Bones to Ashes

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.

17

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.”