by C. L. Bevill
Sharla grinned broadly at that. “I’m on page 75.”
The other girls chattered as they worked, and some of them stopped to play singing games. Mignon wandered among them and helped them with perspective and shading and shapes. Some of the girls were obviously artists who had been hindered by their families. Some of them were merely enthusiastic. But as the time flew by in the class, Mignon found that she was enjoying herself more than she thought she would.
When the hour was over, Mignon began to pick up the remnants of the class and to pin finished products onto the bulletin board on one wall. Sharla and another little girl named Beadie started a hand-clapping game. They slapped their hands together and sang, “I had a Gullah boy, he’s double-jointed. He gave me a kiss and made me disappointed. He gave me another to match the other.” The hand slapping became more complicated as they crossed over and went up and down in progressing speed. “All right, Sharla, I’ll tell your mother, for kissing Terry, down by the river. How many kisses did he give you altogether? One, two, three, four, five, six…” and their speed went faster and faster until Beadie messed up one of the intricate movements and both girls dissolved into helpless giggles.
Mignon didn’t say anything as Sharla was helped into a wheelchair by Sister Helena and wheeled away. Beadie trailed behind them loudly singing a French lullaby. But the rhyme had bothered Mignon. It spoke to her of innate prejudices within the area. Although it was the 21st century, bigotry was alive and well. She knew that it wasn’t limited to the South. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t sure what some people would make of her newfound heritage. The truth was that some people wouldn’t care one way or the other. Others would take adjusting. And a few would probably disdain her altogether.
She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, hugging her disturbing thoughts away, gazing absently at the drawings on the wall. Mignon looked around at the tops of old school desks and saw scratches on the surface from a hundred bored schoolchildren trying to exert their independence in ways designed to exasperate the system. She would have smiled except that she remembered carving her initials into more than one desk at a tender age. Unfolding her arms, she let her fingers trail across the marks in the desk. Names, curse words, and birthdays were scattered randomly over the surfaces. Most were old and had attained a patina with age.
It wasn’t long before she found Dara’s name incised into the aging wood of one desk. The date was only a month before, and the carving looked as fresh as if it had been cut the day before. A small wood chip remained in the curve of the D.
“That was Dara’s desk,” came a rough male voice. Mignon’s head shot up, but she had already recognized Father William’s unique voice.
Allowing her fingers to roam over the coarse engraving, Mignon tried to draw a thought from it. The name was bold and centered on the desk. It could hardly be missed by anyone who passed by. The teacher must have known the same day, if not within an hour, of the deed. What did that say about Dara herself?
“She was audacious,” Father William said answering the question he could see in Mignon’s face. He stepped into the room and calmly studied Mignon. She was mildly irritated at his use of the word “audacious” because it sounded like a vile thing coming from his mouth.
“I’m told she didn’t want to be here,” Mignon commented placidly. She raised her eyes up and saw the priest again as if she were seeing him for the first time. His eyes were a contradictory blue-gray, lost in the suntanned flesh of his face. His priest’s collar was a shade too tight on a thick neck, and she had a feeling that he preferred it that way. Almost a full foot taller than she, he would have had to bend his neck to look down upon her if they stood close together. But Mignon preferred her position next to a dead teenager’s desk.
Father William nodded. “Dara didn’t want to be here.”
“How badly did she not want to be here?” Mignon couldn’t prevent the question nor could she prevent herself from looking into the priest’s blue-gray eyes and searching for the answer that would not be spoken.
“Enough that she provoked everyone in her path,” Father William answered, and his honesty surprised her. “She didn’t like to learn. She didn’t like the other girls. She didn’t like Sister Helena, and she didn’t like me.”
“Was there anything she did like?” Mignon was openly curious.
Father William put his hands together in front of his abdomen, serenely studying Mignon as if she were something very fascinating. “She liked her boyfriend. She liked to jump rope. She was an excellent jumper. She made up some of the most interesting rhymes.” A smile reluctantly passed over the priest’s face as he remembered something that amused him. “We had to be careful because she would call the rhymes that would embarrass the other girls and us, as well. Dara had a way of picking up on the things best left in the darkness.”
“What kinds of things?”
Father William let out a harsh sigh. “And you have a way of asking questions that makes me think that you’re interested in far more than teaching our girls about art.”
“When you find someone like Dara, left alone in the bayous, left to rot there like so much misbegotten trash,” Mignon said slowly, “it shows you that there is more in life than merely accepting what presents itself at face value.”
“You think that her killer is not her young male friend, Tomas, despite what Sheriff Roque thinks,” Father William interpreted. “But what gives you that thought? After all, we are not here to harm the children. We do everything in our power to protect them from others.”
“You’ve said yourself, that Dara provoked everyone in her path,” Mignon reminded him coolly. “How far did she go?”
“Far enough with one particular someone,” Father William stated sincerely. “The person who murdered her must have thought that, certainly.”
And Mignon couldn’t argue with that analysis.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday, March 12th - Thursday, March 13th
Fudge, fudge, call the judge.
Your mother’s having a baby;
It isn’t a boy, it isn’t a girl,
It’s just an ordinary baby.
Wrap it up in tissue paper,
Send it down the escalator:
First floor, miss!
Second floor, miss!
Third floor, miss!
Fourth floor, kick it out the door!
Your mother hasn’t got a little baby anymore.
-Children’s jump rope rhyme
Mignon went to the Blessed Heart School on Wednesday and allowed the girls in her class to draw another still life, trying to insinuate the practice of proper perspective into them. “You see how the apple sits in front of the orange,” she said patiently to an older student.
The girl, whose name was Callie Frilot, was an accomplished artist at seventeen. Mignon recognized that she was a disciplinary problem and the girl didn’t do anything to disprove that conjecture. “But I like it better with the orange to the side,” she said petulantly.
A smile quivered on Mignon’s lips. “As an artist we can change things to the way that we like them. We can improve them. We can make it better. We can make it appear as though we have a vision that no one else has.”
Callie smiled at that. Her long brown hair was clipped with a ruby red barrette in the back, and she brushed away an errant lock from her plain white shirt. “Then I’m making it better,” she stated positively.
Mignon had to give the children an “A” for creativity. Some of the younger ones drew their fruit with wings and a few gave them animation to go with it. However, another select few were getting the lesson of perspective and attempting to master the deceptively complicated skill. “Wait until you get to the colors,” Mignon muttered ruefully under her breath.
Callie’s brown eyes went up to Mignon’s. “What do you mean?”
Mignon pointed at the apple. “Look at the apple. What color do you see?”
“It’s red,” Callie said scof
fingly. “Anyone can see that.”
“What about this part?” Mignon ran her finger down the side of the apple where the reflection from the fluorescent lights from above shone on its glassy surface.
“It’s, it’s…” Callie sat up straight in her chair, her gaze focusing intently on the glittering suggestion of the lights on the apple’s exterior. “It’s showing the lights, like a little mirror. Hey, that’s how some of those people make it look so real.” The dawning comprehension in the teenager’s voice made Mignon feel like a god. Callie looked up at Mignon and said, “It’s got like three or four other colors in it. You could almost draw the whole room in the side of the apple.”
“But it wouldn’t look exactly like the room, would it?” Mignon traced the image with the tip of her finger.
Callie’s cheerful gaze went back to the apple. She studied it for a moment and said, “No, it would be curved, like the shape of the apple. Just like in one of those funny mirrors.”
“You know,” Mignon said softly. “You can do that with plain old black and white, too.”
After Callie was busy at work with her head bent over her drawing, Mignon looked around. Most of the girls would never be more than adequate. A few would be good. And some of them, she judged, should be encouraged solely on their ingenuity.
“Dara liked to do stuff that was different,” Callie muttered, using the tip of her pinkie to blend in the shaded side of the apple.
Straightening up, Mignon realized that she could ask questions of the students about Dara. If she were discrete, she didn’t think she could hurt anyone. And John Henry didn’t need to know. “What kind of things?”
“She liked making up the rhymes for jump roping and hand clapping,” Callie said absently, her eyes on her work. “She could make up some funny ones.”
“Some people use words as creatively as others use a pencil or a brush,” Mignon suggested.
Callie nodded. “Dara was quick. She’d sing, ‘Sarah’s pretty and tall. Her skin’s like stone. She likes art and ya’ll. In her sleep she’ll moan.’ Make it up on the spot. Made Sarah mad. She blushed for a week.” The pinkie rubbed furiously at the side of the apple.
“Softly,” Mignon advised. There wasn’t a Sarah in the art class, a fact for which Mignon was grateful. It seemed as though quick-tongued Dara could get herself into all kinds of trouble. “You can always blend more later.”
“Oh,” Callie said. “I get it.”
Beadie was sitting on Callie’s right. She had been the one playing a hand-clapping game with Sharla. Beadie was fourteen and liked to chatter while she drew. She couldn’t get the hang of perspective, but she enjoyed the lesson all the same. “Dara once sang one about Sister Helena that got her twenty Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers. Do you ‘member that one, Callie?”
“‘Sister, sister, her skin’s so fair. Her face is skinny, she don’t care. Her family she don’t share. In her life boys are rare.’” Callie murmured the words idly. “I didn’t get it. But it sure made the sister mad.”
Mignon didn’t get it either. She guessed that Dara had some inside information.
Callie said softly, “Dara was quick with words, but she wasn’t so bad.” She stopped drawing. “Wasn’t right for someone to do what they did to her.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Mignon agreed. When Callie’s soft brown eyes came up, Mignon saw a glint of moisture there, and she felt instant remorse for prodding at the subject of their fallen friend. Whether Dara had been a friend or merely a girl in the same predicament was up for debate, but it was obvious that the girls didn’t know the difference. All they knew was that someone had killed one of them. It made them feel defenseless and alone.
Mignon touched Callie’s shoulder tentatively. “It’s going to be all right. The sheriff will catch the one responsible, and that person will pay.” And I’m going to make sure John Henry gets the right person, whether he likes it or not.
“That detective was asking lots of questions about Tomas Clovis,” Callie said. “Like he was the one.”
“The detective is asking a lot of people questions about a bunch of different people. They have to make sure that they have the right person before they arrest them.” Mignon offered up the information, but it felt as shallow as it sounded. Even a bunch of schoolgirls knew that Tomas Clovis was being offered up on a platter for the St. Germaine Sheriff’s Department. Besides which he had already been arrested, at least technically he had been.
Callie’s shoulder became tense suddenly, and Mignon looked down at the girl’s expression. Callie was staring at the open doorway. Linda Terrebonne was standing there, looking inside with a stern look on her face. Mignon felt Callie tremble, and then she immediately looked back down at her drawing. When Mignon looked back up, Linda was gone.
When the class was over on Wednesday and all the girls gone to their next classes, Mignon spent a little time speaking with Sister Helena. The sister had come to look at the finished works that had been pinned up. “Oh, this one by Callie is very good,” the sister said.
Mignon nodded in acknowledgment. “Callie immediately grasped a sense of perspective and reflection. With practice she could be a proficient artist.”
Sister Helena nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, I’ll tell the father. Callie has applied for several colleges in the area. She has family in the area who can still be her support group. A frail grandmother who couldn’t take her in and two aunts with several children of their own. Oh, an artist from Blessed Heart! How wonderful!”
Her fervor seemed to be genuine, and Mignon puzzled over the rhyme that Dara had created. Father William had said, “Dara had a way of picking up on the things best left in the darkness.” Which dark secrets were included in the rhyme about Sister Helena? Her skin was fair. She was skinny. She doesn’t share her family. Boys in her life were rare.
From what Mignon knew about nuns it wasn’t anything to be ashamed about. Fair and skinny weren’t particularly insulting. Her family, however, was the church, and as a nun, it should be very obvious that boys were few and far between. Had Dara been alluding to something a little more enigmatic? A hidden affair with a man, maybe even the priest himself? Something that Dara could rhyme about but profess utter innocence?
“The girls were talking about Dara today,” Mignon said. She deliberately stopped there, waiting for Sister Helena to fill in the gaps.
Sister Helena looked at the drawings for a long minute more. “I should have realized that they would,” she said at last.
“Because she was murdered,” Mignon said.
“Yes, and because it was Dara,” Sister Helena said, and Mignon had the impression that it wasn’t a compliment.
“Dara was rather unique, I take it,” Mignon said quietly.
“Yes, unique. Strong-willed. Ready to take on the world and win. She would have made her own decisions, and she would have stuck by them at any cost.” The sister’s voice was thoughtful. Her blue eyes turned to Mignon, and she saw that there was sadness there. “I would rather think the most positive about anyone who has passed into God’s arms.”
The implication was that there was much to discuss that was negative about Dara Honore.
“The girls told me about some of her jump rope rhymes,” Mignon said. “She was inventive about them.”
“She wasn’t the only girl that writes rhymes. Not by any means.” A tight-lipped smile crossed the sister’s face. “Inventive. Bold as brass. I would have said she was arrogant. She was above this school.” The words slipped out of Sister Helena’s mouth and for an instant, Mignon could see that the sister immediately wished that she hadn’t said them. “Forgive me. Dara could be trying. We only wanted to help her.”
“Why was she here?” Mignon wanted the answers to many questions, but she felt as if this might be one of the few she actually might be able to receive from Sister Helena.
Sister Helena reached up and touched her rosary for comfort. It was obvious that this was an ingrained inclinati
on. The beads of the necklace were well worn from being handled in stressful times. Apparently, a school full of children in need brought on periods of conflict for the sister. “My dear Miss Thibeaux, I would not question why you’ve chosen to help the girls here. I hoped it was because you’ve felt a need to give back what you are so enviably able to do now. But your interest in Dara Honore disturbs me.”
Mignon studied the other woman. The sister wasn’t so much older than her and probably not so different in her upbringing. She had chosen a route that would be difficult at times and probably very rewarding at others, if a true calling was what Sister Helena had. From Mignon’s brief experiences with her, she felt as if Sister Helena was legitimately concerned in the well-being of the students at Blessed Heart. But there was the argument with Dara and the rhyme that had made the sister so angry. There was more there than met the eye.
Mignon decided a touch of the truth wouldn’t harm her own credibility. “Since I found her, I’ve been almost haunted by the thought of what could have so easily happened to me. I spent years in foster care, essentially in the same position as Dara, as all of the girls here. But Dara ended up so dreadfully different.” She hesitated. “I wish sometimes I hadn’t found her body. Her eyes were staring at me as though begging me. Pretty hazel eyes that will never again see anyone else. And the last thing she saw was the person who strangled her.”
Sister Helena made an inarticulate noise and touched the rosary beads again. “God be with us,” she said quickly.
“I just want to understand why this terrible thing had to happen to a young innocent,” Mignon said. “As I’m sure you do.”
“Of course, we all do,” Sister Helena assured Mignon. She took a step forward and lightly touched Mignon’s shoulder, in much the same manner as Mignon had touched Callie’s shoulder. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. Dara’s relationship with her parents was…troubled. There were repeated incidents of skipping school, of staying away for days at a time, for a number of things. Her parents simply felt as though she were out of control.”