The Saint Louisans (11 page)

“Yes,” Margot took a forkful of cheesecake. She chewed. “Rainer, this is very good. Give my compliments to Anya.”

Rainer nodded.

“Mother,” sighed Pierre, “you invited us here, now don't ignore us.”

Margot's voice deepened into a Margot I hadn't met. “When your father and I needed you … when Lucas …”

Lucas. I tensed. The dead son. Now the butter knives were dropped and scalpels unsheathed.

Pierre stiffened as if slapped. “Stop it, Mom. I won't take the blame for that.”

I didn't like the glint of triumph in Margot's eyes. She'd waited for the waters to grow darker, the ride more dangerous. “Margot,” I said gently, “everyone. Why don't we calm down?”

Terri scowled. “Oh, shut up and stay out of this.” Phoebe angrily nodded.

Pierre nodded as if I was a cat begging for scraps. “It's not your concern, Ms. Bridger.”

Margot took to the offense. “Terri, never insult Lee. She's helping me
die.” Margot let that sink in. “To die with dignity, something neither of you—”

Terri shot up. “We didn't come all this way to be put on a guilt trip, nor to be compared to this …” She angrily gesture to me. “This …”

“Nurse.” I aimed for the helpful, bit it only inflamed.

“Yeah” glimmered Phoebe, her eyes aimed at me. Margot stopped Pierre and Terri's attacks with a lofty stare.

“Both of you want the estate so you can loot it. Both of you want to destroy the mansion. But you see, children, that won't happen. We now have another player.”

“Let me guess,” said Terri, “the missing child. Your first, and you want to hold it over us.”

Ah, I inwardly sighed, their detective's labors. The revelation made Margot rise and assume a triumphant pose, her cold gaze and disconcerting smile showed she'd been waiting for this moment. Rainer snapped to attention.

“Yes, Terri,” said Margot. “Very clever of you to snoop. But you were always one to pry into drawers and closets. And bank accounts.”

“Like you did my diary.”

Rainer concentrated on the portrait across the hall.

Pierre broke in. “Mom, this person … your first child … was before Dad.”

“This person was a ‘her,' Terri, not an ‘it'. Neither of you have any idea what it was like back then, how terrible it was to give up my first baby. How much I missed her over the years, how much I dreamed of being reunited with her.” Margot's voice was bitter. “But no more.” Her voice changed into that serene, reassured way mediums speak at séances “She is with us.”

Now I knew the child was a girl. Then Margot surprised me and took my hand, raising it to the staring relatives.

“Lee, you've finally come home. My baby. My firstborn. This,” she said imperiously, “is your eldest sister. The fortune, the mansion … Lee gets it all.”

Stunned, I almost spilled my water glass. “Margot?”

“No.” She smiled, eyes moist. “Mother.”

Her hand gripped tighter. Pierre and Terri stammered, astonishment
and murder painted across their faces. Rainer bowed to me, no doubt pleased with my open mouth, and spoke.

“Would you like to take your cheesecake home with you?”

Leaves floated, a curtain of bleeding color from trees clustered around the tombstones and angels.

Many angels.

Saul pointed to a slender limestone angel on top of an obelisk. “Is that your favorite?”

“It's okay, but the good ones are up here.” Our feet swished leaves away like icebreakers cutting through floes. Up ahead was the Hilts monument. The angel leaned against the tomb, its wings closed like an arch, its arms folded, chin resting on top of its right hand. Bronze bled down the steps, and the angel seemed to be nodding off. But of course angels of death don't sleep. They wait. Its downcast eyes completed a pensive face, the left hand gripping an out-of-sight slender trumpet. The sky matched the bronze. Clouds a fluffy cumulus, like celestial pastry.

We walked past one of the many circular family sites, tombstones arranged like spokes in a somber wheel whose hub was usually a cenotaph. Saul breathed in crisp air.

“Then what happened?”

“I was astounded. The kids were outraged. Margot was content. Rainer offered shots of cognac. We drained the bottle, and a good time was had by all.” My fingers ran through moderately tousled hair. “I lied about the last. It was pretty bumptious.”

Saul nodded. “Yeah, I'd say bumptious about covers it. You never knew?”

“That I'm a Desouche? Or since I'm illegitimate, a half of one? Never. Not a clue.”

“How does it feel?”

“No elation whatsoever. It's so odd.” I looked off, frowning. “My father and Margot slept together.”

“But she's happy?”

“Yes,” I sighed as we approached my favorite grave. “Contented and serene.” At the grave site, the granite inscription was simple:

I'm still awed to approach Sara. Sara, oh Sara: why did you kill yourself? Why couldn't Clio have penciled me in eighty years ago, so I could be your nurse, and we could have had a nice, long talk?

Saul patted my shoulder. “Go on,” he said with a smile as leaves cracked and swished, “do the bard thing.”

I slowly recited a verse:

This is the spot where I will lie

When life has had enough of me,

These are the grasses that will blow

Above me like a living sea.

Sara, you had seventeen years to go before you did yourself in, but it was on your mind. Not morbidly, like Poe, but you were already considering the options. Or was it seeing past yourself? “Let's go to my angel,” I said.

We strolled past the Wainwright tomb, the most beautiful one in the cemetery, and paused. The limestone mausoleum is classical simplicity, its domed roof a Taj Mahal in miniature. It was designed by Louis Sullivan, the man who created the Wainwright Building downtown, one of the first skyscrapers.

“From the heavens to earth,” Saul said. Always says.

Bellefontaine opened in 1849 because the city boneyards were in the way of urban expansion. Its gates and graves yawned just in time for the cholera epidemic, one so severe church bells were forbidden to toll because of the “injurious effect on the imagination of those touched by the disease, as well as those in sound health.” Losing 145 people in one day would make
anyone's imagination injurious. The epidemic claimed three Desouches.

Our shoes crunched leaves as we approached the Francis tomb, and my angel.

Ahhh.

Another sky blue bronze angel, it offered a slender arm resting on the tomb, hands wrapped around the latch, a calm expression waiting for a cosmic fanfare to open it. The angel's right wing curved against the side as, behind it, another stone needle aims for heaven.

Saul rubbed my shoulder. “Are you happy now?”

“I'm happy, now.”

Before us beckoned the Mississippi. Years ago, the view was clear and serene, but factories and plants have crept along the shore like industrial kudzu. Still, the river's there; she's flowing, and I'm sure the ghosts appreciate it.

“Lee,” said Saul, looking out with me, “Margot's going to leave you the estate.”

“No.”

His frown was dark and immediate. “You're not taking the money?”

“Of course not. It would only embitter the family. I'm here to heal.”

“You're her daughter.”

“In actuality, I'm a daughter on loan. Again.”

“You mean like with Aunt Mary? No. If you don't take it, they'll milk the estate and gut the mansion.”

“You want me to take the money so you can save the mansion?”

Saul shrugged. “Does it sound that bad?”

“Yes.”

“Ok.” Saul raised his hands, “I confess to being an architecture freak. The mansion is one of the city's best; hell, the country's best. Margot wants it saved. It will revive a neighborhood. What's not to like?”

“I have to heal the family.”

The sun beat down. Nearby, lichen-coated tombs were covered with ladybugs. It had to be a good omen. Ladybugs are like that. “Are we going to fight on this?”

“Don't deny yourself a reward.”

I studied a ladybug. “What if it's a temptation?”

“Ah, what's this? Your Presbyterianism coming home to roost?”

“Well, Presbyterians are God's frozen people, but if I was an angel … and I'm sort of one, now … I have to be impartial. Take the long view.”

“Saving the mansion is the long view.”

“Healing them.”

We looked at each other.

There was a rustling to our far right, like pages shuffling in a book. A few dozen yards off, a flock of turkeys streamed past the tombs and angels to wave around thick hickories and maples. The flock vanished in a wooded hollow dipping below us. Since the cemetery is off-limits to hunters, they thrive here. I studied Saul's intelligent, handsome, and, for the moment, avaricious features.

“I'll help, Saul. Truly. First, let me talk to Margot.”

A ladybug landed on my shoulder. The first long shadows of afternoon darkened my angel. Saul took my hand.

“Sure.”

“Talk to her about my father.”

In the backyard of the mansion, Margot sat with a cashmere cardigan in brilliant russet draped over her shoulders. She was like a regal leaf resting in her metal chair. An acorn dropped onto the patio with a silent tap.

“Ike was wonderful,” she said wistfully. “I met him at Lambert Field. Some kind of charity event the Women's League sponsored for McDonnell Douglas, and since I was Veiled Prophet Queen, I was asked to attend. I expected it to be the usual sort of hobnobbing, but there was an air show. Ike flew a jet. A Sabre. It spun and looped,” she chuckled. “We met in the crowd, and he was so heroic and polite. We talked, and it lead to the can-I-buy-you-a-cup-of coffee? sort of thing.”

My smile was more sly than nostalgic. “That was the line he used on Mom.” Mom. That was a loaded word.

“Well,” I folded my arms. “I mean Lena May.” After an awkward pause, I leaned back and admired the grotto. “Why did it end? Were you married to Philip?”

She gazed off, pained. “No, but Ike was married. It was adultery. He
might have left her, but it wouldn't have been right. He wasn't Catholic, and didn't care to convert. It mattered to the family very much.” She sighed. “And to me.”

“What happened when you were pregnant?”

Margot's smile curved down. “I thought my life was over. Momma and Poppa were furious, but they recovered and started the ball rolling. I took a semester off from Fontbonne and went to New Orleans, to relatives who lived near St. Charles Street.” She paused, then offered a contented smile as she looked at her stomach. “As you grew, I bought a ring and told neighbors my husband was in the Air Force. It wasn't a complete lie. So I thought.” She looked up at the maple. “I played being a pilot's wife well, I suppose.”

“Did you ever tell your husband?”

She stared at the row of pansies, full of October bloom. “When Ike was shot down, Philip and I were on the Riviera. I read it in the
International Herald Tribune
, and it was on the radio; a minor international incident for a few days. I'd been on the beach, crying. Philip thought I was depressed over having Terri, but …”

“You had to tell him?” She nodded. “And?”

“He took it rather well, actually. Philip showed no anger or jealousy. He'd been in the Navy. He said these things happened, that none of us have a halo or wings.” She sighed. “Of course he was cheating on me at the time, and probably felt this justified it. Ike's death must have been terrible, though, for you.”

I recalled that day at the air base. Skipping home from base school, seeing the blue sedan parked in front. As I opened the screen door, two officers sat on the sofa facing my blank-faced mom.

“Lee, sweetie: Daddy's not coming home.”

“Why?”

“His jet was shot down by bad men.”

“Bad men?”

“Communists.”

I, she, didn't cry much. Lena obviously cared much less for my father than I knew, but we were also Air Force, and had to be strong.

Blinking back to the present, I smiled. “It was sad. How was the adoption handled? Lena was compliant?”

“Yes. She adored Ike, although the gloss was coming off. She apparently had the eye for other men. Lena was paid well by my parents, and she wanted the money. You know, Ike was considered quite a catch. She did like him. So I was told.”

I thought this explained why Mom got rid of me so easily. Lena May Sikes had indeed married well, and after my father died, she had her widow's pension to reinvent herself. All she needed to do was dump me in St. Louis with the Seven Dwarfs. As it was, she remarried a major and ended up a general's wife. Happy ending. For some of us.

Margot took my hand. “I like it how we resemble each other. I'd seen pictures of you. I see some of Great Grandmother in you.”

Another nod from me. My fairness is certainly more Desouche than Taylor, and there is a faint resemblance to the young Margot of the portrait. The Seven Dwarfs muttering about my not looking like the clan had some basis in fact. Margot looked at me.

“Lee, you will take the estate. It will be my gift to you for what you've suffered.”

I thought: Suffered what? Not having a silver spoon in my mouth? I led a good life, and was brought up well enough by Aunt Mary and Spud. When I fucked up marrying Len, well, he was my fuck-up. I thought of the deeper problem: the wound between parent and children.

“Margot, I don't want to take the wealth away from your—” I paused. “From my brothers and sisters.”

“No.” Margot shifted from caring to vengeful that quick. “Those two will destroy the mansion and the estate. Make no mistake of it. You're a Desouche. The one who must preserve. My little girl, who will fight them for this family's heritage.”