She was not weak.
She was wounded.
But she would emerge stronger.
Just like the motto on the Deschanel family crest: The strong shall rise again.
And she would rise again.
“It will be okay, Leena. I promise,” Evangeline said, and for the first time, Colleen believed these words when spoken by another.
* * *
Augustus was the only one in the office when the clock struck twelve. He was anxious. Every night, they had a ritual. A routine. Around eleven, twelve at the very latest, he would gather his things, switch off his light, lock his office. He’d see the small beacon of light from the corner office and wait a few moments, until that, too, switched off.
Ekatherina would emerge, jacket either draped over her arm, or, if the weather was cooler, over her shoulders. She clutched her worn purse in both hands in front of her. A tight, polite smile was her acknowledgment, and from there they would descend the stairs—never the elevator, except those two weeks when her ankle was troubling her—in united, comfortable silence, until they stepped out into the midnight air. There, she would say, Have a good night, Mr. Deschanel, to which he’d reply, You, too, Ekatherina.
There was little to no deviation in their ritual, and Augustus knew it was as important to her as it was to him, for she performed her role with great precision. Even when he had something more to say, he’d save it for the following day, where it could be given its own importance, separate of their nighttime dance of choreographed steps and scripted words.
Nothing had changed after his failed attempt to woo her as his wife. She was more reticent toward him in the office, but at night, she was his, and he hers, for the few short minutes it took to complete their ritual. Some things were bigger than ego, or emotion.
He’d told her, almost in passing so as not to give it too much weight, that he’d renewed her VISA another two years. She quietly thanked him, and he moved on, as if this was not the biggest thing anyone had ever done for her.
Where was she tonight? She’d left at some point when the office was still a bustle of activity, slipping out without him noticing. She never left early, or on time for that matter. Ekatherina, like Augustus, staked her survival on knowing where she was meant to be at all times and living her life accordingly.
Was she okay? Was she sick? It was too late to call; that window had passed, and he didn’t want to leave her with the impression that she was not allowed to take sick leave. If anyone in the office had earned some time off, it was her.
There was yet work to be done. When was there not? But this disruption to what was normal, what was comfortable, was more than his focus could bear, so Augustus began to walk through his side of the ritual. He first gathered his things, and then, crossing the small office, went to switch off the light.
He gasped. He wasn’t alone.
“Mr. Deschanel, I did not mean to scare you.”
“Are you all right, Ekatherina?” Adding to his worry about her earlier departure, standing before him now she looked pale and drawn. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying.
She looked at her hands, which worked around a small object. “I meet problem after problem. I have money. They say they want this amount and I give them, but it’s not enough.”
“Who is they?”
“The Soviet government. They say money no longer buy visa. They shut down all requests. They shut down my family.”
Augustus rolled the leather handle of his briefcase over his fingers. “What do they want?”
“They do not say. And I am so alone here, Mr. Deschanel. I come here, feeling so brave, and I know now I am not so brave.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I am scared, and I have no one.”
He shifted the briefcase so both hands had something to do. He feared if he didn’t, he’d do something untoward, like touch her, or God forbid, pull her into an embrace, as the strange urge within him pressed him to do. “How can I help?”
Ekatherina’s hands blossomed, revealing the object: the gray velvet box from Brennan’s. “You tell me when I say no to marry you that I sell this for money to help my family. But I cannot, Mr. Deschanel. You buy this for me. You care what happen to me.”
Augustus cleared his throat. “I care very much, Ekatherina.”
“I try to sell, but I cannot. Just as Mammochka’s locket has meaning, so does this ring. You buy for me, Mr. Deschanel. You want to give me a life that is not lonely, where I am not scared anymore.”
He nodded, speechless.
“I no want your money.” Ekatherina shook her head, as though afraid of the words trying to come out. “I no want you to marry me for any reason but love.”
“I… you know I’m not like the other young men, with words and flowers. But I love you in my own way, Ekatherina, and if that’s enough, then I’ll give you everything I have to give, without ever asking anything from you in return.”
“You do love me.” It was not a question.
Augustus nodded. “Yes.”
“Not like other men.”
“I’m not like other men, and neither is the way I love.”
It was her turn to nod. “I know nothing about romance. What good is that when people starve? When my family starve? I know no romance. I need no romance. You can’t give. I can’t give either.”
Augustus dropped his briefcase. It slipped straight from his hands, and he took hers in his, the ring box pressed between them. “You were meant to come here, Ekatherina. I believe this, and I don’t put much into the idea of fate. But I know you were meant to come here, and I was meant to… to love you. Do you believe that?”
“I begin to believe many things now.”
Augustus withdrew his hand, and with it, the ring box. His hand trembled, fumbling through opening it. There was a proper way to do this. He should just give it to her, let her put it on herself. She didn’t need the proposal. She might not even want it. But he feared their marriage would be a series of him calculating his failures to be enough for her, and he would not start things off wrong.
He lowered into a kneel, but his sport coat button was fastened and he had to stop to fix this before continuing. Her smile at this was playful and put him at ease, though his heart beat so fast and so hard his breath hitched.
“Well, then. Will you marry me, Ekatherina?”
“Da.”
The ring slipped. His fingers and palms were oil slick, and he struggled for purchase. At last he had it and he placed it around her tiny finger. It was a touch too large for her, and he promised to have it sized right away.
He asked her if she would like to come home with him tonight, and she said yes, though he sensed her hesitation and quickly wished he could rescind the question.
When they stepped into the vast and quiet emptiness of Magnolia Grace, Augustus was, for the first time, ashamed of his wealth. Ekatherina had pulled herself from the dregs of a life that was killing her, to work herself near to death. He had so much, and she, so little.
Augustus worked because he chose to. And as much as his pride refused to let him slow down and live off the fat of his family, he was forced to admit this house had been an endowment. He’d done no more than be born the second son of the most prominent man in New Orleans.
And he knew, as she gaped like a starving child standing before a feast, he knew, he knew, he knew that he would give her every last bit of what he had to see her smile and mean it.
“I’ll show you to the guest room,” he said and pretended not to see the subtle flash of relief pass over her face.
Twenty
I’m Giving it Back
It was Christmas Eve, and the family was scattered.
There’d been a huge family fight about where Christmas should be held. Irish Colleen insisted Ophélie was the center of the household, but Charles put his foot down. He said if the house was his, then he’d as soon turn it into a mausoleum than subject his family to the bad energies coming. Evangeline didn’t know
what the hell he was talking about, and suspected he didn’t, either, but it was obvious to everyone how depressed he’d become.
The townhouse was plenty big enough for a family holiday, but Irish Colleen was self-conscious about serving from her small kitchen and condensed dining room. She tried to ask Augustus how he felt about Magnolia Grace, but he hadn’t returned her calls, and they wondered if he even knew it was Christmastime.
Only Evangeline knew what was really on his mind.
“You should break the news on Christmas,” she said days before she’d marched into his office demanding to know why she had been staying at the house. And then he told her, and she couldn’t believe it. She could, and she couldn’t, and it was all too much.
“I’ll share the news when I’m ready,” he said, and he didn’t look nearly as happy as a man newly engaged should. This quelled her temper. Some.
“When are you marrying her?”
“We haven’t decided, but it won’t be a big affair. We may go down to the courthouse. After the New Year.” He lifted his pen as he moved from page to page of his stack of papers, looking for places to sign.
“You’re acting like this isn’t a big deal,” she charged.
Augustus looked up. “I can’t win with you. Either she’s terrible for me, or I’m not thrilled enough to be marrying her. Which is it, Evangeline? Pick one. Or neither. Please.”
“Why is your future wife sleeping in the guest room?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You never did.”
“Don’t say that like it’s a personal failure of mine,” Evangeline said. Her cheeks grew hot. “It’s not. Maddy didn’t understand you, either.”
Augustus’ hand froze in mid-signature. He clenched his jaw. Then returned to signing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, more quietly. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You did. It’s okay. I prefer honesty to platitudes.”
“You know I love you, Aggie.”
“Then don’t add to my stress by giving me trouble about Ekatherina. I’ve made my decision, and of everyone, you’re the one I need in my corner.”
Evangeline flushed. After these past years of tagging along, forcing herself into the mix of her brother’s life, she’d never known how he felt about her, or any of it. “Then I’m in your corner.”
“Good.” Augustus returned his full focus to his work. The conversation was over.
And that was that.
Now, days later, she’d seen him even less than usual. The holidays were slower at the office, because their holiday edition had been off to press for weeks already. This was his time to relax and come home, if not on time, at least not past midnight.
Evangeline had noted, in the scientific journal of her mind, that her brother’s hours worked per week climbed in direct correlation with his anxiety. But it didn’t take a scientific journal, or mind, to see that the cause of his anxiety was self-imposed and therefore entirely baffling.
If he was so stressed at the idea of marrying the girl, then why was he? Because he didn’t think he could do better? Because her expectations weren’t so high of him as other women’s might be? Because he thought he must?
Evangeline toyed with the idea that he’d accidentally gotten her pregnant, but she summarily dismissed it as quickly as it appeared. The girl was sleeping in the guest room. They’d never even sealed the deal, she’d bet her trust fund.
And now it was Christmas Eve, and she had no helpful answers on the subject of her brother’s impending marriage, nor did she have any idea if she’d even see him on Christmas.
The family had been unraveling since the death of Madeline.
No, this started earlier. Way earlier.
Nothing had been right since their father died.
There was someone she could talk to about this. Not Colleen, because she could see now that to help her big sister she needed to shoulder some of the burden for a spell. When Colleen was better, she’d come and take over, but for now, Evangeline had to tend to the health and well-being of her family, though she was already off to a piss-poor start.
Amnesty. Her heart sank into the oak floorboards. Everything had been going so well, the two of them wrapped in the magic of late nights and no expectations. For months, and then… nothing. Two weeks ago, Amnesty hadn’t showed up. Evangeline was disappointed, but not yet worried. Perhaps she was sick, or she’d turned in early. Amnesty didn’t owe her an explanation for a night off.
But one turned to two, and two to a week. By the start of the second week, Evangeline dismissed any reasonable explanations, and her thoughts turned to fear. Had something terrible happened? She felt she knew Amnesty in a way she’d never known another living soul, though she knew almost nothing about her. It was crazy, but true, and she spent the next two days working up the courage to knock on the door and ask after her.
The wrought iron gate had been locked, so she nimbly scaled the spikes, using a nearby tree branch to pull herself up and then over. The yard was a mess. The gardens and lawn hadn’t been tended in many years. All this had been blocked by those passing by, because Amnesty’s grandfather, or whoever managed the gardeners, had ensured the outward appearances were maintained. Now that Evangeline was in their world, she was overcome with a sharp fear, and a sense that she was an interloper. Her eyes darted around the overgrown property, and behind her, as if expecting an apex predator to overtake her at any moment.
The steps bowed inward at the center, and one was missing entirely. She stretched over and beyond it, to the porch, which creaked under her tender weight.
Cobwebs wrapped themselves around the knocker, which belied the breadth of years passed since a time where it was in use; where the house and the world around it pulsed with life.
Evangeline ignored the nest of old world madness and knocked against the peeling wood door. She leaned in to listen and heard nothing. None of the familiar steps or stomps of approaching hosts. She knocked again, and then again, and as she was giving up, the large door yawned open.
An old man, beset with heavy arthritis and age spots, appeared. He hunched over his cane with the shakes. “Get off my porch before I call the police!”
“I’m not an intruder!” Evangeline put her hands up. “I’m just looking for Amnesty. I haven’t seen her in a week and—”
“No one here by that name!”
“Are you sure? Maybe you call her something else? I’ve seen her come home every night after our walks.”
“No one lives here but me, and no one is allowed here but me, and if you don’t leave right this minute, I’ll—”
“Yeah, I got it, call the police,” Evangeline replied, confused, deflated.
The old man watched her like a preying hawk, huffing and tapping his cane while she went back down the path. She was able to unlock the gate from the inside and went out the proper way. The sound of first the gate locking itself, and then the heavy door closing rang in near unison, and she continued to replay the sounds on the long walk home.
Tomorrow was Christmas, and she didn’t know where she’d be. Where she’d be, or where she belonged, and now she wasn’t at all sure if the two were even the same. She’d floated from Ophélie to Magnolia Grace, and now Augustus was marrying and she was still aimless and incomplete.
Evangeline sighed in the dark, quiet house. The soft, mechanical tick of the grandfather clock was the dominant sound in a mansion of creaks and cries. She didn’t want to be alone, but she didn’t have it in her to call Augustus and ask him to come home just to appease her childish emotions.
A series of creaks in close succession raised her to alert. The house was always yawning and settling. It never slept. But these were the sounds of something growing closer, and she turned toward the direction of it. The porch.
Someone was outside.
Evangeline stood completely still. She strained to listen. The footsteps continued and then stopp
ed. The metallic squeak of the porch swing came next.
It wasn’t Augustus. She couldn’t even begin to imagine him doing something as whimsical and without purpose as swinging. He probably didn’t even know the thing was there.
Evangeline glanced around for something she could wield. The fireplace was nearby, but had no poker—just one, of many, things her brother had never used—and all she could find was an umbrella. She almost laughed. Might as well be a spoon.
She considered calling the police, but the risk of looking like a fool exceeded her fears of personal safety. In all likelihood, it was a bum who’d wandered up from the wharves, or Central City. None of the homeless in New Orleans had ever caused her trouble, and more than once she’d taken them into a nearby restaurant for a hot meal. Augustus would ream her if she let one in his house, but she had twenty dollars in her pocket, and that would be enough to change someone’s life, if only for a week.
Evangeline removed the fasteners on the locks and turned the handle. The swing stopped. She took a deep breath and popped out, umbrella brandished.
Amnesty was curled into a corner of the swing. The moonlight revealed enough of her face that Evangeline could see the bruising around her left eye and her swollen lip. Her arms wrapped around her legs, and she looked tiny, like a forgotten child.
Evangeline dropped the umbrella. She stepped closer and perched at the other end of the swing. “What—”
“Don’t ask me what happened, Evangeline. I can’t tell you.”
“Okay.” Evangeline exhaled. She wrapped her thick hair in her fist and released it. “Okay.”
“You want to ask me so many things.”
“I’ve always wanted to.”
“You want to know me.”
“I already do know you, and then also, I don’t know you at all.”
“No one does.”
Evangeline bowed her head.
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