by Paula Morris
“This is a bad dream,” he said in a cold voice, and he punched Toby hard in the face. Aurelia flinched, turning quickly toward Rebecca.
Toby clunked onto the ground and Anton stepped back, rubbing his knuckles. Rebecca couldn’t speak. She wanted to walk right over to him and hug him, but that could wait. They had time.
“Man, I never got to use my judo,” complained Phil.
“I got to use my glue gun,” said Raf, his voice normal again, holding up his “weapon.” “If he hadn’t dropped the crowbar, I was all out of moves. Maybe I could have glued him to the floor.”
“Thank God you came back,” Rebecca said to Raf. Her heart was still thundering.
“I figured you could use some help.” Raf grinned. “Do I get to see these ghosts now? Whoa!”
Delphine had clearly obliged right away. Then she spun around and curtseyed to a wide-eyed Aurelia. Rebecca had forgotten that Aurelia had never seen Delphine before.
“I know,” Phil said to Raf. “An actual ghost. This is much better than Jazz Fest.”
“Thanks so much, Delphine,” Ling said to her. “I wish I could hug you, but I don’t know how that works with ghosts. We couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Really?” Delphine said shyly.
“Thank you, Delphine,” Frank said, and the two of them looked at each other as though no one else was in the room.
Gideon Mason groaned and tried to roll over, but he clearly wasn’t going anywhere. Toby was stirring as well, but Anton and Phil were taking care of that situation, binding his ankles and wrists with twine supplied by Raf, and removing the lighter from his pocket. Phil carried the gas can out the back door, just in case.
“Frank! The locket!” Rebecca remembered why they were here. “Where is it? You have to point it out.”
“We better hurry,” said Raf. “If my grandmother sees the light in here, she’ll call every Indian in the neighborhood. And the police probably already towed your car.”
Anton picked up the flashlight, shining it onto the floor so they could see.
“Here?” Raf jimmied at a floorboard with Toby’s crowbar, tearing back the rotting wood.
“It fell onto some kind of cross-plank, running underneath,” Rebecca explained. They were all trying to help now, tugging at boards, positioning the electric lantern so Raf had more light.
“A chain!” Aurelia exclaimed. “See it? It’s all black.”
She pointed to what looked like a thin, snaking line of dirt, and Raf reached in. Gently, he plucked the chain from its resting place.
Rebecca’s breath caught. There it was.
The chain was long and very delicate, black with age and filth. At the end dangled a locket, so tarnished it was almost black as well.
Frank had staggered over, but at the sight of the locket he fell to his knees again.
“Can we open it?” Ling whispered. Raf passed it to her.
“My hands are too big,” he said.
“Give it to Rebecca,” suggested Ling.
Rebecca took a deep breath. Then she ran her thumbnail down the locket’s joint, feeling for the clasp. It didn’t want to give at first; it had been closed since that day in March 1873, when Edgar Degas had handed the locket to Frank on the New Orleans dock. She pushed on the clasp, not wanting to damage it. The catch popped, and the locket opened like a little book.
Inside there was just one picture, an oval miniature that looked like oil, dotted with damp spots. But despite the damage, Rebecca could still see that it was a portrait of a woman with dark hair, a ribbon around her neck.
“It looks like you,” said Anton, peering down at it.
“It looks like a Degas,” said Ling. She was crying, Rebecca realized. In all the years they’d been friends, she’d never seen Ling cry before.
“We got it, Frank,” Rebecca told him. The ghost gazed at her but said nothing. He’d been waiting so long for this moment, she thought. “Tomorrow we’ll make sure it’s handed to one of the Musson descendants. And then everything’ll be over. Your promise won’t be broken anymore.”
Rain hammered down onto the roof, washing the crumbling house clean, and drowning out the sound of a distant siren. Gideon gave another anguished groan, and Rebecca shivered in spite of herself. He couldn’t hurt her, or the locket, or Frank anymore. But she wished he would take his groaning somewhere else.
“This was the locket that was lost?” Delphine asked Frank. He nodded. “And now it’s found.” She smiled around at them all, and then her smile began to fade. Delphine began to fade. Rebecca knew what was happening. She’d seen it once before, the day the curse on the Bowman family ended and Lisette left the ghost world forever. Because she had helped them, Delphine was free.
“Good-bye, Delphine!” Rebecca, called, but the girl was already gone.
“Where did she go?” Aurelia wanted to know. “Who is she?”
“She haunts a house on Rampart Street,” said Ling.
“Not anymore,” said Frank, and he sounded wistful. He was lying on the floor again, rubbing the wound on his stomach. Rebecca looked into his deep blue eyes. They shone with tears.
Two months later, on a hot June night steaming with rain, Rebecca and Ling found themselves back in New Orleans.
They were just there for the weekend, with a full complement of parents in tow, not to mention both of Ling’s sisters. Their new high-heeled shoes clattered across the marble-floored lobby of the art museum. It felt like a cool cave after the lush humidity of the evening.
Anton was easy to spot in his black St. Simeon’s blazer. He was standing with two adults who were clearly his parents. Mrs. Grey, in a pale pink Chanel jacket, was blonde and petite, but Mr. Grey was tall and dark-haired, an older version of Anton. Rebecca felt shy about approaching, shy about meeting his parents at last, but her posse — led by the indomitable Ling — swept straight toward them, and the awkwardness of the moment was lost in the flurry of handshakes and hugs.
“Nice to see you,” Mrs. Grey purred to Rebecca through a perfect, frozen smile, as though they were old friends. “I know Anton is so looking forward to his trip to New York.”
She turned to Rebecca’s dad, who was waiting to introduce Ling’s parents to the Greys and to Phil’s parents. Anton flashed Rebecca a tense grin and squeezed her hand.
“That wasn’t so bad, huh?” he murmured in her ear. Rebecca was relieved he hadn’t kissed her hello in front of everyone, though Phil seemed much more at ease, as ever. He grasped Rebecca by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.
“What, are you European now?” Ling asked, rolling her eyes.
“West Coast all the way, baby,” Phil said, with his usual goofy smile. He slung an arm around Ling and squeezed her so tight she cried out in mock agony.
“You’re so weird,” she complained.
“Hey, I’m just in a good mood,” he said. “The Four Musketeers, back together again — right?”
Rebecca started laughing. Phil was right: It was good to be back together again. And it was good to have someone like Phil there, laughing loudly and kissing Ling’s startled sisters and making everyone feel at ease.
“Hey Raf!” he shouted, and Rebecca looked over to the staircase: There was Raf’s familiar face, and his father and grandmother and cousins. Miss Viola was wearing a dramatic yellow hat, and appeared to be lecturing the mayor.
“I know he’s a total doofus,” Ling whispered to Rebecca, nodding her head toward Phil. “But you have to admit he looks hot in that blazer.”
“Hot and itchy, probably,” Rebecca muttered back. She and Anton made their way over to Raf’s group, squeezing through the crowd. The clinking wineglasses sounded icicle-sharp over the blurry hum of talk and laughter, and a clarinet playing “Eh, La Bas.”
“They could have hired us to play this,” Junior was complaining when they walked up. Both Raf and Junior were dressed in what looked like new suits, and Junior in particular, looked almost unrecognizably handsome. “
Those old dudes don’t need the money!”
“Man, how come you get to wear your own clothes when we’re stuck in our school uniforms?” Anton asked.
Raf grinned.
“Dispensation from Mr. Boyd,” he said. “He said we needed to look sharp for the photos.”
“You look really good,” Rebecca told Raf, suppressing another laugh when Anton immediately grasped her hand again, as though he was staking his claim to her.
In the center of the room, pinned against black velvet and protected by a cube of glass, a silver locket hung open. A crowd of young people Rebecca remembered as the work party at Basin Street High clustered around, peering at the small, smudged picture of a dark-haired young woman.
“No fingers on the glass!” roared a familiar voice. Mr. Boyd was there, of course, in charge of his workforce. Ling squealed at the sight of him and dragged Rebecca over to say hello.
“Look who we have here,” he said, one eyebrow raised. “My best worker and …” He looked at Rebecca. “Miss Sherlock Holmes. If you come by the school on Monday, I can find you more mysteries to investigate. Or at least more trash to pick up.”
“We have to go back to New York tomorrow,” Ling told him, and Rebecca couldn’t believe the look of genuine disappointment on her face. “But next time, maybe?”
They made their way back to their parents, stepping over a rope of power cords as they skirted a TV crew. A woman in a red suit — pencil thin and very elegant — had flown over from Paris to authenticate the painting as a Degas. Yes, she was telling the interviewer, the young woman in the miniature was probably his cousin, Desirée Musson. No, she didn’t know if Degas was ever in love with her.
“I know about art, not love,” she sniffed.
“I only know about love,” Phil joked, sidling up to Ling.
“You are hilarious,” she said, with a melodramatic sigh. “How I’ve longed for your sophisticated sense of humor.”
Anton was by Rebecca’s side again, steering her through the crowd. A man in a dinner jacket had climbed up the sweeping staircase, and everyone was turning to hear his speech. He was the director of the museum, and he wanted to thank the Musson family, he said, for their generous donation to the museum.
“There’s also a number of teenagers here we have to thank, for rescuing this fascinating piece of art history — and New Orleans history — from what would have turned out to be its tomb,” the museum director said, and Rebecca’s eyes prickled with tears of pride and relief. “We still can’t believe that for almost a hundred and fifty years, this priceless locket lay under the floorboards of a tiny house in Tremé. It just goes to show you how this great city of ours continues to offer up treasures, how it never ceases to amaze us.”
Anton nudged Rebecca’s shoulder, and she smiled. The man was right, she thought. It was amazing that something so precious had survived all these years, and that the painting within it had survived. That the locket’s delicate chain, light as a feather, remained unbroken.
Rebecca blinked her tears away, hoping no one had noticed. Being back in New Orleans was always an emotional experience for her, and tonight was particularly intense, of course. She was with Anton again, and Raf: She had new friends here now, as well as old ones. It was an ever-widening circle, drawing in other people from outside as well, like Ling and Phil. Strange to think that once upon a time in this city Rebecca had felt like a complete outsider.
But when they’d driven along Rampart Street that evening, crammed into Aunt Claudia’s car, Rebecca couldn’t help but think of what she’d lost as well as what she’d gained. The town house on the corner of Orleans Avenue was obscured by scaffolding, dangling UNDER RENOVATION signs. The gallery where Delphine had wafted, surrounded by her eerie cloud of silvery light, would be cleaned, or replaced. Before too long, Rebecca imagined, it would be dripping with flowers, or clustered with languid ferns. Mardi Gras beads would hang from the railings, and the new inhabitants would lean out, drinks in hand, to watch the world go by. But Delphine herself was gone, free forever from the imprisonment of the ghost world. Rebecca wouldn’t see her sweet smile again.
And tonight, Rebecca thought, Frank would disappear as well. The ceremonial handing over of the locket to the Musson family was scheduled for eight P.M., just a few moments away. Raf would hand Mr. Musson the locket, and Frank’s promise would be complete: The locket would be restored to the family. Then the assembled media would take their pictures, and Mr. Musson would hand the locket to the museum, as a gift to the City of New Orleans. It would be placed on display for all the world to see.
Earlier tonight, driving along Rampart Street, Rebecca had looked for Frank, of course. She wanted to see him one last time. And he hadn’t disappointed her, standing all the way out on the neutral ground, so she couldn’t possibly miss him. It was light now in the evenings, and Rebecca had no problem making out the familiar chiseled angles of his face, the supernatural blue of his eyes. She smiled at him, and he smiled, too — though she wasn’t sure if he’d really seen her, or if he just smiled all the time now. His limbo as a ghost was almost over. Tonight he’d be free of this place, this world. He’d vanish to the other side, where sweet Delphine was waiting for him.
The clock struck eight, and Rebecca let out a breath. There were more speeches, and handshakes, then a storm of camera flashes. Raf stood looking nervous, but proud. He held the black velvet cushion on which the locket lay, posing for what felt, to an impatient Rebecca, like forever. Then Mr. Musson, who was wearing a tie as blue as Frank’s eyes, took the cushion and its precious cargo into his hands. Applause erupted, echoing through the marble hall of the lobby, and some boys — Junior? Brando? Phil? — started whooping. Rebecca was clapping, too, but she couldn’t watch anymore. She was blinking back tears, thinking of Frank. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. This was the moment he’d be free.
Later, when they drove back along Rampart Street, Frank wouldn’t be there. She knew that, and she was happy for him. But part of her was sad, too. Last year Lisette left her. This year, Frank. She wouldn’t see either of them again — not in this lifetime, at least.
Anton slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. Rebecca didn’t trust herself to look at him, but she was happy to know he was there. Tomorrow she and her father, and Ling and her family, had to leave New Orleans and get back to New York. But she knew she and Anton would talk almost every day, as they had ever since she returned from New Orleans in April. There were no more awkward pauses between them now; everything was out in the open. Anton was coming to visit her in New York in a few weeks, and joining Rebecca and her dad and Ling for a vacation on Cape Cod.
Rebecca wasn’t sure when she’d be back in New Orleans. But at least now she knew for certain, in her heart, that she would return. A piece of her would always be a part of this city. A piece of her would always belong here, and never want to leave.
On St. Philip Street in Tremé, no physical traces remained of the row of three derelict houses. Rain fell onto the muddy earth, pounded into waves and plateaus by a giant bulldozer. In a few days construction would begin on the schoolyard extension and a new auditorium.
A solitary ghost wandered the site, his footsteps making no impression on the soft earth. He scowled at the ground, dark eyes scanning the ridges of dirt, as though he was looking for something that might be buried there in the mud. The gloom of his expression, however, suggested that he knew the truth.
Other ghosts, passing by on their way toward Rampart Street and the river, or to the cemetery and up to the bayou, knew what he was looking for. They shook their heads, and made sure they walked on the other side of the street. They knew that the ghost sifting through the dirt on St. Philip Street would never find what he was looking for, because it was gone forever — just like the boy with blue eyes, who nobody had seen for months, or the girl on her gallery on Rampart Street, no longer illuminating the night with her silvery swirl of moonlight.
That was the way it was in N
ew Orleans, and in every old haunted city across the world. Ghosts vanished, and new ghosts arrived to take their place. Things changed. Things stayed the same.
The locket in this novel is fictional, but much of its historical context is not. The Impressionist painter Edgar Degas left Paris in October 1872 to spend the winter in New Orleans, where he had close family connections.
Degas’ mother, Marie Célestine Musson, was born in New Orleans. In 1873 her brother, Michel Musson, was living there with his three adult daughters: Estelle, Desirée, and Mathilde. Degas had already met Estelle and Desirée in France. Estelle, a Civil War widow, married one of his younger brothers, René.
Times were difficult after the Civil War, and Michel Musson had to sell his home and move the whole family to a rented house on Esplanade Avenue. René — who spelled his last name De Gas — had joined the family firm, though he wasn’t a good businessman and ran up huge debts. He was soon joined in New Orleans by the third brother, Achille. New Orleans was the hub of the huge international cotton trade, and they were both hoping to make a lot of money.
In 1872, during a trip back to Paris, René persuaded Edgar Degas to return with him to New Orleans. They made the ten-day voyage from Liverpool to New York, and then the four-day train journey to New Orleans.
By this time Degas was already establishing a name for himself as a painter. He was also experiencing severe problems with his eyesight, so he found the bright New Orleans light painful. These were difficult and violent days in Louisiana — corrupt state elections, coup attempts, economic uncertainty, rampant crime, a return of the dreaded Yellow Fever. Degas missed Paris, and spent much of his time that winter in the house on Esplanade Avenue, drawing and painting his cousins and their children. Estelle, who was going blind, was one of his favorite models. Degas was also very fond of his cousin Desirée, who — like Degas — never married.