Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles)

by Angelic Rodgers

  “I know, dad. But I hate saying good bye all the way there, and then there’s the awkward good bye when we get there, and I’m not going to want you to leave.” She smiled a tiny smile and sniffled. “Besides, Kirby is all excited about picking me up and taking me out on the town as a welcome home. And, you have a date with Virginia and Alice for New Years Eve that you need to be ready for. I’m glad they get along, and especially glad that Virginia can hold her own with me and with Alice. That does take a special kind of woman to not feel like an outsider with the two of us giggling and making inside family jokes.”

  They could just hear the train coming up on the station. She’d be in New Orleans in time for dinner. She hugged her dad and kissed him on the cheek. “You can come visit soon. I just need to jump back in with both feet. It’s go home now or don’t go back.” She knew her father understood the toll that being a widower took on a person. Elliott had hurled himself into work the minute he could when her mother died. She never took it personally. It was just who he was.

  “Tell the boys I said hi, and call me tomorrow. Better yet, text me tonight when Kirby has you in his hands. I will rest better knowing you are well looked after.”

  She made sure she sat in a seat on his side of the train when she got on, so he could see her blow a kiss and press her hand to the glass. She and an older black woman were the only passengers getting on in Hattiesburg, and there were few passengers in her car. The late afternoon air was heavy as the train pulled away from the station and started toward home.

  Even though she had been at her father’s for just a few weeks it seemed like forever. She never settled into the routine at his house, her childhood home. She knew that grief made people restless and unable to sleep well, but she wondered how long she was going to be exhausted. It didn’t seem to matter how many hours of sleep she got or how deeply she slept—she woke up tired.

  She feared what returning to New Orleans and the house she shared with Alex—where Alex died in front of her—would do to her. In her father’s house she did not suffer from true nightmares, not what she considered nightmares, anyway. In the first two weeks, she really remembered nothing of her dreams. It was almost as if a switch were flipped when she lay down and closed her eyes. Everything was dark behind her eyelids, and she would seemingly fall asleep in an instant. Over time, though, she began to have restless dreams of Alex and of her mother. She only knew they were of her mother because the face was the same as the face in the pictures she stared at for hours as a child, looking for some resemblance in her own face and the face of the mother she never truly knew. She even dreamt of Wren, and surprisingly she always dreamt that Wren was somehow wounded and alone. In those dreams, Liz came to her aid. She woke up confused as to why her brain would allow her to feel any sympathy or compassion toward the bitch who killed Alex. When she was truly awake, all she wanted to do was rip Wren to shreds, obliterating her physical being to the point that it would be as if she never existed.

  If Wren never existed, she couldn’t kill Alex.

  On the train, Liz closed her eyes and the sound of the train lulled her to sleep; she actually rested somewhat fitfully until they got to the edge of the Pontchartrain. As they neared the shore and the train went over more marshy areas where fishing cabins and docks were visible, she started in her sleep, suddenly feeling a deep sense of panic and dread.

  She can feel the sway of the car as it slid down the tracks, the sensation of the train feeling like a long ball of twine being unrolled as some unseen force tugs on the loose end. She sits up, confused as to why she’s in a sleeping car; the trip from Hattiesburg to New Orleans isn’t an overnight trip.

  She pulls back the covers to reveal a long flannel gown, high necked and long sleeved. The berth is not modern; from the dim light coming from the windows, she sees there are no bunks; instead the seats are bench style seats that have been rearranged to make her bed. She can see a shape in the dark and hear soft snoring. She touches the sleeping woman who stirs enough to say, “What is it Daniela? We won’t arrive in Bucharest until morning.”

  She steps from the train onto the platform. The woman who assured her they would be in Bucharest in the morning soon follows behind her, carrying the bulk of the luggage. In the light of day, Liz can see the other woman, Elena, is not as old as she had thought when she saw her sleeping. She is, however, well-worn, and despite the closeness in age between them, Elena is obviously from a different world than Daniela, even though she’s expected to serve her mistress. Their clothes are quite different, Daniela notices; Elena’s are very much homespun, but tidy, while hers are of finer fabric. She finds it odd how the tight, corset like bodice on her dress and the laced ankle boots under her heavy skirt all feel familiar.

  She remembers where she is now and what she’s doing; she is returning from a long trip to relatives. She had gone supposedly to see her cousin Adele, but it had turned out to be a ruse. Her father had arranged with her uncle to attempt a match for marriage. The man her family had chosen for her was far too old and far too crude. She had demanded to come home. And here she was.

  As she followed Elena to the carriage that was waiting to fetch them, Daniela also remembered that her father was none too happy about her return and that the match was unsuccessful. He had been reluctant to allow her to return home so soon, but her mother finally intervened. The bargaining chip that she used was the news that the man who owned the large estate to their west was ready to marry again. He apparently was a widower with a daughter about her age. He had vast landholdings, and Daniela was willing to at least meet him and consider it. Her mother claimed she would not be disappointed, but Daniela feared it would be a no better match than the attempt she had just managed to escape from. What could she want with a man old enough to be her father?

  Daniela and Elena were met by the driver her father sent, who helped Elena gather all of the belongings and stow them in the carriage, after he had helped Daniela step up into it. They had a long ride ahead. As the carriage started, she felt a jostling, and woke with a start.

  Liz tried to shake the dream and to ground herself. Looking out the window didn’t help; being surrounded by water was similar to the feeling of dreamless sleep. She felt a panic attack about to strike. She grabbed her duffle bag and made her way slowly to the lounge car for a glass of wine, fighting the temptation to shriek as she transitioned from car to car, feeling at any moment as if she might be flung into the train and lost.

  By the time the train pulled into the station, the panic attack had subsided, and she was glad to find Kirby and Mike waiting for her. “Oh, honey, we brought you a bottle of gin, because we know flowers make you sad.” Kirby kissed her neck as he hugged her hello. “I didn’t bring it, though, because we’re throwing your bag in the car and going out to dinner. There’s still too much good food to be eaten before Réveillon is over! Let’s go to Muriel’s. Mike and I absolutely love their courses; we’ve only eaten there three times this season already. You’re going to love the dessert.” And off they went.

  Kirby and Liz were as close to siblings as any friends could be. He’d rescued her from the life of a street urchin when she first came to New Orleans. He found her when she was living with several other under-skilled and barely employed twenty-somethings over on Magazine Street, and he talked her into helping him out by staying with him in his Marigny shotgun. She later learned that he owned the place and that his parents were well off. As far as she could tell, she wasn’t helping him do anything, really, certainly not in any tangible way like he helped her.

  It was Kirby who made sure she and Alex met, too. He’d met Alex when she was bartending and he knew from the start that she and Liz would be a good match. After months of bugging her to let him fix them up, he’d finally just made sure it happened. As he’d predicted once the two of them met, they were inseparable. Having made sure the two of them would take care of each other, he’d taken off for California. Liz tried not to think about how lost she’d be if Ki
rby’s relationship had worked out and he’d not come home.

  She knew that he was feeling the loss of a sister after Alex’s death, and she could see it in his face that he was glad she came home. The letters they wrote back and forth while she was in Mississippi were a great comfort to both of them, but nothing could replace actually being together.

  Initially, they talked about selling the property after the murder; Kirby didn’t want Liz to have to be reminded of the death through the constant contact with the place where it happened--the same place where they lived their life together. But, Liz insisted that she didn’t want to move. She argued that she already had to give up too much in losing Alex and she would be damned if she would give up the one spot she was sure she’d be able to feel Alex’s presence. She didn’t care if it was macabre or overly sentimental. It was her home.

  Kirby kept his promise not to do anything other than have a cleaning crew come in to clean up the carnage that Wren left behind in the room Liz had shared with Alex. As they drove from the train station to dinner, Liz wondered if her wish that they leave things the way they were was such a great idea.

  Kirby and Mike kept her out late; dinner was followed by drinks and a drunken stumble through Jackson Square; they insisted on taking her by The Ruby so everyone could welcome her home. When they got there, she was not only surprised that they arranged an actual party in her honor, but she was further surprised when Sandy, the owner, introduced Deanie Martin as the new head bartender. Over the years, Deanie had certainly put in the hours at the bar as a patron, and Liz could see that she possessed a new sense of confidence behind the bar pouring drinks and pulling beers. Women were actually sizing Deanie up, wondering if they could get anywhere with her, rather than the other way around. She looked like maybe she’d dried out a bit and started working out. Alex wasn’t sure what it was, but Deanie seemed different. Maybe it was that Wren was out of the picture; in the past Deanie always followed her around like a lost puppy and Wren did her best to take advantage of Deanie’s willingness to spend money on her or do things for her.

  “You know, kid, you still have a place here.” Sandy gave Liz a half hug and smiled at Kirby. “In fact, I think I’ve probably about had it. I’m thinking after all that we’ve been through, and losing Alex and Wanda that it’s time for me to retire. I’ve made sure that the new owner knows to take care of you, though.”

  Kirby smiled hard, pulling a bottle of champagne off the bar and handing it to Liz. “Open this, will you?” On the wire cage of the cork, a set of keys were attached. She looked at him, shaking her head. “Kirby, no! You didn’t.” Kirby nodded.

  “You’re not just a bartender anymore, toots. You co-own the joint with me. Now open that bottle and let’s get down to the real celebration.”

  Once the glasses were poured and toasts were made, Liz grabbed Kirby’s hand and pulled him toward the back, so they could talk.

  “Kirby, you shouldn’t have, really. This is too much.”

  Kirby smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Look, the folks have been on me to be an adult and start making some investment decisions. They are just happy I bought property that is business property and that it is in New Orleans. Besides, I wanted to make sure you would come on home and stay.” He opened the door to the office and motioned for her to enter. The light was off, and she expected it to look as it did when she left.

  Instead, the room looked huge compared to what it was like before, crammed full of boxes and papers. Kirby had renovated the office, cleaning out all of Sandy’s stuff. Now, the room was tidy with a couch along one wall, and he’d put in a small desk and file cabinet.

  “I wanted you to have a space where you could hide out if you wanted. The sofa folds out and it’s actually somewhat comfortable. It’s even new. Nothing old and ratty for our new office.”

  Liz smiled. “Our office, huh? So, I guess you’re not just a silent partner.”

  “Hell, no! I’ve got to have something to do while you’re painting and while Mike’s slaving away to become Dr. Courtland. Besides, I think we could make this a really good bar. Sandy and I were talking about partnering up and then when everything happened, she decided she was ready to retire. I jumped at the chance to buy the place, and she’s been happy to help with the transition. This place was her baby, so she was glad you were taking her place.”

  Liz hugged Kirby and without a word switched off the light and headed back to the party. Kirby followed, making a stop at the jukebox to pop in a few quarters and Liz noticed that Kirby had upgraded the jukebox, too. The old box was one that was there when Sandy bought the bar and shifted it from an old Goth bar; she refused to spend any money updating the old jukebox. Kirby made the purchase of a new one his first order of business. Gone were the old 45s from the early 80s and 90s and in their place was a sleek, video jukebox with updated music.

  Liz felt a kind of nostalgia about the old machine, but she was glad for the music update. She wouldn’t have been able to stand hearing the same songs that were her work soundtrack for years and that later were used by Wren in her antics at the bar in those few crazed weeks before she killed Alex.

  Chapter Seven

  Even though she had a small shop in her home where she saw clients, Marie Garnier still made house calls, but now only once a week and only to her oldest and most frail clients. Christophe drove his grandmother from one house to another, starting fairly early and finishing late in the afternoon. He often took a book to read in the car while he waited on her to complete appointments. When his mother was alive, she drove and went in with her, as did Vivienne. Now, his grandmother made the rounds alone, even though she would sometimes conspire with the old ladies she did hair for to have him meet their granddaughters, but he was never truly interested and the fix ups never worked. Despite the respect they obviously held for his grandmother, her clients seemed to think their family too good to marry into the family of an old hairdresser who passed out trinkets and gris-gris bags no matter who she was descended from.

  Christophe stared at his grandmother as she stood at the door of her last client of the day. He watched the two old women at the door, the client beaming at his grandmother, their hands clasped in friendship. He could imagine the sweet mumblings between them. “Don’t forget to put that in Evelyn’s tea” his grandmother would say, or “Put this under John’s bed and you’ll have a grandson soon enough.” She dispensed such wisdom and special gris-gris not only on house calls on Wednesdays, but also when women came to her shop. She was still quite beautiful, even though she worried she was getting too old. He wondered what his mother might have looked like if she were alive now.

  Christophe was the second child of Marie Rosalie Garnier. His sister Vivienne was the first child. His mother disobeyed the rules by insisting that her first born girl not have Marie as her first name. A small rebellion (she did give her Marie as her middle name), but a rebellion none the less.

  His memories of Rosalie were good ones, other than those where she fought with her own mother, his grandmother. His mother’s arguments with her mother were similar to the arguments Vivienne was now having with her. Christophe was far more reserved with his challenges to her authority. She placed far more value on what the women in her life said to her; he was useful, but not necessary.

  Local legends claimed that Marie Laveau, Christophe’s distant relative, did not die. Her daughter Marie not only took her place as the Queen of Voodoo, but locals even claimed that the older Marie somehow became the younger.

  The rumors were more than idle talk. In fact, the ritual was carried out over subsequent generations, the first born daughter groomed from birth to take her mother’s place. The first performance of this feat was with the original Marie and her daughter. In 1881 when Marie died rumors immediately began to circulate that a “new” Marie was seen at ceremonies at Lake Pontchartrain on St. John’s Eve. The witnesses swore to interviewers during the Louisiana Writers’ Project that it was the real Marie, not a daughter
or other imitator. Of course no one on the outside of Voodoo culture believed it, but those on the inside knew there was some level of truth in the tale. There were too many witnesses who spoke to LWP workers about it to have just been a tale. Besides, Marie’s power was unlike anyone else’s. She was rumored to have walked on water and to have freed prisoners and fixed trials. The house on St. Ann’s was hers because of such work. A wealthy man with family troubles came to her for help and in payment he’d provided her with the home. This case lived on in local folklore, as Marie managed the release through prayer at St. Louis Cathedral, the same Cathedral where the family still attended mass. She died in that house, supposedly. Even though that clay and moss cottage was torn down in 1903 and a new structure placed there, true devotees still sought out the spot, as did tour groups.

  Marie’s tradition of designating her first born daughter to replace her continued uninterrupted until Marie Rosalie, Christophe’s and Vivienne’s mother. Even as a young girl, Rosalie was defiant, refusing to attend Mass, which her mother insisted was so important for them both to attend as a way to stay in touch with local politics. Rosalie also refused to marry, even though as far as her children knew she had only been with their father. He was a married man. Their mother did not insist he leave his wife and marry her. Rosalie knew from the beginning her time on earth would be brief, and she refused to allow her mother to have the man she loved. If Rosalie couldn’t keep her life her own, she refused to let Marie take it.

  When the time came for the older Marie to consider retirement, she tried to pass the mantle on to her daughter. It was shortly after Rosalie got her first referral of a major client that she hung herself. Christophe realized that her death was some ten years ago—right after Vivienne’s 18th birthday. Vivienne soon moved away to attend college and Rosalie felt the impending shift coming. He resented his mother a bit for not getting help or at least waiting until he was old enough to move out, but mostly he just missed her.