Part 22 (1/2)
”What happened to Evangeline?”
”I never saw her again.”
”What did they tell you?”
”She ran away. I didn't ask about the blood or whether she was hurt. She wasn't there and I had to go back to the Landrys.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
”I was eight years old.” Obeline's voice was trembling now. ”There were no safe zones or child abuse counselors back then. Kids had no one to talk to.”
”I understand.”
”Do you? Do you know what it's like to live with such a secret?” Tears broke from her eyes. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she wiped them away, blew her nose, and tossed the wad onto the table. ”Do you know how it feels to lose everyone you love at such a young age?”
Images competed for my attention. Evangeline reading by the light of my Girl Scout flashlight. Evangeline spreading peanut b.u.t.ter on graham crackers. Evangeline caped in a beach towel, off to rescue her lover. Kevin. Daddy. Hippo's girl, long dead, lying in my lab.
Crossing to Obeline, I squatted, and placed my hands on her knees. I felt trembling in her legs, caught the soft scent of muguet. muguet. Lily of the Valley. Lily of the Valley.
”I do,” I whispered. ”Really, I do.”
She wouldn't look at me. I dropped my eyes, unwilling to intrude on the ravaged face.
We sat a moment, heads bowed, a frozen tableau of grief. Watching tears darken her skirt in small, perfect circles, I wondered how much to reveal.
Should I tell her about the young girl's bones? Could I have been off in my estimate of Hippo's girl's age? Could she have been as old as sixteen?
This woman had lost her mother, sister, and grandfather almost at once. Her father had abandoned her. Her husband had beaten, then left her, then tried to burn her to death. Mentioning the skeleton might raise hopes that would later be dashed.
No. I wouldn't compound her pain. I would wait until I was certain.
And now that was possible.
”I'm very tired.” Obeline pulled another tissue, dabbed her lower lids.
”Let me help you to bed.”
”No. Please. The gazebo.”
”Of course.”
Harry stood. ”May I use the ladies'?”
I translated.
Obeline answered without raising her head. ”Through the kitchen. Through the bedroom.”
I translated again, then c.o.c.ked my chin at Obeline's soft drink. Harry nodded, understanding my silent direction.
Arm-wrapping Obeline's waist, I eased her to her feet. She allowed herself to be supported through the kitchen, over the deck, and across the yard. At the gazebo, she stepped away and said good-bye.
I was turning to go, when a sudden thought stopped me.
”May I ask one more question?”
Obeline gave a half nod, wary.
”Evangeline worked as a maid. Do you know where?”
Her response stunned me.
18.
”D ROIT ICI ROIT ICI .” R .” RIGHT HERE.
”In Tracadie?”
”In this house.”
”In this house?” I was too shocked to do other than ape her words. I was too shocked to do other than ape her words.
Obeline nodded.
”I don't understand.”
”Evangeline worked for my husband's father.”
”Hilaire Bastarache.”
Something flicked in her eyes. Surprise at the extent of my knowledge?
”The Landry and Bastarache families have been linked for generations. My father's father and his brothers helped my husband's grandfather, Simeon, build this house. When Mama got sick, my husband's father offered Evangeline a job. Hilaire was a widower and knew nothing about laundry or cleaning. She needed work.”
”Ten years later you married his son.”
”David was generous, paid my support after Evangeline was gone. Visited me. His father died in 1980. He proposed. I accepted.”
”You were sixteen. He was thirty.”
”It was my only option.”
I found the answer peculiar but let it go.
”You've lived in this house ever since?”