Bones to Ashes

“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.