by Betsy Draine
It was the summer of 1890. We lived in Paris then. When school ended, Papa would send us all to Auvers-sur-Oise to escape the heat. We used to swim in the river and enjoy the cool evenings in the pleasant town, which was close enough to the city so Papa could come up by train and stay the weekend. That’s what the husbands did. The mothers and children stayed all summer and the fathers visited on the weekends. So there were other boys my age from Paris, and I fell in with them. There were two brothers I remember well, René and Gaston Secrétan. Gaston was older than most of us. A shy boy, he often kept to himself. His younger brother, René, I can see now, was a bit of an oaf. But at the time, we all followed him around. He was brash and boastful. Girls liked him—at that age they don’t know better—so we followed his lead. What was he, sixteen, like me? In some ways he acted older, in others just the opposite. For instance, he had an American cowboy outfit that he wore all the time, with fringes and a big hat. That year, or maybe the year before, Buffalo Bill had come to Paris with his Wild West show. Cowboys and red Indians were all the rage. René even had a gun, an old pistol that he got somewhere, and he went around shooting birds and rabbits, pretending they were savages. Of course, we all wanted a turn with that pistol. That damned gun. That was the start of everything.
3
I SLEPT BADLY and awoke before six, while Toby, my personal ten o’clock scholar, burrowed deeply under the duvet. I decided to take a soothing soak in the claw-footed tub. French bathtubs can be surprisingly deep. I’m too short to make a graceful leg-swing over a rim that high. So I backed my way in, holding tightly to both sides. I was glad to splash in without an embarrassing fall that would require calling for help. The foot and a half of hot water relaxed my tight muscles. When the water grew tepid, thoughts of Isabelle’s drowning made me shiver. I made the effort to climb awkwardly over the stile of a rim and into the comfort of a bathroom heated by towel warmers.
Before seven, I was down the stairs and out into—the dark. I had forgotten it was almost the winter solstice. But I was glad I’d ventured out. From the hotel terrace outside the front door, the walls of Saint-Paul glowed like fire, the effect of deftly placed spotlights. The tower at the top of the town was even more brightly lit. Four stars still pierced the inky sky. I was starting to make out the buildings as a faint light began to gather. I love the words “dawn” and “l’aube.” In whatever language, the experience of dawn is indescribable. I was glad I hadn’t slept through this one, and I wanted to watch the sun rise over the village. It was chilly, though, and I had that massive hunger that hits the second morning after an overnight flight.
Turning toward the hotel entrance marked by footlights like candles, I saw Maggie and Emmet on their way back from a potty trot in the dark. She called to me and we agreed to share a breakfast table. Toby would arrive at the last minute, I was sure. Sister Glenda said she and Angie would come down at eight so they’d have time for morning prayers.
Since Maggie and I were the first customers, we had our choice of tables and took one looking out at Saint-Paul. So I could see the sun rise and the lamps go out. At that early hour we had the complete attention of the waitress, who showed us how to boil our own eggs, plunging them into a hot-water machine and timing them with a little rack of sandglasses—three, four, and five minutes.
While we waited for our eggs to cook and our croissants to arrive, I poured myself coffee and Maggie steeped her tea. We didn’t say much. We were tongue-tied by the death the night before.
I tried my best. “Did you sleep well?”
“I was shattered last night. Thank God, I slept like a seal on the strand.”
“Not me. More like a goldfish gasping for air.”
In friendly silence, we fetched our boiled eggs and sat down to eat. Halfway through my croissant, slathered with apricot jam, I recovered sociability. “Emmet’s up early. For a hungry dog, he’s behaving well.”
“Routine is everything, for children and for dogs. Even on the road, Emmet is served Royal Canine bits in gravy at six thirty sharp. He wolfs them down and then wants his walk.”
“Where do you get the gravy?”
“It’s like beef bouillon powder. You add water and stir.”
“Marvelous. I’m glad to start the day with you both.”
“You won’t be, when he starts breaking wind. The lad has a toot like a foghorn. Brutal.”
Under other circumstances, I would have spluttered my coffee laughing, but I was too heavyhearted for that. Maggie was more resilient. As other guests arrived, she commented slyly on their appearance and gestures. Some were from our conference, but it was a couple we didn’t know who got a roasting from Maggie. I guess she didn’t want to skewer our colleagues thoroughly until she knew me better.
“Will your gorgeous sister grace us with her presence this morning?” she asked.
“My gorgeous sister is praying with Sister Glenda at the moment.” Maggie gave a wry look, as if to say, “Oh, really?”
I tried to explain. “I know Angie doesn’t look like the religious type, but she is.”
“Religious enough to shut herself up in a cold convent, far away from handsome young men?”
“That’s just the problem. She’s religious, but not ascetic. I don’t know if this convent thing can last.”
“From the sound of her craic with that fine gendarme, I doubt it.” Maggie gnawed on her second croissant.
It took me a second to recall that in Ireland craic means a bit of good fun. “Did it sound as much like flirting as it looked?”
“I’ll say. Eloise and Abelard couldn’t be more cozy. Of course, we’re hoping that what happened to Abelard won’t happen to the manly sergeant.” Abelard ended up minus his male equipment.
“Eloise stayed in the convent, though, didn’t she? Maybe Angie will too.” I sighed, pouring myself another cup.
“What makes a lively girl like her want to give herself away to praying with a bunch of daft nuns?” she asked. “Your Sister Glenda excepted, of course.”
“Glenda’s nuns aren’t the kind we grew up with. They’ve broken away from the Vatican and own their own convent. They’re ecumenical. And their mission is supporting the education of low-income women. Glenda teaches at a community college and lectures on daytime television.”
“And what about the lovely Angie? What will she do?” Maggie refreshed her tea.
“As work? I’m not sure. She’s been a model and then a hairdresser, so she doesn’t exactly have experience for the mission. But Angie’s inventive. She volunteered to spruce up poor women to help them prepare for job interviews, and the nuns liked that.”
Maggie scooped some raspberry jam from its little pot. “That’s grand! But couldn’t she do that without taking those terrible vows of chastity and poverty?” She spread the jam on her croissant.
“I don’t know. I have to say, I can’t see Angie sticking to those vows. She loves fancy finery, and I can’t keep track of how many boyfriends she’s had. The trouble is, she has the worst taste in men. She’s found every sleaze in Massachusetts and had her heart broken by him. Married men, potheads, con artists, crooks, would-be crooks. It’s too depressing to talk about.”
“So she’s putting herself behind bars to ward off temptation?”
“I’m afraid that’s part of it. And there’s another thing.” I put down my cup. “I think she needs mothering. You see how happy she is under Sister Glenda’s wing?”
“Have you lost your mother, then?”
“Not at all, she’s alive and well. But she doesn’t do much mothering. Not the conventional kind. Mom’s funny, smart, well read, curious about the world. She’s everything you’d want a friend to be. But she’s not very maternal. Angie and I love Mom to pieces, but I think Angie missed having that warm, protective doting that little kids need.”
“Are you not asking for a saint of a mother?” She munched the last of her croissant and dusted her hands.
“Maybe. Maybe Angie is too. Having a mo
ther superior—in more than one sense of the word—may be just what she wants.”
“Speak of the devil, here she comes now.” Maggie put down her napkin and grabbed for Emmet’s leash. She gave me a wink and said, “Why not have a family meeting? I’m off.”
Angie came in without Sister Glenda. Fresh from her morning prayer, she looked like one of Perugino’s angels. When she worked at the beauty salon, she wore her blonde hair long, with highlights added, just to make sure she signaled sexual allure. For the convent, Angie cut her hair short to the chin and stopped adding highlights. Being Angie, she looked just as beautiful in a different way. The untreated hair was gold and wavy and glowed like a halo.
She slid into the chair vacated by Maggie and asked, “Can you stay for a little? Glenda’s not coming down for a while.”
“Of course. I guess she’s going over her talk.”
“She did that earlier. Now she’s on e-mail. Some trouble back home.”
“I hope nothing serious.”
“One of the sisters is sick. She doesn’t want to see the doctor. Glenda’s such a good mother superior. She’s got each of us in mind, all the time.”
I couldn’t pass that one up. “If she’s got you in mind all the time, what do you suppose she thinks of the way you were snuggling up to that gendarme last night? You were, you know.”
“You mean Roe-bare?”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Sergeant Navré. His first name is Roe-bare.”
“Ah. Robert. And what does he call you? On-jee? Or Sister-in-Training Barnes?”
“You don’t have to be snarky,” she said, but she was blushing.
“Sorry. What’s up with you and him? Do nuns at Grace Quarry have flirting rights?”
“We were just having a little fun. And besides, I’m not a nun yet.”
“But you’re considering it. Has Sister Glenda talked to you about having a little fun with the sergeant?”
“No. And there isn’t anything to talk about. You’re always the big sister, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am,” I admitted.
Angie poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe in front of her and dug a croissant out of the basket. She topped off her coffee with warm milk, dunked one end of the croissant in her cup, and took a bite, scattering flakes on the table.
“You and Sister Glenda seem to be getting on well,” I continued. “Is she more reserved with you at the convent?”
“Oh, no. Glenda wouldn’t know how to be reserved with the garbageman. She makes it a home for everyone.”
“So you feel at home there?”
“Absolutely. In a way, more than I do at home. Don’t get me wrong. Home is great. I still love the family.”
“You scared me there. I didn’t think that going to the convent would mean leaving us behind.”
“It doesn’t, but I think I need to get away to really grow up—not because I don’t want to see you. It’s my role at home. That’s what I’ve got to ditch.” She looked at me with a firm set to her jaw, which was something new.
“What do you mean, your role at home? Everyone loves you.”
“Thanks, but it’s not much of an identity. To Eddie, I’m Angie the airhead. To you, I’m Angie the kid sister. Need I go on?” I raised a hand, admitting defeat. “I need time away so I can figure out who I am, at the core. And I need to know that, in order to see what should come next.”
“You mean, whether you’ll take final vows.”
“Yes, but more than that. It’s what everybody needs to do—you had to do that, didn’t you?”
“I suppose. But do you really need to leave the family to do it?”
“You did. You went away to college, to the other side of the state, just when I needed you, when Mom got sick. Then you went away to grad school in California, and then you stayed there and got married.” These were the facts and an accusation that caught me off guard.
We fell silent. Finally I said, “You thought I deserted you. Is that how you felt?”
“Of course I did.” Angie reached across the table and gripped my wrist. “I was five years old, and the most important person in my life just disappeared. Mom was in no shape to notice I was sad, and, hey, Dad and Eddie are men. They were clueless. They made me stay at home to keep Mom company.” She let go and sat back in her chair.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Angie. I didn’t realize. I just wanted to get out there in the world.”
“I know that now. But when I was a kid, I didn’t like it. I thought you should’ve stayed home. You could have gone to the community college in Gloucester.”
“Dad wanted me to, you know. It wouldn’t have worked. I would have felt smothered staying at home.”
“Right.” She raised an eyebrow conclusively.
“So you’ve forgiven me?”
“That’s not the point. The point is that I need to do what you did. I need to get away.”
“You’re not going very far away to do it. Mom and Dad are about fifteen minutes from Grace Quarry.”
“It’s not a matter of distance. I’ll see the family as often as you did when you were in school. Holidays, birthdays, vacations.”
I took her point. “I guess you’re right. Even now I see you guys maybe four times a year.”
“And we make the most of it. Wasn’t it great when I visited you in Bodega Bay? And this is awesome, being in France with you and Toby.”
I felt my eyes welling up.
“Come on,” she said. “Chin up. We’ve got an audience.” Glenda was coming in the door. After a few words about the egg machine and the perfect croissants, I left them to their breakfast and climbed the winding stone staircase to our room, shaking my head at my ever-surprising sister and brooding over some of my own life decisions.
By ten past nine, the conference participants and the tagalongs were milling about the terrace, waiting for the shuttles to arrive. Precisely on time, they pulled up, halted abruptly, and opened their doors for our entry. As we careened down the drive, we caught views of the ramparts of Saint-Paul crisply defined by the morning sun. Once on the main road, we skirted the village and noticed for the first time the slopes below, dotted with houses in spite of their steepness. It was only five minutes before we reached our destination.
Nestled in a pine grove in the hills, the Maeght Foundation, with its façade of sand-colored bricks and soaring, white pagoda-style roof, looks like an emperor’s dream. In actuality, the museum was the creation of a well-connected art dealer, Aimé Maeght, who moved to Saint-Paul in 1950 with his wife, Marguerite, and their son Bernard, who suffered from leukemia. When the boy died, loyal friends proposed a museum to honor Bernard’s memory, and to fill it, they volunteered to donate their own works. These weren’t just any friends. They included Braque, Bonnard, Miró, Chagall, and other luminaries, all of whom had been helped by the Maeghts in their struggling years. As a result, the museum has one of the world’s premier collections of modern art.
The shuttles dropped us outside the museum grounds at the start of a tree-lined path that led through a sculpture garden featuring works by the modern greats. The primary colors of Calder and Miró danced in the sun. At the main entrance, statues of little green men stood in a fountain, squirting water from their male appendages. I would have laughed, but my chest was still heavy with the murder and my worries about Angie.
Montoni, who was fussing about keeping on schedule, led us inside. We followed him up a short flight of stairs, which brought us to a large, light-filled room where folding chairs and a lectern had been set up for our sessions. We’d been given space in the “town hall,” the heart of the museum, where works from the permanent collection are shown. For the next week, we would be surrounded by treasures of modern art bathed in natural light by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at evergreens and distant hills. Shades could be lowered for PowerPoint or slide projections.
The session was late getting under way. Montoni began by apologizing for the
delay and then blathered on with platitudes about the shocking death of Isabelle La Font. Next he announced the revised schedule. Bruce Curry, who was pacing about with a distracted air, would speak first today, followed by Sister Glenda. Curry’s talk was called “Plants and Art: The Role of Foxglove in the Paintings of Van Gogh.” But there was a problem, Montoni said. Professor Curry had brought with him dried samples of the foxglove plant for purposes of demonstration, but the sack in which he carried the sprigs was missing. Had anyone seen it? No hands went up. “Professor Curry tells me these herbs can be dangerous. However, I’ll let him explain.” Montoni proceeded to deliver a canned introduction and took his seat. Then Curry, with jittery steps, replaced him at the lectern.
Bruce Curry had fluffy brown hair with gray tufts over each ear, in one of which he wore a hearing aid. Added to that, his round-rimmed glasses and weak chin gave him an owlish appearance. As he began to speak, his head jerked slightly. “I don’t know who thought it would be amusing to steal the foxglove from my room, but it’s not amusing to me, I assure you.” He peered over his glasses accusingly. “In fact, it was a childish thing to do.” People in the audience exchanged glances. This was not the typical way to begin a scholarly talk. “In case you don’t know it, digitalis is a powerful drug. Foxglove is loaded with it. So if I were you, I wouldn’t fool around with it. In fact, if I were you . . .” Here he started stammering, then bowed over, coughing.
Montoni fetched him a glass of water. Curry took a few gulps and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Montoni patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sure all of us are upset by the events of last night,” Montoni said. “That’s understandable. If anyone does know the whereabouts of Professor Curry’s plants, please let me know after the session, and I’ll see that they’re returned without revealing the source. Now, then. Are you able to proceed, Professor?”
Curry nodded. “Thank you. Indeed, I am upset. Someone here wants to spoil my talk, but I apologize for berating the group as a whole. Please bear with me.” He fiddled with his hearing aid, then shuffled his papers and began again. Once he started reading, he appeared to regain his composure. His prepared text steadied him, and soon his voice became measured.
