The Unloved

by John Saul

  Now, standing in the suffocating heat of the July afternoon, Anne let her attention wander as the local parish priest droned on in what she considered to be an entirely fictional eulogizing of Helena’s soul. Certainly the Helena Devereaux the priest was talking about bore no resemblance to the woman Anne had known during the last week. Finally, she tuned the priest out altogether, letting her eyes wander over the faces of the people whose own fortunes had been tied to those of the Devereauxes over so many generations. The group gathered in the small family graveyard a hundred yards below the house was nearly evenly divided between whites and blacks, and there were many faces that showed features of both the races. Nor, so far as Anne could see, were there any strains between them as white and black stood side by side at the grave.

  To Anne’s further surprise, the villagers didn’t look nearly as poor as she had expected. Though a few of the men’s faces reflected the deep lines of worry endemic to the very poor, for whom old age begins to show early in life, most of them seemed to be middle-class people who had fallen on hard times but expected their condition to be temporary. They were dressed in their best suits, and though the clothing was not expensive nor quite up to the latest styles, neither was it ragged or shining with age. Most of the village men wore dark suits similar to the one Kevin himself was wearing.

  The women, for the most part, were reflections of their husbands. Their faces, too, had the weathered look of those for whom life had not been particularly easy, but she saw none of the hopeless bitterness created by the stark poverty of the hill country of West Virginia, through which she and Kevin had driven on their way to New Orleans ten years before. Indeed, as Anne felt the sun beating down, it occurred to her that in this part of the country anyone who spent much time outdoors was going to take on a weathered look.

  There was also, she noticed, an odd similarity among the faces she was looking at. That, too, was understandable, for over the years these families must have intermarried to the point where most of the people at the funeral were cousins of one degree or another. She suppressed a small smile as she silently speculated on how many of them actually had Devereaux blood running somewhere in their veins, and suspected it was a far higher percentage than anyone in town ever admitted.

  The priest fell silent, and Anne refocused her attention on the ornate coffin that rested on a small catafalque before the open door in the large marble crypt holding the remains of four generations of Devereauxes. Anne had studied the crypt earlier, reading the names of Devereauxes long gone. The earliest of them all had French names, but over the years some Scottish and Irish names had begun to creep in. Anne had been unable to read some of the inscriptions, for the marble mausoleum was deeply pitted by its exposure to the elements. But Helena’s name was crisply clear, chiseled only the day before by a monument carver who had driven up from Charleston specifically to match Helena’s epitaph to that of her husband Rafe, already entombed in the crypt.

  The crowd murmured in whispered prayer as the pallbearers lifted the coffin from the catafalque and slid it into the dark recess of marble. Then Marguerite stepped forward, her slim figure swathed in a cascade of black chiffon, and placed a single rose on her mother’s coffin. She stood still a moment, then reached out, touched the coffin with the tips of her fingers, and stepped back.

  Kevin repeated the ritual, then; one by one, the mourners filed past the open crypt, speaking a soft word of encouragement to Marguerite, then moving on, drifting out of the cemetery and up the low rise to the mansion itself, where a cold buffet was already spread on the veranda. Anne, with Julie and Jeff flanking her, hung back until the last of the villagers had paid their respects, then stepped forward. First she, then each of the children, placed a flower on the coffin inside the crypt, amidst the other flowers. When they were done, Marguerite reached out to the crypt’s heavy door, then hesitated. Her eyes damp, she turned to Kevin. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “I just can’t do it, Kevin.”

  Understanding, Kevin moved to his sister’s side, swung the door closed, and locked it with a silver key. Putting his arm around Marguerite, he led her toward the house.

  “Is it all over?” Jeff asked in a loud whisper as Anne and the children, too, left the cemetery.

  “It’s all over,” Anne assured her son, who somehow had managed to stand relatively still through the half hour of the service. “And I’ll bet if you can find Toby, the two of you can get at that food before it’s all gone.” His face lighting up, Jeff raced ahead and disappeared into the crowd, then reappeared a second later with Toby Martin in tow. The two of them flew up the steps to the veranda and began piling food onto their plates. Anne grinned ruefully at Julie. “I have a feeling we might have trouble convincing Jeff to go home,” she remarked. “Did you ever see anyone make such a close friend so fast?”

  “Toby’s nice,” Julie replied. “In fact, most of the kids here are nice. They’re not like the people we know in Connecticut.”

  Anne gazed at her daughter with mild surprise. “I thought you liked your friends.”

  “I do,” Julie said quickly, flushing. “But everyone’s different down here. They don’t worry about who has the nicest house, or the most money, or any of that stuff.”

  “It’s hard to worry about money if you don’t have any,” Anne pointedly observed.

  “They’re not that poor,” Julie said. “Jennifer’s father works in Charleston, and most of her friends’ fathers do too.”

  Anne’s expression turned uncertain. “But if they’re all working, why don’t they do something about their homes? The whole town looks like it’s falling apart.” When Julie’s eyes clouded and she looked away from her mother, Anne’s uncertainty deepened. “Julie? What is it? Is something wrong?”

  Julie shrugged elaborately, then saw Jenny Mayhew, who was standing with another girl and three boys. “There’s Jenny,” she said, waving. “I’d better go say hello to her.” She started away, but Anne stopped her.

  “Julie, what’s wrong? What is it?”

  Julie hesitated once more, then her eyes, darkened by anger, met her mother’s. “Maybe you’d better ask Daddy,” she said. “Ask him why the town looks the way it does!” Before Anne could reply, Julie hurried up the slope and was swallowed up by the group of teenagers.

  Anne stayed where she was for a moment, wondering what Julie could have been talking about. Still pondering the question, she, too, started walking up the gentle hill. But that afternoon she was not to find out what Julie’s strange words had meant, for as she moved among the crowd of mourners clustering in the shade of the trees on the front lawn, she increasingly felt like an outsider. And, of course, she was.

  All the people here—even her husband—shared a common heritage of which she knew nothing. And as she spoke to them, or tried to speak to them, she felt the chasm between herself and the people of Devereaux widening.

  Not that anyone was rude to her. Indeed, she felt that most of them were going out of their way to be kind to her. But it was the kindness a native shows to an alien, not the kindness one friend shows to another.

  Within thirty minutes Anne was certain that no matter how long a time she spent in Devereaux—even if it was the rest of her life—she would never fit in.

  Long before the first of the mourners had gone home, she had slipped away to the shelter of the room she shared with Kevin.

  And that, she decided as she stretched out on the bed, was the crux of the matter. This wasn’t her room, and never would be. It was only the room she shared with Kevin, who, unlike herself, was a real Devereaux.

  That was the way it was, and always would be.

  But it doesn’t matter, she told herself, closing her eyes against the afternoon sun. It doesn’t matter, because in a few more days we’ll be going home.…

  “Did you ever see a dead person before?” Toby asked, staring mournfully at the plate of potato salad for which he suddenly had no appetite.

  Jeff shook his head silently.
/>   “It kind of made me feel funny,” Toby admitted.

  “Me too,” Jeff agreed. But it had done more to him than just make him feel funny. He’d stood as quietly as he could all through the service, wondering what would happen when it was all over. He’d been glad they hadn’t opened the coffin again before they put it into the crypt—it had been bad enough having it sitting in the library for three days, while everyone in town came by to peer down at the strange white mask that didn’t quite look like his grandmother. He’d looked at the body a lot—whenever nobody came along to chase him out of the library—trying to figure out why his grandmother looked so much different now that she was dead. But even now that they’d buried her—if that was what you called it when you put the body in a stone box above the ground—he still wasn’t quite sure. But he knew that looking at the body had been scary.

  Even scarier was the way his Aunt Marguerite had looked at him when she’d found him in the library yesterday. Her face had been white and her hair messed up, and for just a second she had looked to Jeff exactly like his grandmother.

  But it was when she looked right at him that he felt goosebumps all over his body. It was just the way his grandmother had looked at him when she was coming down the stairs in the chair the first day he had been at Sea Oaks.

  Like she wasn’t sure who he was, and didn’t care.

  And she didn’t care, Jeff had known instantly, because for some reason—even though she didn’t even know him—his grandmother hated him.

  And yesterday, for just a split second, that was how his Aunt Marguerite had looked at him.

  Just like she hated him.

  He felt a chill run down his back, and quickly looked around, as if his aunt had been able to read his mind just now. But she was nowhere to be seen, so he nudged Toby with his elbow. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go down to the beach.” With Toby right behind him, he began threading his way through the crowd once more, relieved that he didn’t run into his aunt.

  Marguerite stood under the largest of the oak trees, the faces of the people she had known all her life melding together until she found herself uncertain of exactly whom she was talking to. And then a tall figure emerged from the throng, and suddenly Will Hempstead stood before her. Looming nearly a foot taller than Marguerite, he smiled gently down at her, his eyes filled with concern. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked, his voice dropping so that no one but Marguerite could hear him. “If there’s anything, Marguerite, anything at all, you just tell me.”

  Marguerite smiled wanly and shook her head. “But it’s sweet of you to offer, Will. After all these years, and after what happened, well …” Her voice trailed up in embarrassment.

  “It’s all right,” Will assured her. “I’m a lot older now, and so are you, but nothing’s changed, Marguerite. I hope you know that.”

  Marguerite tipped her head up and met Will’s eyes. “But it has changed, Will. Everything’s changed, and nothing can ever be the way it was again.” She could see that Will was about to say something else—something she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear—and then she saw her brother a few yards away. “Kevin?” she called. “Kevin, come and say hello to Will Hempstead. You remember Will, don’t you?”

  Kevin excused himself from the group he was chatting with and strode over, his hand extended. “More likely that Will doesn’t remember me. I don’t think I’ve seen you since I was eight or ten years old.” He grasped Will’s hand firmly in his own. “What’re you up to these days?”

  “Law,” Will announced. “As in capturing, not prosecuting.”

  “Will’s the police chief,” Marguerite explained, and Kevin thought her voice was suddenly a little too bright. “Everybody says he’s got the right personality for the job, but I think they appointed him because he’s so big nobody would dare to fight him.”

  “And I think you tease just as much as you did when you were a girl,” Will Hempstead replied, but beamed at her words nonetheless. Then he turned his attention to Kevin. “Heard you were here. Lots of people are glad you’re back.”

  Kevin shrugged. “Well, it’s nice to feel welcome, but I’m afraid I won’t be staying long. In fact, I think about three more days and we have to head back north.”

  Hempstead looked surprised. “Not staying?” he asked. “Well, now, that’s not the way I heard it. Folks are saying you’re bringing the wife and kids and moving down here to stay. And if you’re not,” he added, “I’ve got to say I’m sorry.” He gave Kevin a broad wink. “I’ve seen that daughter of yours—prettiest girl we’ve had around here since Marguerite grew up. ’Course, she looks just like Marguerite, so I suppose you might say I’m a bit prejudiced.”

  “Will!” Marguerite exclaimed.

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Will demanded.

  “Even if it is, this isn’t the time or the place to be saying such things,” Marguerite protested. Leaving Kevin and Hempstead alone together, she made her way across the lawn, her right hand pressed against her hip, her limp more pronounced than usual. Will Hempstead watched her go, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

  “Still carrying a torch for her?” Kevin finally asked, and the police chief flushed deeply, but nodded.

  “Guess I always will,” he said. “And now that Miss Helena’s gone—” He cut off his words abruptly, clearly embarrassed.

  “Now that Mother’s dead, you can come around again?” Kevin finished. Before Will could say anything, Kevin went on. “I wonder what she’ll do now? Living with mother all these years—I have a feeling things might be rough for her for a while.”

  Hempstead shook his head. “She’ll be all right. There isn’t a soul in town who isn’t crazy about Marguerite, even in spite of the old lady. All she has to do is ask, and folks’ll flock around.” Then his eyes pointedly met Kevin’s. “ ’Course it would help if her brother flocked around a bit, too, if you know what I mean. You’re all the family she’s got left, and she’s going to need you. In fact,” he added, “the whole town’s going to need you. Or at least know what your intentions are.”

  Kevin shifted uncomfortably. “I know what you’re saying, Will. And I intend to get Mother’s affairs straightened out. But that shouldn’t take too long, and once it’s done, I’ll be gone.”

  A third man joined the group. It was Sam Waterman, a white-haired lawyer who had looked after Helena Devereaux’s affairs for nearly half a century. Kevin was not surprised to see that even today, despite the occasion, Waterman was dressed in his habitual white suit. “Did I hear you say you’re leaving?” he asked Kevin, his voice sharp.

  Kevin repeated what he’d told Will Hempstead, and the old lawyer listened in silence. But when Kevin was done, he shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” he said softly.

  Kevin frowned. What could the lawyer be talking about? “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t count on leaving,” the lawyer repeated. “In fact, I wouldn’t even think about it until tomorrow, when I’ll be bringing the will out. And after that, you might just be changing your mind.” Then, smiling genially, he turned and stepped into another conversation a few yards away.

  Kevin stared after him for a moment, wondering what on earth the lawyer could have been talking about. Unbidden, the words Ruby had spoken the first night he was back at Sea Oaks came back to his mind.

  “You are a Devereaux, Mr. Kevin, and you will stay at Sea Oaks.”

  Despite the shimmering heat of the afternoon, a chill passed through him.

  Kevin was unable to sleep that night. Not only had Sam Waterman’s words stayed in his mind, but after dinner Anne had told him of her cryptic conversation with Julie after the funeral. When she was done, he’d nodded. “It’s the leases,” he’d said, helping himself to a bourbon and water from the bar in the small library in the east wing. “No one in Devereaux owns the land his house or business is on.”

  Anne had blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “
Leases,” Kevin had explained. “My family have always been fanatics about land. So when things got real bad at the end of the last century, they didn’t sell land, they leased it—ninety-nine-year leases, which start running out in the next few years. Which means, legally, that every building in Devereaux, along with the land, reverts to us. That’s why,” he’d added, as shock began to register on Anne’s face, “the town looks the way it does. Who’s going to waste money fixing up a bunch of buildings that don’t belong to them? Nobody in town’s broke, Anne. They just don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  Anne’s eyes had narrowed. “So that’s what they all meant when they wanted to know what you were going to do?”

  Kevin had nodded tiredly. “Will Hempstead as much as asked me today, but I put him off.”

  “And what are you going to do?” Anne had asked.

  Kevin shook his head. “Sleep on it, I suppose. And see what Sam Waterman has to say. Then you and I and Marguerite can decide what’s the right thing to do.”

  Anne had held up her hands in protest. “Not me,” she’d said. “It’s all up to you and Marguerite. I’ve never been here before, I don’t know any of the people involved, and, to be frank, I’m not too crazy about the place.” When Kevin had given her a quizzical look, she’d added only half apologetically, “What can I say? I watched the way everyone treated you and Marguerite this afternoon, and I felt the way they treated me. To them, you’re part of Devereaux, and it doesn’t matter that you don’t live here anymore. You’re part of them. But I’m not.” When Kevin had tried to argue with her, she’d cut him off. “Oh, they were polite enough. It’s not that—it’s just a feeling. I got the idea that deep down they feel that I’m an outsider, and they’re right. So you and Marguerite decide what has to be done, and don’t worry about me. I’m not a part of Sea Oaks, or Devereaux, and I never will be.”