that he still lived with his mother; then again, there may have been other reasons—none of which he had given an ounce of thought to.
He did have thoughts about sex, though. All day long. But not in that way—not in any way that involved himself, or any lustful emotion, or body parts. He thought about sex in terms of revenue and property values, boundaries and crime reports. He also thought about sex in terms of God, and this made his pallid face crinkle as he damned to Hell those women of ill repute and the men who utilized them.
What he refused to think about was how many of those men, those partakers of sin, were acquaintances of his. Because this was too despicable to fathom, he blocked it out, like a child plugging his ears. If it were his choice, he would avoid associating with anyone whom he remotely suspected of sinning in this way. But given his higher calling, this wasn’t possible. His was righteous work, although it did require that he associate with all types, from Council members to judges to voters. If dealing with sinners and heretics would further his mission to create neighborhoods free from vice, to create an upstanding New Orleans, a pious New Orleans, then so be it.
Just as he preached others should do, Story abided by a strict Jesuit code in his own life. The Storys had been devout members of the Immaculate Conception Parish for generations, and the church held great significance in the city, for the land upon which it stood was a gift to the Jesuits by none other than the founder of New Orleans, Jean Pierre Lemoine Sieur de Bienville. Story was well versed in Jesuit history and knew of the tumult his people had faced—how the priests in New Orleans had lost favor and were stripped of their property and then forced from the city, only to prevail half a decade later by returning to New Orleans, repurchasing the same land (which, in neglect, had become swampland inhabited by alligators), and constructing an awesome, Moor-inspired church with the adjacent all-male College of Immaculate Conception, where Story received his education. Taking heart in the Jesuits’ struggles and redemption, Story viewed his own struggle for improving New Orleans as an extension of his forefathers’ journey—knowing he, too, would triumph.
The church had always provided him guidance and solace, especially when his father passed. Sidney was but a teenager when Story Sr. did the unspeakable, and it was the church that assisted Sidney and his mother in obliterating all evidence and squashing all rumors so as preserve the family’s dignity. For this, Story was eternally grateful, and driven all the more to spread the church’s teachings.
Even though it was nearing midnight, a warm light emanated from the front window of the Story house. Ever since Sidney was born, the family inhabited this house in the Garden District, a pristine neighborhood of upper-class white folks, considerable greenery, and distinctly American architecture. Also, and importantly, it was a good distance away from the ethnic areas of the city, like the white Creole quarters and the Vieux Carré, where, in Story’s opinion, there existed an overabundance of Spanish and French influence.
Balding, bespectacled Sidney was still perched at his desk, a tabby cat curled in his lap. Johann Strauss played from the phonograph, although a towel was draped over the barrel so as to mute the volume, dare he wake sleeping Mother.
Spread before him on his desk was this month’s issue of the Mascot . On its cover: a cartoon parody of a City Council meeting, where, in the midst of discussing legislature, the council members downed whiskey as women danced about, skirts raised and dresses plunging.
The alderman, with impeccable penmanship, was composing a letter to his favorite Mascot senior reporter—favorite for the primary reason that this particular reporter, Kermit McCracken, espoused the exact same beliefs as Story on every debatable subject.
Dear Mr.
He did have thoughts about sex, though. All day long. But not in that way—not in any way that involved himself, or any lustful emotion, or body parts. He thought about sex in terms of revenue and property values, boundaries and crime reports. He also thought about sex in terms of God, and this made his pallid face crinkle as he damned to Hell those women of ill repute and the men who utilized them.
What he refused to think about was how many of those men, those partakers of sin, were acquaintances of his. Because this was too despicable to fathom, he blocked it out, like a child plugging his ears. If it were his choice, he would avoid associating with anyone whom he remotely suspected of sinning in this way. But given his higher calling, this wasn’t possible. His was righteous work, although it did require that he associate with all types, from Council members to judges to voters. If dealing with sinners and heretics would further his mission to create neighborhoods free from vice, to create an upstanding New Orleans, a pious New Orleans, then so be it.
Just as he preached others should do, Story abided by a strict Jesuit code in his own life. The Storys had been devout members of the Immaculate Conception Parish for generations, and the church held great significance in the city, for the land upon which it stood was a gift to the Jesuits by none other than the founder of New Orleans, Jean Pierre Lemoine Sieur de Bienville. Story was well versed in Jesuit history and knew of the tumult his people had faced—how the priests in New Orleans had lost favor and were stripped of their property and then forced from the city, only to prevail half a decade later by returning to New Orleans, repurchasing the same land (which, in neglect, had become swampland inhabited by alligators), and constructing an awesome, Moor-inspired church with the adjacent all-male College of Immaculate Conception, where Story received his education. Taking heart in the Jesuits’ struggles and redemption, Story viewed his own struggle for improving New Orleans as an extension of his forefathers’ journey—knowing he, too, would triumph.
The church had always provided him guidance and solace, especially when his father passed. Sidney was but a teenager when Story Sr. did the unspeakable, and it was the church that assisted Sidney and his mother in obliterating all evidence and squashing all rumors so as preserve the family’s dignity. For this, Story was eternally grateful, and driven all the more to spread the church’s teachings.
Even though it was nearing midnight, a warm light emanated from the front window of the Story house. Ever since Sidney was born, the family inhabited this house in the Garden District, a pristine neighborhood of upper-class white folks, considerable greenery, and distinctly American architecture. Also, and importantly, it was a good distance away from the ethnic areas of the city, like the white Creole quarters and the Vieux Carré, where, in Story’s opinion, there existed an overabundance of Spanish and French influence.
Balding, bespectacled Sidney was still perched at his desk, a tabby cat curled in his lap. Johann Strauss played from the phonograph, although a towel was draped over the barrel so as to mute the volume, dare he wake sleeping Mother.
Spread before him on his desk was this month’s issue of the Mascot . On its cover: a cartoon parody of a City Council meeting, where, in the midst of discussing legislature, the council members downed whiskey as women danced about, skirts raised and dresses plunging.
The alderman, with impeccable penmanship, was composing a letter to his favorite Mascot senior reporter—favorite for the primary reason that this particular reporter, Kermit McCracken, espoused the exact same beliefs as Story on every debatable subject.
Dear Mr.
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