by Karen White
She wore a red cardigan that I recalled as one she still wore when I knew her, and a silver watch on her wrist that Aimee had given to her on her eighteenth birthday. Her left hand, holding the camera between her index finger and thumb, had the remaining three fingers splayed awkwardly, as if to show off the wide gold ring on her third finger. And there, on the left side of the cardigan, the dark green of the brooch like a stain on the red of the sweater, was Caroline Guidry’s alligator pin, the ruby eyes winking from the flash of the camera.
CHAPTER 27
I walked beside the evening sea
And dreamed a dream that could not be.
The waves that plunged along the shore
Said only: “Dreamer, dream no more.”
—GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
Aimee
Gary’s funeral was held on a Thursday. I don’t remember if it were sunny or cloudy. I no longer saw the need for the sun to rise each day and considered it a personal affront that it did.
Visitation at the funeral home was held the night before, and I was pleased for Gary to see the sizable crowd, the men in their dark suits and the women with their gloves and veils. He had been a very social person in life, and it was fitting that his friends would gather around him in death.
I was last. I knelt and tried to say a prayer for Gary, but no words came to mind that hadn’t already been said. I stood, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the Cracker Jack toy ring and placed it in the coffin, my hand brushing the black wool of his suit. I picked a piece of stray lint off his lapel and smoothed his tie as the dim light from the candles reflected off the rosary held in his hands, the black beads hard and immovable under stiff fingers. The burnished oak of the coffin gleamed gold, and the aroma of wax and polish wafted heavy in the dim interior. I moved aside my veil, then bent and kissed Gary on the forehead, his skin cold and firm against my lips. Good-bye, Gary. I loved you, you know. I really did.
The funeral Mass was said at Holy Name Cathedral, the place where we had stood together on the altar such a short time before and professed our love for each other until death did us part.
He was laid to rest in the Guidry family tomb at Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. I stared at the open tomb, and remembered Gary and me visiting the cemetery long ago. He’d told me how he imagined that when it was his turn to be laid to rest here, he’d smell like roasting pork in the hot tomb under the Louisiana sun. It had shocked me then, as he’d intended, but I found my lips lifting in a reluctant half smile. Only Gary could make something awful into something funny.
I looked up and saw Wes watching me, a small smile on his face, and I knew we were both thinking of Gary and how he used to make us laugh.
The immediate family stood with the coffin while the priest sprinkled holy water over the tomb. Johnny held my hand, his feet dancing in the grass, and I wondered absently if his mother had remembered to take him to the bathroom. We chanted three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers, our words battling one another in the humid air as we struggled to speak in unison. The priest’s voice rose as we said the last prayer. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”
My gaze slid to the tomb next to the Guidrys’, and I read the epitaph for a young man who had died more than a century before. I squinted, trying to read the words, dim with age:
The light of other days have faded,
And all their glories past;
For grief with heavy wing hath shaded,
The hopes too bright to last.
My knees buckled slightly, and I straightened, my eyes blurry. Something small drifted from the sky, and I reached out to capture it. A dead butterfly, its pale yellow wings almost translucent, settled in my outstretched palm. I blew on it gently, watching the frail wings flutter, then collapse. It was a beautiful thing, even in death, and I didn’t want to let it go. I looked up and saw several people staring at me. I lifted my hand and blew hard, and watched the delicate insect lift and soar. I turned my head before it fell again, as if by my not watching it fall, it would forever fly upward and never touch ground.
A hand brushed my arm, and I jerked my head to find my father drawing me away. “I’m not ready to go yet. Can you give me a few moments, please?”
With an understanding smile, he hugged me briefly, then left. Wes took Grandmother’s arm, and Lacy and Johnny followed them. I turned away from the direction everyone had gone, and walked. I passed decaying tombs, their stucco coverings long since ravaged by time, revealing the stacks of brick beneath. I paused in front of the tall white classical structure of the tomb built by the Société Hospitalière, the figure of an angel holding a cross at the top, towering over the cemetery, keeping watch.
“Miss Aimee.”
I twirled around, and found myself face-to-face with Xavier. His face was wet with sweat and tears, his ruined eye weeping. He grieved for Gary, too, and my heart ached a little less because of it.
Before Xavier could move, I hugged him. He was at first stiff and unresponsive, but then his arms went around me, squeezing tightly. Abruptly, he put me away from him.
“No, Miss Aimee. I can’t be seen with you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Gary’s not here to look after you anymore.”
“I’m fine, Xavier. Or I will be.” I looked closely at him, at his rumpled and dirty clothes, and wondered where he’d been sleeping. “It’s hot out here. Why don’t you come back to the house? You can see your mother and we can talk.”
He didn’t answer right away, and then I remembered the cleanly swept attic, the stack of folded blankets. The flashlight. “You’ve been staying in the Guidrys’ attic, haven’t you?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Why?”
Xavier’s gaze darted up the path. “I have to go now.”
“Who are you hiding from?”
His green eye was cold and hard as he answered. “I was there when your mama got killed.”
I recalled the smell of sweat in the room, knew that it wasn’t mine or my mother’s, but remembered that it smelled familiar, too. The sun seemed hotter, the air harder to breathe. “So you saw . . .”
He shook his head. “No. It was dark and I was hiding under the bed.”
I tried to force my question through dried and cracked lips.
Xavier continued. “I was living with Mama in the guesthouse, but we didn’t have ice. It was so hot, and I just wanted a cold glass of water. So I was in the kitchen in the big house getting a glass of ice when I heard your mama and Mrs. Guidry start shouting at each other in the parlor. I was scared. I knew I’d be in a heap of trouble if they found me. But I was scared, too, because I’d never heard your mama raise her voice before.”
He glanced around to make sure we were still alone, then swiped his face with the bottom of his stained and dirty shirt. “I heard somebody getting slapped, and then your mama left to walk home alone. She was always so nice to me, and I didn’t think it was safe, so I followed her home. But the thing is, the whole time I felt like somebody was behind us, following us, but I couldn’t see anybody. I was only nine years old and didn’t know what to do. So I went in the back door that I knew your grandmother unlocked when she was babysitting so she could go outside to smoke a cigarette. I saw her asleep on the sofa in the living room, so I snuck upstairs to see if you were all right. But you weren’t in your room.”
I felt the press of the heat against my chest, smothering me. “I was in my parents’ room. I always slept there when my father was away.” My voice was quiet, the words heavy in the leaden air.
“I heard your mama coming from the dressing room and crawled under the bed so she wouldn’t see me.”
“And you were there....” I couldn’t finish.
Xavier nodded. “I didn’t see anything, because I’d fallen asleep under the bed. But somebody thinks I did.”
“Who does, Xavier? Who thinks you saw?”
> Instead of answering, he said, “Ask Mr. Guidry why he sent me to that expensive school, Miss Aimee. But be ready to hear the answer. Sometimes not knowing is easier.”
“My mother’s wedding ring was taken that night. Do you remember seeing it at any time that evening?”
Footsteps crunched on gravel, and Xavier took off in the opposite direction, quickly vanishing behind a crumbling tomb.
I turned toward the footsteps and saw Wes, his jacket held by a finger over his shoulder, perspiration staining his shirt. “Aimee? Are you ready to go now? We’re all waiting.”
I nodded, still shaken by what Xavier had told me. I didn’t have the strength to make room for my mother’s death amid the overwhelming grief for Gary, and tried to push aside Xavier’s words. I tucked my hand in the crook of Wes’s elbow and allowed myself to be guided out of the cemetery, wondering what else Xavier hadn’t told me.
Cars lined both sides of the street as the limousine pulled up in front of the Guidrys’ house. A large wreath, festooned with black ribbons, crowned the front doors. I sat in the back between Grandmother and Mr. Guidry, Wes and Lacy facing us. Johnny bounced from side to side, excited to be riding in such a big car.
Food covered every flat surface in the downstairs. I had never understood this society peculiarity, as if a full stomach might push out some of the grief. But the combined smells nauseated me, and I found a seat in the parlor and sat down without a plate. Wes eventually wandered in, carrying Johnny, a lost expression on Wes’s face. He sat down and the little boy reached for me. I sat him on my lap, facing me, and held him tightly, noticing again his strong resemblance to his uncle. I squeezed him tighter and kissed the top of his head.
“How are you managing?”
I looked up at Wes and saw the dark purple marks under his eyes. “About the same as you, I expect.” I swayed with Johnny in my arms, my eyes squeezed shut. I opened them again, willing away the tears. “Some of his last words were about you, you know.”
He lifted his head, his eyes moist.
“He said . . .” I looked away, realizing that I couldn’t tell him, that the words would be too incriminating.
We were interrupted by a group of Gary’s friends who had sought me out to offer their condolences. Johnny’s eyes, drooping with exhaustion, stared up into mine. “Is Uncle Gary in heaven?”
Without answering, I said, “Let me show you something.” I stood and walked through the house and outside with Johnny, his solid body heavy in my arms. Wes followed and shut the back door behind us. We sat on the garden bench, the early evening sky displayed before us, the stars peeking through the lavenders and pinks of the sunset.
“Do you know what your uncle Gary told me?”
He shook his head.
“He said that the stars are openings to heaven, and that their light is the love of people living in heaven shining down on us.”
He tilted his head back, his little mouth open slightly, and pointed a pudgy finger toward the sky. “Do you think Uncle Gary is watching us now?”
I kissed Johnny’s forehead. “Oh, yes, Johnny. He is. I know he is.”
Wes stood behind us, and we sat on the bench until the last shades of lavender had shifted to gray, and the cicadas sang to the deepening gloom.
As the months following Gary’s death passed, I began reclaiming my days little by little. I’d returned to my grandmother’s house, not able to stand to be in the apartment I’d shared with Gary. I would stuff my grief into a little compartment in my heart so I could go to work and appear like a normal person. But in the evenings, I would kiss my grandmother good night and go to my room to quietly fall apart where nobody could see. The grief eventually became manageable, but the guilt did not. And when I finally fell asleep, my cheek sticking to the wet pillow, Gary refused to be summoned to my dreams.
The days grew shorter and the nights longer as autumn approached, and we all welcomed the cool respite from the pressing heat of summer. The verdant foliage and brilliant colors of the summer gardens faded to hues of brown and beige as dead blooms littered the ground and scattered with the cool winds. Halloween loomed on the horizon, and Johnny came over every day after I came home from work to check on the progress of his shark costume. Before Gary died, I had promised Johnny I’d make one for him, and he held me to it. I was glad, in a way, for it gave me something to occupy my thoughts, and it brought Johnny to me on a regular basis.
I didn’t see Xavier again, and when I checked in the attic at the Guidrys’ house, everything had been put back and the blankets were gone, as if he’d never been there. Ray Von denied any knowledge of his whereabouts, claiming that if he’d been living in the attic she hadn’t known about it. I didn’t believe her and I didn’t really think that she expected me to. I felt uncomfortable in her presence, feeling her watching me carefully, as if waiting for me to shatter. Or to finally see something that was hovering on the perimeter of my vision.
I still hadn’t approached Mr. Guidry with what Xavier had told me about the night my mother died. Sometimes not knowing is easier. Easier than what? Not knowing at all? I didn’t know if I’d have the strength to handle an ugly truth, and so began my long dance with avoidance.
On Halloween night, small white skulls and hanging skeletons mixed with draped Spanish moss on the iron railings and porches of the houses on our street, casting the old Victorians and Greek Revivals in an even eerier light than usual. Clusters of costumed children had already started their rounds as I walked next door to collect Johnny and take him trick-or-treating. His parents had a party to attend, and I, as usual, had no other plans for the evening.
Wes opened the door when I knocked, the hood of Johnny’s costume clutched in one hand. “Thank God you’re here,” he said, pulling me into the house. “We can’t seem to figure out how this is supposed to go.”
Johnny stood in the middle of the foyer, his face in a deep frown.
“Well, if it weren’t on backward it might fit better. Don’t you know a shark’s fin goes on the back?”
Wes gave me a sheepish grin. “Oh. I guess you’re right.” He squatted down on his haunches. “Come here, Johnny; let’s fix you up.”
Johnny stepped out of the costume and Wes adjusted it so it went back on properly. He stood and handed me the hood. “Here. He won’t let me put it on.”
I walked over to Johnny and knelt in front of him. “Why don’t you want to wear it? Don’t you like it?”
He looked down at his feet, now cleverly disguised as flippers. “I don’t want people to laugh at me.”
“Laugh at you? This thing is so scary people will be running from you. Maybe if you scare them enough, they’ll drop their candy and you can pick it up.” I poked my head through the hood, the felt shark teeth dangling in front of my face.
Johnny laughed and snatched the hood off of my head and put it on his own. Wes and I pretended to be afraid, but I had to put my hand over my mouth to hide my smile.
I held out my hand to Johnny. “Okay, Johnny—ready to go ruin your teeth?”
Wes grabbed a jacket off the chair and opened the front door. I stared at him in surprise. “Aren’t you and Lacy going to a party tonight?”
His eyes were devoid of expression. “It was a party at one of Lacy’s friends’. I thought trick-or-treating with Johnny would be more fun.”
A sense of unease settled on me. I looked at Johnny. “Well, then—there’s hardly any need for both of us to take him.”
Johnny’s face fell, and he stamped a flipper. “No—Aunt Aimee, you promised!”
“I know, but that’s because I didn’t think your parents would be here to take you. But now that your dad’s here . . .”
“Nooooooooo!” Johnny fell in a dramatic heap on the Oriental carpet, his arms and legs pounding the floor.
Wes got down on all fours and crawled over to his son. In a firm voice he said, “If you stop your whining and calm down, perhaps if you ask Aunt Aimee nicely, she’ll say yes.”
I looked at Wes, and he shrugged, as if to tell me it was up to me. I went over to Johnny and picked him up from the floor. “Okay, bud. We’ll both go—but at the first whine, I’m coming back home.” I stilled for a moment, realizing I had called him by Gary’s nickname for him. He didn’t seem to notice.
The light had dimmed outside, bringing out more trick-or-treaters. Pint-size ghouls and goblins, with the occasional princess or angel, raced up every walkway, their bags rattling with their loot. Wes and I stood at the front gates and let Johnny approach each door with whatever crowd of children happened by.
“You never told me what Gary said to you on the night . . . when he died. You said he spoke of me.”
I looked up into the black sky, seeing overhead the branches of an old oak tree, looking like arms embracing the night. “I don’t think you really want to hear it.”
“Really? Was it bad?”
I found the courage to look him in the eyes. “No. But it was about us—you and me.”
His voice was quiet. “What did he say?”
I looked down at my feet, not sure I could tell him.
Gently, he said, “Whatever it was, Aimee, I can take it. He was my brother, and I loved him. I’d like to know what his last thoughts were about.”
I looked directly into his eyes. “He said that you still loved me.”
Johnny came whooping down the walkway. “Look! Cherry! My favorite!” He waved a cherry lollipop in front of his face as he ran past us and down the sidewalk to the next house.
Wes pulled on my arm as I went to follow. “And what did you say?”
I paused for a moment, trying to read what was in his gaze. “I told him that it didn’t matter anymore.”