“You can tell me, which might feel good,” Charles said. “Or, you can drown in that fucking awful dress and go wherever it is you think the dead go.”
“Nowhere,” she said, before she could stop herself. “They don’t go anywhere.”
“What makes you so sure? You seeing ghosts now? Did they tell you to wear that dress?”
Maureen smiled. There was no joy in the gesture, only a deep, sardonic disdain that might, just maybe, find relief in the unburdening.
She told him everything.
* * *
Charles didn’t let Maureen go as they walked back to the house. His arm was slipped around her waist, under the jacket he’d draped over her shoulders.
What she’d told him blew his mind. It was fucking bananas. But Maureen didn’t have the imagination for these kinds of lies. And whatever these ghosts had done to her over the years, she’d endured it alone.
He snuck her in the servant’s door and escorted her up the back steps. When he was certain the upstairs hall was empty, he rushed her to her room, so she could change and wash away the craziness of the levee.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he told her as she moved to close the door. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
Maureen smiled, but her eyes were still dark. “We’ll see, Huck.”
* * *
“Mama, can we talk?”
“Now?” Irish Colleen had a dish in each hand and was heading into the formal dining room. “Everyone’s seated at the table now. We’re about to eat.”
“It won’t take long.”
“All right,” she said. She set the dishes aside, but left her hands in the mitts. “What is it, Charles?”
He didn’t know how to find the words. Where to search for them. He’d never been much for anything serious and was convinced he’d said all the wrong things to Maureen, in a moment where he was certain the wrong words could be devastating.
But he would try. He couldn’t lose another sister. Nor could he keep knocking off all the assholes who did them wrong.
“Well?” she asked, impatient. She looked behind her, toward the dining room.
“I want to redeem myself.”
“You what?”
“To redeem myself,” he said, louder this time. “I know I’ve failed the family. I know you think… that I’m a disgrace.”
“Now, dear… that’s not entirely true.”
“It’s true enough. I’ve failed at a lot of things, but there’s one thing I can’t fail at, because I don’t have any choice. I’m the heir, and I need to do better.”
Irish Colleen relaxed a bit. She nodded. “I wasn’t expecting this, I have to say.”
“I know,” Charles said. “But I’m ready to settle down and lead this family, Mama. Tell me what I need to do. Whatever you say, I’ll do it.”
She exhaled and crossed her arms. “I’ve told you before, it’s time for you to be married.”
Charles’ stomach turned. He felt Cat’s soft, warm flesh again, pressed into his as she slept. He saw her eyes flash with pure, unbridled desire as he drove within her. “If that’s what you think is best.”
“I think it’s best. For you too, son. You need something stabilizing. Someone to come home to.” She pulled off a glove and reached for his arm. It was as close to tender as he’d know from her, and it gave him chills. “There’s purpose in marriage, and if you’re fortunate, love will follow.”
Charles swallowed. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful. I’ll call her father tomorrow, and we’ll start moving forward.”
“Her? Who is her?”
“Cordelia Hendrickson,” Irish Colleen answered. She placed the oven mitt back over her hand and reached for her dishes again. “Help me by taking the rolls?”
Charles’ head shook. It spun with how quickly everything had changed, with only a few words. “Who is she, though? And why do I know that name? Hendrickson?”
Irish Colleen passed him a bowl of rolls. “That’s another story, Charles. For another time, when we don’t have guests waiting.”
Epilogue: Irish Colleen and the Seven
Collen Deschanel, known as Irish Colleen to her family and friends, peeked her head into the bedrooms of her seven children on Christmas Eve night, one by one, as she did every night of her life.
She visited Charles first, as always. Their conversation from the night before was still fresh, and she ruminated on his words and intentions, which had seemed to come from the right place. Her oldest would never tell her anything. She might never know what sent him to come see her, but God worked in mysterious ways. He was on the right path now, and that was all that mattered.
Soon, she would need to tell him about Cordelia… about her father. That could come later.
Habit made her pause briefly at Augustus’ door before she remembered. He was a man now, with his own successful business, and, as Elizabeth had astutely observed, he needed to forge his own way. It was too late for her to wonder where she could have stepped differently with Augustus; how she could have made different choices, nurtured him better. He might never know the anguish of a parent caught questioning their shortcomings. She feared his path would be lonely, and worse, that he would choose this above feeling anything real.
Irish Colleen brushed the handle of his door with her palm and moved on.
Colleen wasn’t alone in her room. Evangeline lay sideways across her sister, a mess of curls and tangled limbs. Evangeline wouldn’t sleep under this roof for much longer. She’d made her intentions known to move in with Augustus after the New Year and had dared anyone to challenge her decision.
No one had. Augustus needed Evangeline as much as she needed him. Everyone would sleep better knowing they were caring for one another.
Colleen’s hand rested lazily against her sister’s back. Soft snores emanated from her, and she was dead to the world, lost to a deep sleep that was so foreign to her. Irish Colleen didn’t know the extent of the rift between her girls, and didn’t want to, but she knew how important their reunion was. God had given them this miracle, just as God had given her children many mechanisms with which to cope with their highly unusual lives.
Lord knew Irish Colleen had never done well by them in this area.
On this night, the two-year anniversary, Irish Colleen passed by Madeline’s door without pausing. Her heart skipped, and her breathing slowed, but she kept moving, because if she couldn’t move on, how could she expect her children to?
Maureen was awake, sitting on her bed with a book in her lap. Irish Colleen had been taken aback at how it was fiction, above all else, that her troubled daughter had glommed on to in their homeschooling.
“What are you reading, sis?”
Maureen held up the book without answering. The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. Irish Colleen hoped it wasn’t too racy.
She blew her daughter a kiss, their thing. Maureen grimaced, and Irish Colleen started, heartsick, to back out of the room. And then Maureen blew a kiss back, and all was right.
For tonight, anyway.
As always, Irish Colleen stopped last at Elizabeth. Her baby, Lizzy. The tortured one.
There were no dormer windows here at Ophélie; no moonlight to spill through and illuminate the path to her youngest’s room. No symbols to interpret, or to lose precious sleep deciphering.
Irish Colleen stepped inside. Elizabeth sat in her window seat, a crude wooden bench that Charles had crafted for her himself and stapled one of her cushions to. It had all the charm of a popsicle stick house, but Elizabeth treated it as if it were a royal throne.
“Better get to sleep, or Santa won’t come,” Irish Colleen teased.
Elizabeth turned and leveled a look on her. “I’m too old for Santa, Mama.”
“I know that,” Irish Colleen said quickly. “Of course you are.”
“Sure.” Elizabeth was a teenager now, in every way. Gone was the soft innocence of a child who needed her comforts. In its plac
e was sarcasm and eye rolls. Impatience and the weariness of indulging an insufferable parent. Irish Colleen had endured this with all her seven, but Elizabeth was her last, the baby, and the realization she was no longer needed in the same way was an unexpected punch to the gut.
“It’s late,” Irish Colleen said. She sat next to Elizabeth on the bench, but carefully. She feared the whole thing would fall apart with little provocation. “I’m not fussing, Lizzy, you know that.” Proving herself wrong, she brushed her hand through Elizabeth’s stringy hair. She was at an age where she should be taking more interest in her appearance and practicing better hygiene. The time would come soon; maybe if Connor kept coming around she’d see he was more than her childhood friend. She’d see the way Irish Colleen noticed him looking at her baby.
Elizabeth recoiled, but forced a smile as she dodged her mother’s ministrations. “Stop. Come on.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll go to bed soon. Just thinking.”
“About Maddy?”
She shrugged. “I guess. We shouldn’t have let Augustus go home alone tonight.”
Irish Colleen tensed. “Is there something I should know?”
“Not premonition, Mama, just saying. He’ll never be okay at Christmas again. Never.”
She nodded and wrapped her sweater tighter. Outside, rain pummeled the grass and trees, and a wind whipped through, singing a whistling song. “No, I don’t suppose any of us will.”
“Evie is good for him. He’ll be okay…”
Irish Colleen felt and heard the hesitation at the end… the very clear for now. She wouldn’t press. Couldn’t.
“Charles will be married soon,” Irish Colleen said. She didn’t know why she chose to announce it to her youngest before any of the others. Except she did. It was why she’d always broached adult topics with Elizabeth… leaving the sentence open ended, an invitation to offer her anything that might help steer her toward or away from terrible decisions.
“Yeah,” Elizabeth said, for of course she already knew.
“I think Colleen may be looking at colleges abroad.”
“Scotland.”
“Yes, Scotland,” Irish Colleen said. “Once she goes, and Charles is married, it will be only you, me, and Maureen. This home is your brother’s, and we’ll need to step aside when he has his own family. I was thinking we might move into one of the townhomes your father’s family owns. One of those pretty colorful numbers on Esplanade. Or, we could buy a new one.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You don’t have an opinion?”
“On where we live, or the fact that Charles is marrying the woman who will be the end of him?”
And there it was… what she had come for. The words that would cool her blood and give her fresh worries for the coming year. “What do you know about it?”
“I know what you already know, Mama. Knowing won’t change anything. You could call it off tomorrow and fate would find a way to bring them together, because fate is written in the stars.”
“You mean God’s plan.”
Elizabeth’s laugh chilled her. “If believing God is behind this makes all this easier, by all means, blame him.”
“Lizzy, mind your tongue. He is always listening. He loves you.”
Elizabeth turned toward her mother. She was not a girl on the eve of thirteen as the lightning lit her face, but a woman hardened by the burdens no one could carry for her. “Tell me again in a few years if you still believe He loves any of us.”
The story continues in 1973…
1973
The Seven Book 3
Preface
If you’re here, you’ve hopefully started with 1970, followed by 1972. And if this note looks familiar, here’s where I admit I mostly plucked it “as is” from 1972.
As with 1970 and 1972, I feel it’s important to add the disclaimer that I was not alive at any point in the ’70s. I was raised on the music, values, and results of that period, coming up in the ’80s with a vision of the world that matched what my parents had experienced in that pivotal decade. My musical tastes, then and now, are highly influenced by the music my parents raised me on, and even today I enjoy Pink Floyd, CSNY, Carly Simon, and other artists who shaped this decade, more than just about anything else.
Yet, as with all my stories, it’s imperative to me that I get it “right.” I leveraged the experiences of people who did live through the time, including the memories of my father, George Klepach, and my dear friend Deborah Burst, who not only grew up in the ’70s, but in New Orleans, where this story takes flight. She’s been invaluable in helping me visualize those experiences unique to New Orleans in that period, such as the incredible music scene of The Warehouse (before there was a district of the same name), and the allure of the Playboy Club, for my own playboy, Charles.
Any errors, however, are entirely my own.
Beyond the setting, beyond the time, is the story, and the story is one only these characters can tell. I’m grateful they’ve given me the voice to find theirs.
The Seven in 1973
Children of
August Deschanel (deceased) &
Colleen “Irish Colleen” Brady
* * *
Charles August Deschanel, Aged 23
Augustus Charles Deschanel, Aged 22
Colleen Amelia Deschanel, Aged 21
Madeline Colleen Deschanel, Deceased
Evangeline Julianne Deschanel, Aged 19
Maureen Amelia Deschanel, Aged 17
Elizabeth Jeanne Deschanel, Aged 14
For Charles
SPRING 1973
* * *
VACHERIE, LOUISIANA
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Prologue: Irish Colleen and the Seven
Colleen Deschanel, known as Irish Colleen to her family and friends, peeked her head into the bedrooms of her seven children, one by one, as she did every night of her life.
Charles, her oldest, was inside sleeping for a change. She’d spent many, many nights worrying about where he was and what he was doing, but now that he was home more often, her worries hadn’t subsided. A spark in her son had begun to die, and soon, he’d be married. Married to a woman Irish Colleen had no choice but to pair him with, even knowing he’d be doomed to a miserable marriage.
No one ever told her being a mother would be a constant struggle between difficult decisions and challenging consequences.
Augustus’ room was still just as he’d left it. Although he’d moved into his own house, it was important to her that he always knew where home was. She’d hoped it would encourage him that he didn’t always have to leave family dinners so early; he could stay the night from time to time, too. But the truth was, he’d been home for dinner twice since moving out, and she suspected he did it only to be polite.
Evangeline was gone now, too. Off to live with Augustus, for reasons that made sense at the surface, but felt more like a knife wound when Irish Colleen dug deeper. Augustus lived only a couple miles from Tulane, where Evangeline was now a student, but she would have left either way. She’d changed, and Irish Colleen had failed to see how or why, or to do anything about it. But her failure would hopefully open the door for Evangeline to explore those big things in life she was made for. She was not like the others. She was too big for their world.
Colleen’s room was as neat as a showroom. Unlike the other children, who left their mark through strewn clothes or inexplicably odd posters conveying their musical tastes, Colleen’s fastidious space could belong to anyone. No signs of personality to mar the neatness. Only her textbooks gave her away. The more she dedicated herself to her studies, the more sterile the rest of her life became.
She slept, though Irish Colleen had only just seen her light go off.
Irish Colleen had learned not to linger outside Madeline’s door. She let Condoleezza in once a month, to dust the furniture and curtains, but the contents were exactly as Madeline had left them, when last they’d stayed over the prior summer. Iri
sh Colleen knew this limbo was nearing an end. She would be moving herself and her youngest daughters back to New Orleans so Charles could assume command of his ancestral property, as a new husband. When she did, Madeline’s belongings would find themselves in boxes, and later, in an attic.
Later. Not now. Not yet.
Maureen whispered to someone in her room. Irish Colleen often heard her daughter talking to others who weren’t there, over the years, and had come to be afraid of this strangeness as Maureen aged. She was very nearly eighteen and soon to be on her own, and this was the behavior of a child still in need of development. Yet Irish Colleen couldn’t bring herself to approach this… she wasn’t ready for the answers that awaited the questions.
Irish Colleen told herself to focus on the positive. God would not want her to linger on her fears. Maureen was improving in her schoolwork and was on track to graduate. Even her attitude had eased.
So she moved on.
As always, Irish Colleen stopped at Elizabeth last. Lizzy was no longer such a baby, either. She’d start ninth in the fall, and though she might never roam the halls of an actual high school, it didn’t exempt her from the pains and tribulations unique to a young woman of her age. Connor, that shy but sweet boy who had been the only real friend Elizabeth had ever had, still came around, but Irish Colleen had not missed how his eyes stayed on Lizzy just a little longer now… how he watched her.
“Mama? Is that you?”
Irish Colleen broke from her reverie and stepped into the room. “Hi, darling. I hope I didn’t startle you.”
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