Bones to Ashes

I clicked off. I knew it was rude and ungrateful. Knew I would later send flowers or cognac. At that moment I didn’t want more talk.

The poems were all by Évangéline, and some were recent.

Down the hall, a door opened. The argument between Homer and Marge grew louder.

At least one poem was written after September 2001.

The argument concerned a trip to Vermont. Homer wanted to drive. Marge preferred flying.

I sat motionless, paralyzed by the implications of Rob’s findings.

Évangéline was alive in 2001. She had not been murdered decades ago.

Bart and Lisa joined the debate, advocating a motor-home holiday.

Obéline had lied about Évangéline dying in 1972. Why?

Was she truly mistaken? Of course not, she had the poems. She must have known approximately when they were written.

A murmured giggle augered into my musings. I looked up. The room was empty, but a shadow crossed the floor at the doorway.

“Cecile?” I called out softly.

“Can you tell where I am?”

“I think”—I paused, as if unsure—“you’re in the closet.”

“Nope.” She hopped into the doorway.

“Where is Obéline?”

“Cooking something.”

“You’re bilingual, aren’t you, sweetie?”

She looked confused.

“You speak both French and English.”

“What does that mean?”

I took another tack.

“Can we chat, just you and me?”

“Oui.” She joined me at the table.

“You like word games, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“How does it work?”

“Say a word that describes things and I’ll make it round.”

“Gros,” I said, air-puffing my cheeks.

She screwed up her face. “You can’t do that one.”

“Why not?”

“Just can’t.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Words make pictures inside my head.” She stopped, frustrated with her inability to clarify. Or with my inability to understand.

“Go on,” I encouraged.

“Some words look flat, and some words look crookedy.” Scrunching her eyes, she demonstrated “flat” and “crookedy” with her hands. “Flat words you can make round by adding o at the end. I like those. You can’t do that with crookedy words.”

Clear as a peat bog.

I thought about my initial exchange with Claudine. The girl spoke a jumbled Franglais, seemingly unaware of the boundaries between French and English. I wondered what conceptual framework divided flat from crookedy words. “Sparkly” and drôle were obviously flat. Gros was crookedy.

“Fat.” I tried my initial word in English.

The green eyes sparkled. “Fat-o.”

“Happy.”

She shook her head.

“Fort.”

“Nooo. That one’s crookedy, too.”

“Fierce,” I said, baring my teeth and curling my fingers in a mock monster threat.

“Fierce-o.” Giggling, she mimicked my fierceness.

Whatever semantic ordering her mind had created would remain forever a mystery to me. After a few more exchanges, I changed topics.

“Are you happy here, Cecile?”

“I guess.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Smiled. “But I like the other place, too. It has big birds on poles.”

The house in Tracadie. She’d probably been there when Harry and I dropped in.

“Can you remember where you were before you lived with Obéline?”

The smile collapsed.

“Does thinking about that place make you sad?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“Can you describe it?”

She shook her head.

“Was someone mean to you?”

Claudine’s sneaker made tiny squeaks as her knee jittered up and down.

“Was it a man?” Softly.

“He made me take off my clothes. And.” The jittering intensified. “Do things. He was bad. Bad.”

“Do you remember the man’s name?”

“Mal-o. He was bad. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t.”

“But he gave me something cool. I kept it. Want to see?”

“Perhaps later—”

Ignoring my reply, Claudine shot from the room. In seconds she was back carrying a woven leather circle decorated with feathers and beads.

“It’s magic. If you hang it over your bed you’re sure to have good dreams. And—”

“Why are you harassing Cecile?”

Claudine and I both turned at the sound of Obéline’s voice.

“We’re having a chat,” Claudine said.

“There are apples on the counter.” Obéline never shifted her scowl from my face. “If you peel them we can make a pie.”

“OK.”

Twirling her dream catcher, Claudine stepped past Obéline and disappeared. In moments, the sound of singing drifted down the hall. “Fendez le bois, chauffez le four. Dormez la belle, il n’est point jour.”

I translated the child’s tune in my head. Chop the wood, heat the oven. Sleep, pretty one, it’s not daytime yet.

“How dare you,” Obéline hissed.

“No, Obéline. How dare you?”

“She has the mind of an eight-year-old child.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about children.” My tone was polar. “Let’s talk about your sister.”

All color drained from her face.

“Where is she?”

“I’ve told you.”

“You’ve told me lies!”

Slamming both palms on the table, I leapt to my feet. My chair capsized and hit the floor like the crack of a gun.

“Évangéline wasn’t murdered,” I said, tone as hard as my expression. “At least she didn’t die at sixteen.”

“That’s nonsense.” Obéline’s voice wavered like an audiotape that’s been overplayed.