Blackbird Fly

by Lise McClendon

The nun with the keys, obviously her consigliore, walked beside her. The round nun was old, they saw as she walked toward them, with triple chins and jowls. Her eyes were bright but her skin had the pallor of failing health. Her name was Madame Françoise. The tall nun helped Madame Françoise into a pew. Merle made her request to the Mother Superior, to look at birth records for information about a relative who may have had a child here.

  The tall nun answered first. “We were located in the village until 1962. We have some records from the early years.” She looked at Madame Françoise.

  “You are American?” the old woman asked.

  “Yes, but my husband was born in France. I think he was born in your monastery.”

  “Where is your husband now?”

  “He died. In April.” Merle felt her sister’s hand on her knee. “But for my son, for his legacy, I want to know who his true parents were. My husband, I believe, was adopted.”

  Madame Françoise’s eyes were not gentle. “The records are very sensitive. These girls came to us for sanctuary when they had nowhere else to turn. We cannot break the trust they showed in us.”

  “But she’s dead — ” Merle blurted, then bit her tongue. Madame Françoise and the nun exchanged glances. “All of them are dead now. My husband, his mother, his adopted father and mother. There’s no one to ask.”

  The nun said, “You know who is his mother?”

  “I did some digging in the church records. Her name was Dominique Redier,” Merle said. “Better known now as Justine Labelle.”

  Madame Françoise sat very still. The other nun let out a long breath that seemed to echo off the walls of the chapel.

  “Do you know her?”

  “Dominique came to us many times over the years. Here and in the village.” The old woman wet her lips. “She was a troubled girl. We heard about her passing. We prayed for her soul that night as we have many nights before, that she found peace and love in Jesus.”

  “She was an excellent gardener,” Merle heard herself saying. “She must have learned that from you.”

  “She was excellent in many ways,” the tall nun said sharply, “just not in the ways of the world.”

  “Was she a nun?” Annie asked.

  “She could not live a contemplative life.”

  “Not after what happened to her,” Madame Françoise added. “She tried, many times. We prayed together for her salvation, for her acceptance of His will, but there are sins of the world that even God cannot make right. We trust that she made peace with the Lord, as He has forgiven her as he forgives all sinners. We remember her in our prayers.”

  “But, what happened to her?” Merle asked.

  “A man,” the nun spat.

  “A man brought her to us the first time. She was with child, desperate. So very young,” Madame Anne said softly. “He said her family had sent her to live in the street, so ashamed were they.”

  “A man came with her?” Annie asked. “Do you know his name?”

  “He was a stranger to us. A foreigner.”

  Merle bit her lip and asked, “An American?”

  Madame Françoise closed her eyes. “I knew Americans from the war, the ones who came down in parachutes. Yes, he was an American.”

  “A soldier?”

  “In the past, he said. His French was good.”

  “Do you remember his name?” A long pause. “Was it Weston — Weston Strachie?”

  Madame Françoise took her time, searching her memory, as if wanting to be sure she was right. “Perhaps. It has been many years.”

  Outside the chapel a shuffle of feet began, suddenly, then the chatter of women’s voices. The nun’s eyes flickered toward the door as if eager to join whatever was going on out there. Merle said, “She had her baby at the convent?”

  “No. She was with us for awhile, a month or two, then the woman came to take her home. We didn’t see her again for some years.”

  “The woman?” Annie asked.

  “She said she was the American’s wife, that it was proper and Christian that Dominique have her baby at the home of the father of her child. That she wanted to take care of the girl, to make amends.”

  The echoes in the chapel swallowed up the old nun’s voice. Had she said the American was the father of her child? Weston was Harry’s father after all? But that would mean he had —

  “This woman,” Annie asked. “She was Weston’s wife?”

  “So she said.”

  Merle said, “M-Madame, encore, s’il vous plait. The American’s wife came here, took Dominique away, because he, the American, was the father of her child?”

  “Dominique went with her willingly. She had received letters. From the woman, I think.” Madame Françoise folded her hands. “I prayed we had made the right decision, that God had sent Dominique to us, and the woman as well. I was a novice then and these decisions were not mine. Dominique was a young girl, so naïve about the ways of the world. She returned to us years later when life was so hard for her.”

  “It was always hard,” the nun said.

  “But why? Why would Weston’s wife take in the girl that he — you know, debauched?” Annie asked.

  “I questioned that,” the Mother Superior said. “But she was a very pious woman, kind and gentle. She said this was penance for what her husband had done. To try to make it right. The girl had no one. Her family would not help her. They had disowned her. We prayed that the woman was as full of the light of Jesus Christ as she appeared.”

  She must have been a saint. Merle tried to picture herself taking in Courtney while she carried Harry’s child. As much as she felt sorry for Courtney, it was very unlikely.

  “One more question. Did you ever have a Sister Evangeline here?”

  The nuns looked at each other. “We don’t know that name.” Madame Françoise took a rattling breath. “Then Dominique had a boy? She told us of trips back to the village, but not about the child. He was your husband? Was he a good man?”

  The sky through the tiny window ached with blue purity, the vast loveliness of ether. Merle thought of Harry, the way he was years ago, when she’d married him. Full of mischief and love. The day Tristan was born, the flowers he’d bought, dozens of roses in every color. It all came back to her now, the good memories. The dark house in the suburbs he’d bought for her, the one he hated. Oh, Harry. She looked out the high window above the altar, where the sky was as bright and new as a robin’s egg. Are you there, Harry?

  “Yes, Madame,” she said. “He was a good man.”

  Chapter 35

  When they returned from the convent Tristan announced that Albert had invited them all over for dinner. He had roasted a chicken, and they sat around his table, drank wine, and ate chicken and small potatoes and haricots verts. Tristan sat next to Albert’s niece, Valerie, who was much more socially advanced than he was. The little vixen flirted and pouted, making everyone laugh and Tristan turn red. Merle sat next to Pascal and tried not to flirt. Annie and Albert got to talk more tonight and were soon swapping stories. Tristan told the story of discovering the skeleton dramatically, with flourishes.

  Valerie’s eyes glowed with excitement. “But who was eet?”

  “That is the question, mademoiselle,” Annie said. “We’ll have to wait to find out.”

  “Can they tell exactly who it was from the bones?”

  Annie explained. “They might, if they had a clue who it was. But as it is, probably not. Just general stuff, like a man or a woman, how old they were when they died. Unless they have dental records. They’ll have to check for missing persons.”

  Pascal said, “During the war — both wars — it was chaos. It could have happened during the war, perhaps. After the last war things were not —”

  “Organized. You think fifty years ago then, not a hundred?”

  “Hard to say. But no one has lived in the house since, what?”

  “Since 1952,” Merle said. “That’s when Weston and Marie-Emilie went to the States.” She lo
oked at her plate, deep in thought. The scandal of Dominique’s pregnancy had driven her family from the village. Did the village also drive Weston and his wife away?

  Albert told them of seeing a truck full of farmers that afternoon. “I’m afraid there may be a strike.”

  “The grape-growers?” Annie asked. “What would happen?”

  “Nothing much,” Pascal said. “At least for the grapes it will be just talk until after the harvest. They aren’t doing much now anyway, just worrying about what the prices will be in the fall.”

  Albert said, “There was a rally last year near here. Some of the growers were very angry. They broke into a large cave and stole bottles of wine in protest.”

  “Were they caught?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes,” Albert said. “But they received very light sentences because they were just making a point.”

  “A mistake,” Pascal growled.

  Merle squeezed his arm. “You are such a political roofer.”

  Albert laughed. “Everyone is all opinion in France.”

  “This sofa is horrible.”

  “As comfortable as I am French. No wonder Albert wanted to get rid of it.”

  It was nearly midnight. Merle opened the third bottle in the stash in her suitcase, the Château L’Église-Clinet, after dinner at Albert’s. They sipped and proclaimed it unspoiled and amazing. The Victorian settee, horsehair stuffed and tattered, found by Albert that morning at the local brocante, was lumpy and unattractive even with the shawl thrown over the holes. They arranged pillows from Tristan’s bed under themselves, improving comfort slightly, as he ran in from the back.

  “Where’re Pascal’s binoculars?” He clambered up the stairs. “Where are they, Mom?”

  “What makes you think Pascal has binoculars?”

  “Because I saw him looking out the window. Up there.”

  Annie asked, “It’s dark out. What do you need binoculars for?”

  “There’s a huge fire, about a mile outside of town. Valerie and I saw people going out there with hoses and buckets, like an old-time fire brigade.”

  They followed him upstairs. He was rummaging through the toolbox left in the loft room. Merle pushed open the window and scanned the dark countryside for the glow of flames. “It must be out already,” she said.

  What was Pascal looking at with binoculars up here? Was he suddenly a birdwatcher? Or had he been using his job as a roofer and handyman to spy on her neighbors? A prickle of suspicion rose up her spine.

  Tristan pointed over her shoulder. “There it is, on top of the hill.”

  The clump of trees on top of the far hill surrounded the large manor house turned into a winery by the conglomerate. As they watched a pine tree exploded in flames. “The house is made of stone. It won’t burn, will it?” Annie asked. Another tree went up.

  From the garden came Valerie’s voice. “Tristan! Allons-y! We must go! They need every person to help with the fire!”

  The population of the entire village and surrounding estates clogged the tiny lane leading to the hilltop manor. Annie, driving the rental car, observed that it seemed doubtful all these people felt a strong desire to save a multinational corporation from destruction. Cars and trucks, bicycles and farmers and children of all ages, streamed along the lane, parking in ditches to keep the road clear. Somewhere a siren whined, then another. When they’d pulled off the road, Merle opened the back and handed shovels, buckets, and gloves to the Tristan and Valerie. They vanished into the crowd running toward the blaze, into the darkness.

  Annie handed her a garden hose. “Allons-y, ma soeur. Hit the road.”

  Merle stood for a moment, watching the chaos and excitement. She had felt uneasy leaving the house, double-checking locks on the windows, doors, and shutters. With the village abandoned, a break-in would be simple. At least Yves and Suzette next door stayed home, laissez-faire about someone else’s fire, drinking cognac on their front stoop. They agreed to keep an eye out for hooligans.

  Annie and Merle joined the stream and were half a mile up when a fire truck arrived, lights, horn, and siren blasting through the vineyards, shooting scarlet on the hillside. The sisters stepped between two cars and covered their ears.

  Up on the hilltop flames roared through the dry woods at the hilltop, lighting up the sky. Smoke billowed, dropping ash on the crews, farmers, young men, women, old people. Annie tried to volunteer but the orders were incomprehensible. They saw Tristan, running with buckets of water. The grounds of the chateau were burning, bushes flaring as they incinerated. A gazebo went up in a flash and a whoosh, collapsing as its roof burned. The fire hose shot a stream of water onto the rooftops and the edge of the woods.

  Talk raced through the spectators. The old manor house, mansard roof dating it in the late 1800s, was used as a tasting room for the conglomerate’s winery housed in large outbuildings — like Château Gagillac but grander. The manager of the winery came back from the edge of the fire, covered with soot, his eyes stinging and red. The women next to Merle called him some unflattering names.

  She felt a hand on her arm. Albert stood in his coveralls and beret, staring into the fire and smoke. “Is my niece in there?”

  “They’re are keeping the kids away from the flames.”

  He scuttled off to find Valerie. Later she saw him talking to a man at the far side of the singed lawn. As a bush nearby exploded in flames, his face was illuminated — it was Pascal. He was talking, gesturing, then he ran back toward the fire. She wondered again what he was, why he needed binoculars. Did Albert know his true identity? Had Albert “placed” him with her?

  After two hours Annie and Merle walked back to the car to wait for Tristan and Valerie. “I’m worried about them, Annie,” Merle said, “but I’m also worried about leaving the house. And with one hand I’m not much use out here.”

  “You mean, the wine?”

  Even at two o’clock in the morning the village was lit up, shutters open. Down rue de Poitiers women stood outside in their robes and curlers, talking. It was a relief. With all these people about, mischief would be limited. Every other night the village was buttoned up by eleven.

  “You’ll be all right?” Annie said. “Look around. I’ll wait.”

  The house was just as she left it. Waving to Annie, Merle re-locked the front shutters and door. She turned on all the lights, poured herself the last of the Château L'Église-Clinet, and curled up with her novel on Tristan’s bed.

  At five Annie drove up with the fire crew. Merle had dozed a little but was up, unlocking the door for them. Tristan and Pascal went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate. Valerie went home with Albert. Pascal was covered in soot, his face half-wiped clean, shirt sleeves rolled up, ash on his shoulders. On his head he wore a dirty red bandanna. He poured them cups of cocoa and they sat around the dining table, stunned with fatigue. Tristan explained his duties, wetting down the lawn, in under three sentences. He drank half his chocolate and put his head on the table.

  “Some big corporation owns that winery, right?” Annie asked Pascal. “Do they use imported grapes?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “There is a rumor that the fire was set by other grape-growers, les petits vignobles, who don’t like their practices.”

  “Like those rabble-rousers Albert saw?”

  Merle set down her cup. “Is that what you’ve been doing up on the ladder and from the second floor window? Spying on the vineyards?”

  Pascal’s face flattened. Annie looked at her sister. “I’m going to take a shower.” She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Merle couldn’t keep the outrage out of her voice. “So all this was just an act? All this — ” Kindness? Affection? Biarritz-ing? “You’re not really a roofer, are you?”

  “Yes. But — no.” He looked in his cup.

  “You got Justine’s real name so easily. You’re a cop.”

  “I wanted to tell you.”

  “Well, we aren’t that close.”

  He w
inced. “I am undercover. I can’t tell you what I do. Even if I could I wouldn’t. It would put you in danger.”

  “So you are using me and protecting me?” She shook her head. “But what about the rest — about — ” She looked down at her son. His eyes were closed. It was all too trite. She wasn’t the helpless blond in this story. She was just some fool, the widow on the rebound, an easy tumble for a man with velvety eyes and a cute accent.

  He said, “We can talk about it, later when we’re not so tired.”

  “Why should we talk, Pascal? What is it I don’t understand?”

  He stood up. “When you feel like talking, we will talk. But now, you are angry. And we have been up all night.” He looked down at Tristan. “It is not a time for it.”

  The house, and village, lay in silence all morning. The rattle of a truck on the road up the hill woke Merle. She lay on the bed next to Annie, numb. She had finished grieving. But something was undone. Maybe she should just go home and figure out the rest of her life.

  She closed her eyes, fell back to sleep, and dreamed about Pascal rubbing the duties out of her palm, as if remaking her lifelines. It was very annoying. She woke up sweating. Today was the day to get the cast removed. Albert had offered to go with her. But Albert was the one who had found Pascal, so he knew Pascal was a cop. He had used their friendship to get Pascal up on her roof.

  She went to the doctor’s office by herself. So there had been a reason for her mistrust. Her gut was a powerful weapon. But she also believed him good, hadn’t she? She refused to believe intimacy meant nothing. But maybe for a man. What kind of man was Pascal?

  She tried to put it out of her mind, flipping through ancient copies of Le Figaro and Elle Maison. What she wouldn’t give for Better Homes and Gardens right now, or good old Good House-keeping.

  A woman came out of the back, holding a bandaged hand and arm. Odile Langois’s hair was falling out of its pins, stuck to her forehead and neck. Her sweater was off one shoulder, showing her bra strap. She looked bewildered and tired, her clothes dirty and stained with wine. “Odile?”