Bones to Ashes (15 page)

The deck held a patio set, a barbecue grill, and several lawn chairs, all empty. Climbing to it, I crossed and peered through a set of double glass doors.

Standard kitchen appliances. Pine table and captains chairs. Cat-cuckoo clock with a pendulum tail.

Center island. A paring knife, a paper towel, and a peeled apple skin.

I felt my nerves tingle.

She’s here!

I turned.

Past an expanse of lawn stood a small gazebo-like structure. Past the gazebo, water, rough and gunmetal gray. An inlet of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, I presumed.

Strange columns flanked the gazebo’s entrance, tall, with projections forward and to the sides. Atop each was an unidentifiable shape.

Through the gazebo’s screening I could dimly make out a silhouette. My mind logged detail.

Small, probably female. Hunched. Still.

The maybe-Obéline woman had her back to me. I couldn’t tell if she was reading, dozing, or merely gazing seaward.

I moved forward, senses still logging information. A wind chime tinkling notes. Wet grass. Explosions of froth against a seawall.

Drawing closer, I realized the columns had been carved into stacks of zoomorphic creatures. The projections were beaks and wings. The shapes on top were renderings of stylized birds.

Then, recognition, prompted by anthropology studies of years ago. The gazebo had once been a sweat house, later modified by replacing walls with screening.

The assemblage looked thousands of miles out of place. Totem poles and sweat houses were built by peoples of the Pacific Northwest, the Tlingit, Haida, or Kwakiutl, not by the Micmac or other tribes of the Maritimes.

Ten feet back, I stopped.

“Obéline?”

The woman’s head snapped up.

“Quisse qué là?”
Who’s there? Acadian French.

“Temperance Brennan.”

The woman didn’t reply.

“Tempe. From Pawleys Island.”

Nothing.

“Harry is here, too.”

A hand rose, hovered, as though uncertain of its purpose.

“We were friends. You and Harry. Évangéline and I.”

“Pour l’amour du bon Dieu.”
Whispered.

“I knew Tante Euphémie and Oncle Fidèle.”

The hand shot to the woman’s forehead, dropped to her chest, then crossed from shoulder to shoulder.

“I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

Pushing to her feet, the woman draped a shawl on her head, hesitated, then shuffled to the door.

A hand reached out.

Hinges squeaked.

The woman stepped into daylight.

M
EMORY IS CAPRICIOUS, SOMETIMES PLAYING STRAIGHT, SOMETIMES deceiving. It can shield, deny, tantalize, or just plain err.

There was no mistake or dissembling here.

Though I saw only half the woman’s face, I felt I’d taken a body blow. Dark gypsy eye, petulant upper lip swooping down to a diminutive lower. Brown blemish on her cheek in the shape of a leaping frog.

Obéline giggling. Évangéline tickling, teasing. Frog-freckle face! Frog-freckle face!

The jawline was sagging, the skin deeply etched. No matter. The woman was an aged and weathered mutation of the child I’d known on Pawleys Island.

My eyes welled up.

I saw Obéline, little legs churning, crying to be included in our games. Évangéline and I had read her stories, costumed her in sequins and tutus, built her sand castles on the beach. But, mostly, we’d sent her away.

I forced a smile. “Harry and I missed you both terribly.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk with you.”

“Why?”

“We’d like to understand why you left so suddenly. Why Évangéline never answered my letters.”

“How did you get this address?” Her voice was wire-thin, her breathing and swallowing measured, perhaps a product of speech therapy following the fire. “Do you work for the police?”

I told her I worked for the coroner in Montreal.

“This coroner sent you to find me?”

“It’s a long story. I’d like to share it.”

Obéline twisted the fabric bunched at her chin. The skin on her fingers was lumpy and waxy-white, like oatmeal congealed on the bottom of a pot.

“The horror comes real.”

“I’m sorry?” Obéline’s
chiac
accent was so strong I wasn’t catching all her words.

“The nightmare made truth.”

“Pardon?”

She ignored my question. “Harry is here?”

“At your front door.”

Her gaze drifted past me, lingered, I suspected, on a moment long past.

Then, “Join her. I will let you in.”

After sliding what sounded like a hundred deadbolts, Obéline admitted us to a foyer giving onto a wide central hall. Light diffusing through leaded glass windows gave an ephemeral cast to the large, empty space.

Ahead, I noted an ornately carved staircase; suspended from the ceiling, a faux Louis-the-something chandelier. The hall was furnished with carved and painted high-backed benches, more artifacts from the Pacific Northwest.

In spots, the floral wallpaper was marked by brighter rose and green rectangles, evidence that paintings or portraits had been removed. The floor was covered by a massive antique Persian Sarouk Farahan carpet that must have cost more than my condo.

Obéline’s shawl was now wrapped below her chin and tied at the back of her neck. Up close, the reason was obvious. Her right eyelid drooped and her right cheek looked like blistered marble.

Involuntarily, my eyes broke contact with hers. I wondered, How would I feel were I the scarred one and she the visitor from so long ago?

Harry said howdy. Obéline said
bonjour
. Both were restrained. Neither touched the other. I knew Harry was feeling the same pity and sadness as I.

Obéline indicated that we should accompany her. Harry fell into step, head swiveling from side to side. I followed.

Heavy pocket doors sealed off rooms to the right and left of the main hall. Beyond the staircase, regular doors gave onto other rooms and closets. A small crucifix hung above each.

Clearly, the architect hadn’t been tasked with bringing Mother Nature into the back of the house. Even so, the small parlor to which we were led was much dimmer than mandated by the paucity of glass. Every window was shuttered, every panel closed. Two brass table lamps cast a minimum wattage of light.

“S’il vous plaît.”
Indicating a gold velveteen loveseat.

Harry and I sat. Obéline took a wing chair on the far side of the room, snugged her sleeves down her wrists, and cupped one hand into the other in her lap.

“Harry and Tempe.” Our names sounded odd with the
chiac
inflection.

“Your home is lovely.” I started out casual. “And the totem poles are quite striking. Am I correct in assuming the gazebo was once a sweat house?”

“My father-in-law had an employee whose passion was Native art. The man lived many years in this house.”

“The structure is unusual.”

“The man was…” She groped for an adjective. “…unusual.”

“I noticed the carved benches in your foyer. Do you have many pieces from his collection?”

“A few. When my father-in-law died, my husband fired this man. The parting was not amicable.”

“I’m sorry. Those things are always difficult.”

“It had to be done.”

Beside me, Harry cleared her throat.

“And I’m very sorry your marriage turned out badly,” I said, softening my voice.

“So you’ve heard the story.”

“Part of it, yes.”

“I was sixteen, poor, with few choices.” With her good hand, she flicked something from her skirt. “David found me beautiful. Marriage offered a way out. So many years ago.”

Screw small talk. I went for what I wanted to know. “Where did you go, Obéline?”

She knew what I was asking. “Here, of course.”

“You never returned to Pawleys Island.”

“Mama got sick.”

“So suddenly?”

“She needed care.”

It wasn’t really an answer.

I wondered what illness had killed Laurette. Let it go.

“You left without saying good-bye. Tante Euphémie and Oncle Fidèle refused to tell us anything. Your sister stopped writing. Many of my letters came back unopened.”

“Évangéline went to live with Grand-père Landry.”

“Wouldn’t her mail have been sent there?”

“She was far out in the country. You know the postal service.”

“Why did she move?”

“When Mama couldn’t work, her husband’s people took control.” Had her voice hardened, or was it a by-product of the painfully recrafted speech?

“Your parents reunited?”

“No.”

Several moments passed, awkward, filled only by the ticking of a clock.

Obéline broke the silence.

“May I offer you sodas?”

“Sure.”

Obéline disappeared through the same door by which we’d entered.

“You couldn’t at least
try
English?” Harry sounded annoyed.

“I want her to feel comfortable.”

“I heard you say Pawleys Island. What’s the scoop?”

“They were brought back here because Laurette got sick.”

“With what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

Harry rolled her eyes.

I took in the room. The walls were covered with amateur landscapes and still lifes marked by garish colors and distorted proportions. Cases of books and collections of bric-a-brac gave the small space a cluttered, claustrophobic feel. Glass birds. Snow globes. Dream catchers. White hobnail dishes and candlesticks. Music boxes. Statues of the Virgin Mary and her minions. Saint Andrew? Francis? Peter? A painted plaster bust. That one I knew. Nefertiti.

Obéline returned, face fixed in its same unreadable expression. She handed out Sprites, making eye contact with neither Harry nor me. Resuming her seat, she focused on her soft drink. One thumb worked the can, clearing moisture with nervous up-and-down flicks.

Again, I honed in like a missile.

“What happened to Évangéline?”

The thumb stopped. Obéline’s lopsided gaze rose to mine.

“But that’s what
you
have come to tell
me,
no?”

“What do you mean?”

“You came to say they’ve found my sister’s grave.”

My heart somersaulted. “Évangéline is dead?”

Unable to follow the French, Harry had grown bored and begun scanning book titles. Her head whipped around at the sharpness of my tone.

Obéline wet her lips but didn’t speak.

“When did she die?” I could barely form the words.

“Nineteen seventy-two.”

Two years after leaving the island. Dear God.

I pictured the skeleton in my lab, its ruined face and damaged fingers and toes.

“Was Évangéline sick?”

“Of course she wasn’t sick. That’s crazy talk. She was only sixteen.”

Too quick? Or was I being paranoid?

“Please, Obéline. Tell me what happened.”

“Does it matter anymore?”

“It matters to me.”

Carefully, Obéline set her drink on the gate-leg table at her side. Adjusted her shawl. Smoothed her skirt. Laid her hands in her lap. Looked at them.

“Mama was bedridden. Grand-père couldn’t work. It fell to Évangéline to bring home a check.”

“She was only a kid.” I was doing a poor job of masking my feelings.

“Things were different then.”

The statement hung in the air.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I was too dejected to push.

No matter. Obéline continued without prodding.

“When we were separated, at first I wanted to die.”

“Separated?”

“My mother and sister moved in with Grand-père. I was sent to live with a Landry cousin. But Évangéline and I talked. Not often. But I knew what was happening.

“In the mornings and evenings, Évangéline nursed Mama. The rest of the day she worked as a maid. A portion of her pay was sent for my support.”

“What was wrong with your mother?”

“I don’t know. I was much too young.”

Again, too rapid?

“Where was your father?”

“If we ever meet, I’ll make certain to ask. That will be in another life, of course.”

“He’s dead?”

She nodded. “It was hard on Évangéline. I wanted to help, but I was so little. What could I do?”

“Neither of you attended school?”

“I went for a few years. Évangéline already knew how to read and do math.”

My friend, who loved books and stories, and wanted to be a poet. I didn’t trust myself to comment.

“Mama died,” Obéline continued. “Four months later it was Grand-père.”

Obéline stopped. Composing herself? Organizing recollections? Triaging what to share and what to hold back?

“Two days after Grand-père’s funeral, I was taken to his house. Someone had brought empty boxes. I was told to pack everything. I was in an upstairs bedroom when I heard yelling. I crept downstairs and listened outside the kitchen door.

“Évangéline was arguing with a man. I couldn’t hear their words, but their voices frightened me. I ran back upstairs. Hours later, as we were leaving, I saw into the kitchen.” She swallowed. “Blood. On the wall. More on the table. Bloody rags in the sink.”

Sweet Jesus.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. What could I do? I was terrified. I kept it to myself.”

“Who was the man?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened to Évangéline?”

“I never saw her again.”

“What did they tell you?”

“She ran away. I didn’t ask about the blood or whether she was hurt. She wasn’t there and I had to go back to the Landrys.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“I was eight years old.” Obéline’s voice was trembling now. “There were no safe zones or child abuse counselors back then. Kids had no one to talk to.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Do you know what it’s like to live with such a secret?” Tears broke from her eyes. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she wiped them away, blew her nose, and tossed the wad onto the table. “Do you know how it feels to lose everyone you love at such a young age?”