Bones to Ashes

“I’ve never been less sure about anything in my life. But I’m sure of one thing. I owe it to my daughter to try. I can’t see her destroyed while I just stand by.”

I needed fresh air.

I didn’t offer reassurance. Or another Streisand line. Or a hug.

Molding my face into a smile, I rose and left the restaurant.

I felt leaden, oblivious to the Saturday night revelers with whom I shared the sidewalk. My feet rose, fell, moving me along without sensation. Then they stopped.

I looked up.

Hurley’s.

It wasn’t air that I craved. I’d run toward the old umbilicus. The ruby glow in the long-stemmed glass, the friction on my throat, the heat in my belly. The bullet train to temporary gladness and well-being.

All I had to do was enter and ask.

But I know myself. I am an alkie. The fling wouldn’t be brief. And, inevitably, the euphoria would give way to self-loathing. Hours, perhaps days would be gone from my life.

I reversed my course and went home.

Lying in bed, I felt totally alone in the universe.

My thoughts played like a danse macabre.

Dorothée and Geneviève Doucet, forgotten in an upstairs bedroom.

Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. Anne Girardin. Phoebe Jane Quincy. Vanished, perhaps molested and murdered.

Three young bodies, two bloated and grotesque.

Laurette, abandoned, dead at thirty-four.

My own mother, widowed, neurotic, dead at fifty-seven.

Baby Kevin, dead at age nine months.

A young girl’s skeleton, wrenched from its grave.

Obéline, battered and disfigured.

Évangéline, gone.

Ryan, gone.

At that moment, I hated my job. I hated my life.

The world was wretched.

There were no tears. Only an overwhelming numbness.

15

I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE PHONE. I FELT SLUGGISH AND FLAT and didn’t know why. Then I remembered.

Ryan.

Last night’s numbness reasserted itself. That was good. It got me through the call.

“Good morning, sugar britches.”

Pete never phoned me in Montreal.

Katy! I shot upright.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Katy’s all right?”

“Of course she’s all right.”

“You spoke to her? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What did she say?”

“Buenos días. Chile’s the bomb. Transfer money. Adios.”

Leaning back, I pulled the quilt to my chin.

“How are you?”

“Hunky-dory.”

“Where are you?”

“Charlotte. There’s something I want to tell you.”

“You’re engaged to Paris Hilton.” I was so relieved Katy was safe, I laughed at my own joke. It felt good.

Pete didn’t answer.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.” Devoid of humor.

Apprehension rocketed through my war-torn nerves.

“Pete?”

“Not Paris. Summer.”

Summer?

“You want to get married?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.

“You’ll like her, sugar britches.”

I’ll hate her.

“Where did you meet?” I tried to sound bright.

“At the Selwyn Pub. She looked sad. I bought her a beer. Turned out a puppy had been euthanized that day. She’s a veterinary assistant.”

“How long have you and Summer been dating?”

“Since March.”

“Jesus, Pete.”

“She’s very bright, Tempe. Wants to go to vet school.”

Of course she does.

“How old is Summer?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Pete would soon be waving hello to fifty.

“Three months is pretty quick.”

“Summer wants to tie the knot.” Pete laughed. “What the hell? I’m an old bachelor, kicking around on my own. Don’t forget. You turned me out, babe.”

I swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I’ll handle the filing. Irreconcilable differences. All we need is an agreement on the spoils of empire. We can do the actual dividing later.”

“Not many spoils.”

“North Carolina is a no-fault state, no need for accusations of anything.”

“How soon?” I gave up all pretense at brightness.

“You and I haven’t cohabited for years, so there won’t be any mandatory separation period. Assuming we agree on finances, the divorce should be granted quickly.”

“What’s your time line?” Lifeless.

“We’re thinking about spring. Maybe next May. Summer wants a mountain wedding.”

I pictured Summer. Barefoot, tan, head garlanded with daisies.

“Have you told Katy?”

“Not a topic for the phone. We’ll have a heart-to-heart when she returns from Chile.”

“Has Katy met Summer?”

A slight hitch. “Yes.”

“Not good?”

“Katy finds fault with any woman I date.”

That was untrue. On occasion my daughter talked of her father’s exploits. For some, she felt the attraction was boobs. For others, it was garbonzas. Melons. Jugs. Hooters. A few of the ladies she liked very much.

“It could be awkward,” Pete said. “Summer wants kids. Katy may find that difficult.”

Merciful God.

“I’d like your blessing, sugar britches.”

“Whatever.” The numbness was dissolving like fog in a hot morning sun. I had to hang up.

“You’ll like Summer. Really.”

“Yeah.”

I sat motionless, the dial tone buzz in my ear.

My estranged husband loves women in the way moths love a back-porch bulb. He likes to flirt and hover, drawn, but never willing to settle. I’d learned the hard way. And been burned. Marriage, any marriage, seemed out of character for him. When we’d been in Charleston, before the shooting, he’d seemed to want to explore reconciliation. But now Pete wanted to divorce me, marry Summer, and have babies.