The chauffeur had no trouble finding the church. He drove around the walled-in churchyard until they reached the main gate. Then he pulled the car expertly up alongside the curb, jumped out, and held the rear door open. Hélène climbed out slowly and looked around. On the other side of the street was the stonemason who specialized in tombstones and statues. A winged angel sculptured out of marble stood outside in the yard, keeping guard over gravestones and what looked like short marble and granite railroad ties. There were other angels, too. Some were weeping, some had their hands over their faces. Next door was a florist. That would be Herriot's. She was surprised. The familiar old stone building had been torn down and a new one had gone up in its place. Progress and prosperity had finally come to Saint- Nazaire.
She started across the street toward 'Herriot's.' Then she stopped. The sign over the door didn't read 'Herriot.' It read 'Janine Peguy.' So the old lady was doing all right for herself, she thought grudgingly. She had expanded all the way into town.
She retraced her steps to the Rolls. The chauffeur was stretching his legs and smoking a cigarette. As soon as he saw her, he made as if to toss it into the gutter.
'Don't bother,' she said quickly. 'I was wondering if you could do me a favor.'
'Oui, madame?' He inclined his head, took a few quick puffs, tossed the cigarette down, and ground it out under his boot.
She snapped open her purse and took out some crisp bills and handed them to him. 'Go across the street and buy some flowers.' She frowned suddenly. 'On second thought, make that a potted plant.'
'Any preferences?'
She shook her head. 'Anything, as long as it's something nice.'
He gave a little bow, waited for a Simca to pass by, and hurried across the street. A few minutes later he returned carrying a big potted plant wrapped up in dark green tissue. She took the plant into her arms. 'Merci. I'll be back soon,' she said.
He nodded and watched her go through the gate and disappear into the cemetery that surrounded the church. He reached for his pack of cigarettes, fished one out, and lit it. Vaguely he wondered about a person who left Paris to visit a chateau in Bordeaux for an hour and a cemetery in the boondocks the next day. Then he gave a typically Gallic shrug. Chacun a son gout. To each his own.
Hélène looked around at the neat rows of crosses and stone memorials. The cemetery was laid out like a precisely surveyed town, the paths straight and defined, the rectangular plots marked off by thick borders of marble or granite. The earth inside each perimeter was covered with chalky white gravel. Centered in it were either minuscule flowerbeds or big stone planters. She shifted the plant around in her arms and gave a sigh of bewilderment. She had forgotten that there would be so many graves.
She turned as she heard a scraping noise. Not far off, a wizened old gravedigger was standing knee-deep in a rectangular hole. She watched as he grunted while stomping on his shovel, trying to dig it into the hard-packed soil. She walked over to him and cleared her throat. 'Excuse me, monsieur,' she said politely.
He stopped digging, leaned on his shovel, and looked up at her. Then he turned his face away, hawked noisily, and spit the soil up out of his lungs. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his dirty sleeve and gave a toothless smile.
'Tell me, would you happen to know where the grave of Madeleine Dupre is?'
He screwed up his face thoughtfully for a moment, rubbing his un- shaved chin as if that would help him remember. Then his eyes brightened and he pointed across the cemetery. 'Over there, on the other side of the church. Third row from the wall, about in the center. It's got a small gray marker with a black plaque. I remember it because the stone was put in before the earth had a chance to settle.'
She smiled her thanks and followed his directions. After a while she found the grave. She stood very still and looked down at it. The gravedigger had been right. Both the tombstone and the stone edging had been installed far too soon; they were sagging and the granite had cracked in three places as the earth underneath it had shifted. The little flowerbed in the center of the dirty gravel was sadly neglected. The weeds were even pushing up through the gravel. She looked at the graves on either side of it. They were both neatly tended, but the one on the right was big and lavishly planted. She set the pot down on the granite edging of Madame Dupre's grave and looked over at the neighboring one. The right side of the expensive, shiny headstone was blank, meaning that one of the spouses was still living. The left was inscribed in chiseled, gilt-filled letters:
PIERRE PEGUY
1918-1955
Hélène's face clouded over and her eyes glittered. So he was dead. Of course the grave was well-tended, she thought resentfully. And she knew by whom. Tante Janine. Who else's devotion could be so blind? To her, Pierre had been some kind of saint. She shook her head slowly and looked back at Madame Dupre's sagging, overgrown grave. Then she hiked up the skirt of her Odile Joly suit, got to her knees, and began to tug at the weeds that grew from her friend's grave. Later, after she had finished and the earthenware pot of pink hydrangea was sunk halfway into the ground, she clapped the dirt off her hands and got to her feet. She surveyed her work. It helped somewhat, but it wasn't enough. Immediately she came to a decision. Before leaving, she would see the stonemason across the street about putting in a new border and a new headstone. Something nice and solid. And marble. Madame Dupre had appreciated quality.
Deftly Jeanne made shallow cuts on both sides of the small turbot. She sprinkled it with salt and pepper, dipped her fingers into the cup of congealed grease, and rubbed some sparingly on the fish. Then she carefully picked up the turbot by the head and the tail and laid it flat in the heavy iron baking pan, white side down. She opened the oven door and shoved the pan inside. There. At least there would be food to eat.
Things hadn't been going well since Petite Hélène had been born. She had fought Edmond and kept working at Au Petit Caporal right up until she was ready to give birth. Then a new girl had temporarily taken her place. Monsieur Boivin, the fat proprietor, had promised that her job would be waiting for her. When Petite Hélène was six months old, she had gone back to the restaurant to reclaim her job. Monsieur Boivin had hemmed and hawed and squirmed uncomfortably. Finally he had stammered that he couldn't fire the new girl. Her husband had just died and she was now the breadwinner of her family. Jeanne had nodded quietly and made the rounds looking for another job. There were none to be had.
Now she shrugged philosophically and turned around as she heard movement behind her. Petite Hélène was sitting in a corner, her little hands cautiously pawing through the pile of laundry. Her pink face was screwed up in deep wonder and curiosity as she inspected the colors and textures of the fabrics.
Jeanne cocked her head and studied her for a moment. There was something about watching your child that made you realize you were watching a little part of yourself. Strange, how quickly the little ones grew. It seemed only yesterday that she had pushed the child out of her womb and the midwife had held it up in the air by the legs and given it a resounding smack. She would never forget the joy she had felt when she had heard Petite Hélène's first angry cry. And now, more than ever, Petite Hélène was her pride and her joy. She was just at that age where they are getting into everything. Exploring, discovering, trying to grasp the feel of life, her tiny lips glum when the mysteries were too big to comprehend, the smiles wide with delight every time one was solved. She was such a beautiful child, Jeanne thought. An angel, really. Her hair was neither brown nor golden, but aggressively red; yet each curly strand was as delicate as spun copper. Her eyes were big and blue and naturally wide with curiosity. Jeanne envied her. It would be years before she would find out what her lot would be—that she was poor, that the smell of fish in the walls of her home was not in homes everywhere.
More than three months ago, Edmond had left the fishing fleet and had gone to work at one of the new shipyards. The pay was much better, and they had both been happy about the job. Then, a month ago, t
he company went bankrupt. Ever since, something had gone out of Edmond. He seemed to be spending all his time at the taverns. There was no money for anything, but he always seemed to come up with enough for a drink. It wasn't until last week that she found out how. The wife of one of his friends had come to her, demanding that his loan be repaid.
There was a sudden hissing sound behind her. Quickly she spun around, the reality of the chore at hand forcing the thoughts out of her mind. The pot on top of the stove was boiling over. Instinctively she grabbed a rag and used it to lift the lid off. She picked up a fork and gently prodded a potato. It was soft and perfect. 'Now, if only Edmond comes home on time,' she said aloud, wiping her hands on her apron.
From out in the hallway she could hear someone knocking on the door. She felt a sudden chill. She listened carefully. The knocking came again. Quickly her mind raced over the possibilities of who it might be. Not Edmond; he always let himself in. No, it must be someone to whom they owed money. Not the landlady; Jeanne had already run into her earlier that morning, promising that it wouldn't be long. She wrung her hands in despair. There were so many people to whom they owed money. She sighed, went over to Petite Hélène, and picked her up. She tiptoed out into the hallway, put one hand over the child's mouth, and silently approached the door. Soundlessly she moved aside the hinged piece of metal that hung over the peephole. She blinked to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Then she let out a cry, threw aside the bolt, and flung the door open.
'Hélène!' she gasped.
'Jeanne!' Hélène stepped forward, wrapped her arms warmly around her sister-in-law, and kissed her. Then she stepped back to study Petite Hélène.
Jeanne smiled proudly and handed Petite Hélène over. 'Look who's here, ma petite,' she whispered. 'Your aunt. See. . .'
Hélène took the child in her arms and held her tightly, swaying her back and forth. The tiny pink face broke out into an enormous smile.
'Come in, come in,' Jeanne said quickly.
Hélène stepped inside and Jeanne closed the door, carefully locking it behind her. She led the way to the kitchen. 'Make yourself comfortable,' she said timidly. 'I'm afraid everything's in a mess.'
Hélène laughed. 'Don't worry about it. It's my fault. I should have given you some notice instead of arriving on the spur of the moment.'
'Nonsense!' Jeanne took Petite Hélène and sat her down on the dinette.
The tiny girl picked up a spoon and started tapping the table with it. 'Tante Hélène! Tante Hélène! Tante Hélène!'
Jeanne and Hélène both began to laugh. 'She knows my name,' Hélène said.
'She'd better. I've been teaching it to her since the day she was born.' Jeanne quickly slipped out of her apron and patted her hair. 'She already knows more than thirty different words. She's a prodigy!' Then she took Hélène's hands in hers and her voice became suddenly sober. 'I'm sorry about Stanislaw. I got your letter and heard the news. Even people here were talking about it.'
'I can imagine,' Hélène said dryly.
'I'm sorry we didn't send flowers.' Jeanne looked away, her face suddenly red with shame. 'But I wrote you a letter.'
Hélène frowned. 'That's strange. I never got it.'
'I couldn't send it,' Jeanne confessed in a quiet voice.
Hélène pulled Jeanne toward her in an embrace of understanding. 'Are things that bad?' she asked softly.
Jeanne nodded miserably. 'Things haven't been going well. In fact. . .'Suddenly she burst into tears.
Gently Hélène patted the back of Jeanne's head. 'Do you want to talk about it?'
Jeanne nodded and wiped her eyes. 'Au Petit Caporal. . . .well, they wouldn't give me my job back after Petite Hélène was born. And Edmond quit the fishing fleet to work for a new shipbuilder. They went broke right away and ended up owing him three weeks pay.'
Hélène listened in silence. 'But why didn't you let me know?' she asked finally. 'I would have sent you money.'
'Edmond's stubborn, Hélène. He's so proud.'
'That's ridiculous!' Hélène said angrily. 'We're family. He should know that better than anyone! But don't you worry. You can stop crying now.'
'Please . . .don't tell Edmond I told you,' Jeanne begged.
'I promise I won't.' Hélène smiled. 'Come, now, your troubles are over.'
'No.' Jeanne sniffled and wiped her nose with her finger. 'We're so far in the hole that we'll never be able to dig ourselves back out.'
'Don't worry about that. I want you to make a list of all your creditors and give it to me. I'll take care of it. You won't even have to see them. And by the way . . .'She propelled Jeanne toward a chair, reached into her purse, and took out two thick envelopes. She handed one to Jeanne.
Jeanne looked up at her. 'What's this?'
'You'll need to buy tickets, new clothes, new furniture. New everything.'
Jeanne looked confused. 'But. . .what are you talking about?'
Hélène gave her the second envelope. 'And here's Edmond's tuition for the University of Paris.'
'The . . .University of Paris?' Jeanne stared dumbly at the envelope.
'Did I forget to tell you?' Hélène said lightly. 'There's an apartment waiting for you. It's just across the street from the Bois de Boulogne.'
'But. . .' Jeanne could say no more, only stare at Hélène.
'Of course, there's a catch,' Hélène said. 'I've just started my own business.'
'The magazine?' Jeanne asked in an awed voice.
'The magazine. When Edmond's finished with his schooling—it'll be a few years, of course—he has to help me. I'll need a bright international lawyer I can trust.' She looked around. 'By the way, where is Edmond?'
Jeanne looked down at her hands. 'Probably at the tavern,' she said quietly.
'Good,' Hélène said with finality. 'Go and get dressed. We'll join him and a buy a round for everybody in the place.'
TODAY
Saturday, January 13
1
Spruce Point was located on the Hudson a few miles upriver from West Point. It was set in a magnificent old park that sloped gently down to the railroad tracks along the river's edge. From uphill you could see the river. When you stood near the tracks, you couldn't. That was because a high stone wall separated them from the manicured lawns of Spruce Point.
From the road, Spruce Point Manor, set behind the stately blue spruces from which it took its name, looked just like it had for the past hundred- and-some years since a tin-can tycoon had erected the neoclassical folly. After his death and a much-contested will the white elephant had been sold and turned into an institution for special people. It was still a beautiful place, but there was something stifling about it. There were uniformed guards in the gatehouse, an electronic surveillance system, and the walls surrounding the property—once necessary to keep people out, now to keep them in—were high and in good repair. In a posher era, the residents of Spruce Point had dressed in furs and fabulous jewels, and the staff wore black-and-white uniforms. Now the residents looked neat but far from elegant, and the staff wore the smocks and uniforms of doctors and nurses.
At the entrance, one of the brown-uniformed guards hurried out of the gatehouse. He bent down to look through the passenger window of the long chauffeur-driven black limousine that had just pulled up. The tinted window lowered silently.
Z.Z. looked up at the guard through her dark sunglasses. 'Mrs. Bavier,' she said coldly. Nervously she flicked the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. It missed and she brushed it off the seat with her fingers.
The guard consulted his clipboard. 'Mrs. Bavier. . .yes, ma'am, you're expected.' He signaled the second guard to open the gate. Quietly the iron doors swung open electronically. Then the Cadillac started to roll and drove past the gate and along the gravel drive between the blue spruces. The trees made the drive look dark and depressing. On an impulse, Z.Z. twisted around in her seat and looked out the rear window. Behind them, the gates were swinging shut again. She shuddered involuntaril
y. This place was a prison. The prison into which she had locked her. . .her baby.
Nervously she lit another cigarette with the butt of the old one. Her hands were shaking. What would Wilfred look like? she wondered. She had never seen him since that day in the hospital, ten years ago. The day he had been born.
Suddenly she felt a chill. Maybe he would recognize her. Maybe there would be a scene. Maybe he would go out of his mind and try to attack her. Maybe. . .
The limousine pulled to a halt in front of the colonnaded building and the chauffeur held the back door open. Flustered, Z.Z. reached for her black leather purse, pulled her mink collar closer around her neck, and held it there as she got out.
A middle-aged woman with short brown bangs and large baby-blue eyes came down the portico steps. She wore a stiffly starched white smock and black leather pumps. 'Mrs. Bavier?' she asked in a reassuring, friendly voice.
Z.Z. looked at her. 'Yes,' she replied hoarsely.
'The gate called and said that you were on your way. I'm Dr. Rogers. You had requested to see your son's doctor.' She smiled and extended her hand. 'I am she.'
Limply Z.Z. shook the hand. For once, her self-assurance deserted her. 'My. . .' She swallowed. 'My . . . son's. . . .Yes.'
'Won't you come in, Mrs. Bavier? We can talk in my office.'
Z.Z. followed her up the stone steps and into the building. From outside, the mansion had looked neoclassical. Inside, the main hall was strictly Gothic. There were thick stone pillars, heavy dark paneling, and an oppressive vaulted ceiling. Suddenly she froze. A young nurse was leading a little boy down a corridor that branched off the main hall. Even through her sunglasses, Z.Z. could see him all too clearly. He was a boy, but close up he didn't really look like a boy. She winced and felt a tightness within her. He was short and overweight. His eyes were close-set and slanted, his forehead flattened. His tongue was hanging out.
Sins Page 48
