Heavy pocket doors sealed off rooms to the right and left of the main hall. Beyond the staircase, regular doors gave onto other rooms and closets. A small crucifix hung above each.

Clearly, the architect hadn't been tasked with bringing Mother Nature into the back of the house. Even so, the small parlor to which we were led was much dimmer than mandated by the paucity of gla.s.s. Every window was shuttered, every panel closed. Two bra.s.s table lamps cast a minimum wattage of light.

"S'il vous plait." Indicating a gold velveteen loveseat. Indicating a gold velveteen loveseat.

Harry and I sat. Obeline took a wing chair on the far side of the room, snugged her sleeves down her wrists, and cupped one hand into the other in her lap.

"Harry and Tempe." Our names sounded odd with the chiac chiac inflection. inflection.

"Your home is lovely." I started out casual. "And the totem poles are quite striking. Am I correct in a.s.suming the gazebo was once a sweat house?"

"My father-in-law had an employee whose pa.s.sion was Native art. The man lived many years in this house."

"The structure is unusual."

"The man was..." She groped for an adjective. "...unusual."

"I noticed the carved benches in your foyer. Do you have many pieces from his collection?"

"A few. When my father-in-law died, my husband fired this man. The parting was not amicable."

"I'm sorry. Those things are always difficult."

"It had to be done."

Beside me, Harry cleared her throat.

"And I'm very sorry your marriage turned out badly," I said, softening my voice.

"So you've heard the story."

"Part of it, yes."

"I was sixteen, poor, with few choices." With her good hand, she flicked something from her skirt. "David found me beautiful. Marriage offered a way out. So many years ago."

Screw small talk. I went for what I wanted to know. "Where did you go, Obeline?"

She knew what I was asking. "Here, of course."

"You never returned to Pawleys Island."

"Mama got sick."

"So suddenly?"

"She needed care."

It wasn't really an answer.

I wondered what illness had killed Laurette. Let it go.

"You left without saying good-bye. Tante Euphemie and Oncle Fidele refused to tell us anything. Your sister stopped writing. Many of my letters came back unopened."

"Evangeline went to live with Grand-pere Landry."

"Wouldn't her mail have been sent there?"

"She was far out in the country. You know the postal service."

"Why did she move?"

"When Mama couldn't work, her husband's people took control." Had her voice hardened, or was it a by-product of the painfully recrafted speech?

"Your parents reunited?"

"No."

Several moments pa.s.sed, awkward, filled only by the ticking of a clock.

Obeline broke the silence.

"May I offer you sodas?"

"Sure."

Obeline disappeared through the same door by which we'd entered.

"You couldn't at least try try English?" Harry sounded annoyed. English?" Harry sounded annoyed.

"I want her to feel comfortable."

"I heard you say Pawleys Island. What's the scoop?"

"They were brought back here because Laurette got sick."

"With what?"

"She didn't say."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much."

Harry rolled her eyes.

I took in the room. The walls were covered with amateur landscapes and still lifes marked by garish colors and distorted proportions. Cases of books and collections of bric-a-brac gave the small s.p.a.ce a cluttered, claustrophobic feel. Gla.s.s birds. Snow globes. Dream catchers. White hobnail dishes and candlesticks. Music boxes. Statues of the Virgin Mary and her minions. Saint Andrew? Francis? Peter? A painted plaster bust. That one I knew. Nefert.i.ti.

Obeline returned, face fixed in its same unreadable expression. She handed out Sprites, making eye contact with neither Harry nor me. Resuming her seat, she focused on her soft drink. One thumb worked the can, clearing moisture with nervous up-and-down flicks.

Again, I honed in like a missile.

"What happened to Evangeline?"

The thumb stopped. Obeline's lopsided gaze rose to mine.

"But that's what you you have come to tell have come to tell me, me, no?" no?"

"What do you mean?"

"You came to say they've found my sister's grave."

My heart somersaulted. "Evangeline is dead?"

Unable to follow the French, Harry had grown bored and begun scanning book t.i.tles. Her head whipped around at the sharpness of my tone.

Obeline wet her lips but didn't speak.

"When did she die?" I could barely form the words.

"Nineteen seventy-two."

Two years after leaving the island. Dear G.o.d.

I pictured the skeleton in my lab, its ruined face and damaged fingers and toes.

"Was Evangeline sick?"

"Of course she wasn't sick. That's crazy talk. She was only sixteen."

Too quick? Or was I being paranoid?

"Please, Obeline. Tell me what happened."

"Does it matter anymore?"

"It matters to me."

Carefully, Obeline set her drink on the gate-leg table at her side. Adjusted her shawl. Smoothed her skirt. Laid her hands in her lap. Looked at them.

"Mama was bedridden. Grand-pere couldn't work. It fell to Evangeline to bring home a check."

"She was only a kid." I was doing a poor job of masking my feelings.

"Things were different then."

The statement hung in the air.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I was too dejected to push.

No matter. Obeline continued without prodding.

"When we were separated, at first I wanted to die."

"Separated?"

"My mother and sister moved in with Grand-pere. I was sent to live with a Landry cousin. But Evangeline and I talked. Not often. But I knew what was happening.

"In the mornings and evenings, Evangeline nursed Mama. The rest of the day she worked as a maid. A portion of her pay was sent for my support."

"What was wrong with your mother?"

"I don't know. I was much too young."

Again, too rapid?

"Where was your father?"

"If we ever meet, I'll make certain to ask. That will be in another life, of course."

"He's dead?"

She nodded. "It was hard on Evangeline. I wanted to help, but I was so little. What could I do?"

"Neither of you attended school?"

"I went for a few years. Evangeline already knew how to read and do math."

My friend, who loved books and stories, and wanted to be a poet. I didn't trust myself to comment.

"Mama died," Obeline continued. "Four months later it was Grand-pere."

Obeline stopped. Composing herself? Organizing recollections? Triaging what to share and what to hold back?

"Two days after Grand-pere's funeral, I was taken to his house. Someone had brought empty boxes. I was told to pack everything. I was in an upstairs bedroom when I heard yelling. I crept downstairs and listened outside the kitchen door.

"Evangeline was arguing with a man. I couldn't hear their words, but their voices frightened me. I ran back upstairs. Hours later, as we were leaving, I saw into the kitchen." She swallowed. "Blood. On the wall. More on the table. b.l.o.o.d.y rags in the sink."

Sweet Jesus.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. What could I do? I was terrified. I kept it to myself."

"Who was the man?"

"I don't know."