I gasped and backed into Jack's arms. "She's drawing him the way I've seen him in countless nightmares."

"It must be her nightmare too, then," he said.

Finally she lowered her arms and took a small step back. She looked at the picture and whispered, "I'm sorry."

She then dropped the charcoal and started to lift the canvas.

Jack stepped forward quickly. "Let me help you, Madame Andreas," he said.

She looked at him, smiled softly, and nodded. He lifted the canvas from the easel.

"What are we going to do now, Jack?" I asked. "We'll do what she wants," he replied. "Go on. Help her along."

I took Mommy's elbow and gently turned her toward the doorway.

"Thank you, dear," she said, but kept her eyes forward as we followed Jack out of the studio, down the stairs, and out of the house, moving with funereal slowness.

"I know where Paul Tate is buried," Jack told me. We continued around the side of the house. Jack held the flashlight so the beam parted the darkness and provided a path for us to the iron-gated cemetery that contained a single tomb. In the glow of Jack's flashlight, it looked ghoulishly yellow instead of gray. Uncle Paul's name and dates were engraved on the granite, as was his epitaph: "Tragically lost but not forgotten."

Mommy paused at the entrance and turned to Jack and me. "Thank you," she said. "But I must be alone now."

"I understand, madame," Jack said and handed her the canvas. I was deeply impressed with his understanding and sensitivity.

My mother took the canvas and entered the small graveyard.

Jack stepped back and reached for my hand. We waited and watched.

Mommy knelt at the tomb and lowered her head. She said a silent prayer and then laid the canvas against the stone. She looked up at the stars. Her shoulders shook with her sobs, and then she seemed to gather new strength before producing a book of matches.

Carefully she lit one and held it to the corner of the canvas. It took a while, but the flame finally leaped from the match to the dried material. The flame grew, consuming the canvas, traveling up toward the picture of Uncle Paul. Mommy remained there, staring into the flames. The smoke curled upward until it was caught by a breeze and carried into the night. Soon the canvas was burning fully, the flames so bright they illuminated the tomb and its surroundings. Mommy looked like part of the fire for a moment, and then, as quickly as it had exploded into a small conflagration, it began to dwindle. The canvas collapsed into ashes and sparks near the stone tomb. When it looked nearly burned out, Jack released my hand and stepped into the fenced graveyard. I followed.

He knelt down to take my mother's arms and help her to her feet.

"It's time to go now, madame," Jack said. "It's over."

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. It's over."

"Mommy?"

Slowly she turned and, like one emerging from a deep sleep, gazed at me and realized who I was. Her face softened into a happy smile. "Pearl, my darling, Pearl."

"Mommy," I cried and embraced her. We held each other for a long moment. My body shook with sobs against her, and she stroked my hair gently, kissing my forehead. I straightened up and wiped the tears from my eyes and cheeks, smiling. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, dear. I'm all right."

"We've got to go home, Mommy. We've got to get back to Daddy and Pierre. Pierre needs you desperately. He thinks you blame him for what happened to Jean, and the doctors say that's why he won't come out of his catatonic state."

She nodded, thoughtful. And then she looked at Jack, really noticing him for the first time.

"This is Jack Clovis, Mommy. He's helped me, helped us."

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said.

Jack nodded. "Let me continue to help you, madame. Come to my trailer and freshen up for your journey home," he suggested.

"That's very kind of you, monsieur." She gazed back at the tomb where the sparks continued to die. She sighed deeply, took one step forward, a contented smile on her face, and then collapsed into Jack's quick arms.

I gasped. He lifted her as easily as he had lifted me. "She's all right," he said. "She's just exhausted. Let's get her to the trailer."

He carried her to the car and put her in the front seat. I sat beside her, keeping her head on my shoulder until we reached the trailer. She was already regaining consciousness when we brought her in and set her down on the sofa. I put a cold washcloth over her forehead, and Jack got her some cold water. Her eyes continued to flutter and close, flutter and close. Finally, they remained open, but she looked very confused.

"You're all right, Mommy. You're safe now."

"Where am I?" she asked gazing around.

I explained and she drank some water.

"I don't even know what day it is," she said. "I've lost all track of time."

"When did you last eat, Madame Andreas?" Jack asked her. She couldn't recall, so he made her some tea and toast. As she ate and drank, her strength began to return and, with it, her memory.

"I knew you had come to fetch me," she said. "I saw you in the mansion one night, but I couldn't let you find me yet. I still hadn't gotten the answer from Grandmère Catherine."

"Where did you stay all this time, Mommy? We searched and searched for you."

"In the beginning, I was here," she said, and I realized that was when Jack had seen the candlelight. "I spent some time in the old shack, too, but one day, a dreadful man came after me, as if he knew I had come home. I hid from him, but he went on a rampage and wrecked the shack, so I fled to another empty shack."

"It was Buster Trahaw."

"Yes," she said. "How did you know?"

I told her some of what had happened, leaving out the most gruesome details, but she was very troubled.

"I was the cause of so much torment and agony," she said, her lips quivering.

"No, you weren't, Mommy. It's not your fault, if the evil intention isn't in your heart. You can't keep the evil out of everyone else's heart. Buster Trahaw was a horrible person and would have tormented someone else if he'd had the chance."

"He probably did," Jack suggested. "Many times before."

"Even so," Mommy said. "If I hadn't run off and you hadn't had to come after me . . ."

"It's over and done, Mommy. Let's not dwell on the past. We have bigger problems facing us," I said and told her more about Pierre's condition and how Daddy had broken his leg and was laid up in the house.

"We should get started right away," she said struggling to sit up. "They need us."

"I think you should get some sleep, madame. Morning's not far off and you can leave as soon as you wake," Jack said. "You won't do anyone any good if you're exhausted," he added.

Mommy smiled. "You have found a very sensible young man, Pearl," she said.

I looked at Jack and smiled. "I know."

Mommy's eyes were filled with awareness when I looked at her. She turned from me to Jack and then to me again. Then she nodded softly, closed her eyes, and lowered her head to the pillow. A few moments later she was in a deep sleep. I rose from the sofa and Jack came over to put his arm around me as we gazed down at her.

"I think the worst is over for her," he said. "The past is finally buried."

"But what about the future, Jack?"

"I don't know. No one does. You will just do the best you can and hope," he said.

I lowered my head to his shoulder. "I couldn't have done this without you. Thank you."

He kissed the tip of my nose, and I opened my eyes to gaze into his.

"You don't need to thank me," he said. "Let's go back to sleep so we can be of some use tomorrow."

After I made sure Mommy was comfortable and snug, Jack and I returned to bed, and I snuggled up in his arms.

"Jack," I said after a long, quiet moment.

"Yes?"

"Do you believe in the things my mother believes in? Do you think she heard my great-grandmère's voice at her grave?"

"I know I risk your thinking less of me," he replied, "but yes, I do."

I thought for a moment. "I don't think less of you, Jack."

"That's good. And I don't think less of you if you don't," he added. I laughed.

Then I thought about it and said, "I wouldn't be happy if you did." He held me tighter.

We didn't have to say anymore. Our bodies and our minds spoke silently to each other. I closed my eyes, upset that I wouldn't be secure in his arms again tomorrow and fearful of what the next day in New Orleans would bring.

I doubted that the worst was over.


16

  The Real Thing

Despite her fatigue, Mommy rose before either Jack or I did. We heard her moving about, and then I heard her call for me. I got up quickly and rushed out to her. She wore a distraught and confused expression.

"It all seems like one long nightmare," she said and then, like one who had woken from more than just a night's sleep, she firmly added, "We must get home."

"Good morning, Madame Andreas," Jack said, emerging from the bedroom. Mommy glanced at me oddly for a moment.

"You remember Jack, Mommy."

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm just so mixed up this morning. Good morning," she said.

"Did you sleep all right on that sofa? It's very comfortable. I've fallen asleep on it often," he said, smiling.

Mommy's lips relaxed. "I slept in places a lot less comfortable in the last few days," she said.

"How about some breakfast? I'll make coffee," Jack suggested.

"We've got to go," Mommy said, almost in a whisper to me.

"First, put something in your stomach, Madame Andreas. You'll need your strength," Jack insisted. "Yes," Mommy said. "We will."