical collar was crisp; his fedora was not. That hat had its own sainted rumor: Archbishop Fulton Sheen, his seminary classmate, had once visited and insisted on buying him a new one. Father Murphy, the story went, had walked out of the shop wearing the old, battered thing, having forgotten the new purchase entirely.

I threw my duffle into the back of his wheezing Dodge sedan, and we rumbled straight to Café du Monde. The air outside was thick with humidity and the smell of tropical flowers and roasted chicory; inside, powdered sugar floated like maritime fog. Father Murphy ordered café au lait and beignets, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I soon learned the cause. Our waitress—young, laughing, and conspiratorial—blew a generous puff of powdered sugar across my beignet onto the front of my freshly pressed Air Force blues. A New Orleans initiation, she explained. Father Murphy nodded solemnly, as if witnessing a sacrament.

We lingered over coffee until the sugar on our clothes matched the sugar on our plates.

From there, he shepherded me to the New Orleans Athletic Club, whose carved woodwork and stately halls made me feel like I’d wandered into a gentleman’s novel. He secured a guest membership for me. The only hitch: no rooms available.

He tapped his chin. “No matter. I know just the place. A small establishment run by a very devout woman—generous, faithful, and unfailingly kind to the parish.”

I should have noticed that he did not use the word hotel.

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We drove to the city’s quieter fringes and stopped in front of a tired-looking motel whose faded sign sagged like an apology. The place was silent, inert, as if saving its energy for nightfall. Even at eighteen, I could read the vacancy behind the vacancy.

The proprietress greeted us in a silk dressing gown, her makeup laid on with the confident hand of someone who had done so for many years and under many types of lighting. She brightened at the sight of Father Murphy, greeting him warmly though with a hint of caution.

“This young man,” the priest said proudly, “is the son of dear friends. He needs a modest room for a few nights before heading off to the war in Korea.”

She looked me over with the professional eye of someone accustomed to evaluating clientele, and then with a second, more appraising look that concluded I was not her clientele at all. The uniform helped her come to that conclusion quickly; the expression on my face helped her arrive at the rest. She knew that I knew. She also knew that Father Murphy didn’t know—or perhaps only pretended not to.

As he launched into a heartfelt account of her charitable contributions—the parish food drives, the fundraising suppers, the “good ladies” who never missed Sunday Mass—she shifted behind him, silently begging me not to say a word. Her gestures grew more desperate with every saintly adjective.

To save us both, I snapped my fingers. “Father, it just hit me—I’ve got an Air Force buddy whose family lives here. I could call them. They might have a spare bed.”

He beamed. “Splendid! That will save you money.”

The proprietress exhaled like someone reprieved. As we left, she gave me a wink so sly it practically had spurs.

“If you ever find yourself back in New Orleans with nothing better to do,” she said, “you stop in and say hello.”

I told her I’d keep it in mind. One should always be polite in church matters.

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In the years since, I’ve often wondered about Father Murphy’s innocence that afternoon. Was he truly unaware of what went on behind those drawn curtains? Or did he simply choose to see generosity instead of commerce, grace instead of circumstance?

New Orleans is a city where saints and sinners often occupy the same pew, and sometimes the same motel. And if Father Murphy knew more than he let on, I suspect he forgave both the sins and the sinners long before he ever confided the truth to heaven.