In the days that followed, Constance went about the house as if by braille. Her hands were everywhere, on everything familiar: the children, the chaise, the davenport, the dishes, the door. She felt Analee’s shadow near her, unobtrusive but there. In case.
By the end of the week, Constance had emerged from her lethargy. She found she could talk, even play with the girls, engage in their chatter. In the kitchen she helped Analee make shortbread for the girls, their favorite. When their little arms tangled around her in delight, she hugged them back and held them to her. She had to tell them now that their father was dead. She would hold them and wipe their tears away. She would answer their questions in whatever way she could manage. Life would go on.
When the police released Benton’s body to Constance, with the cause of death entered as drowning, subsequent to a fall from the Illinois-Central Limited, cause unknown, she went to Benton’s priest.
Though Benton had gone to Mass only rarely, Constance had occasionally accompanied him to the Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church. As she approached along Burgundy—she had difficulty with directions due to the unusual New Orleans pronunciation, with an accent on the second syllable—she could hear the chatter of children’s voices. Then the adult voice of one of the Marianite Sisters in charge of the school, their convent just adjacent. Constance entered the church, as she had entered with him, awed and comforted somehow by the quality of light as it filtered in through the high stained-glass windows that banked the sides of the church, beneath its towering arched ceiling. Her favorite window drew her, as always: Mary, alone, with a blue shawl hanging from one shoulder, her arms half folded to one side as if to hold a baby, but empty, and at her feet, two children playing. How had some unknown artist so faultlessly depicted her own plight? And as always, Constance’s eyes were drawn upward into those arches, which pointed toward a mystery that she could barely conceive, but that she could feel in unexpected peace. She bowed and made her way along the side aisle. Father Joseph was somehow there, as if expecting her. They spoke briefly. He was so kind.
“He died without last rites, Father. You know I am not Catholic. I don’t know what that means for him.”
“Last rites are for the comfort and assurance of the dying, Mrs. Halstead. They are not a ticket required for Heaven, if you are concerned for your husband.”
“No, Father. My concern is to know how to do this for him as it should be done. I need to do this right, Father. To make these arrangements properly and know he may have his service here, where he attended.” She stopped. “Sometimes attended. And be interred in St. Louis Cemetery.”
“You attended with him, yes? I’ve seen your face in the congregation from time to time.”
She nodded.
Father Joseph remained silent for a moment, his face lowered. She wondered if he was praying. “I’d like to return to your statement that you are not Catholic, Mrs. Halstead. Au contraire to the stance of our recent Archbishop Janssens, whose mission to Catholicize New Orleans has tended instead to divide us, we all know and feel our city, our home together here on earth, to be catholic with a little c. To be universal. So, there we are.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Now, the death is ruled an accident? Not suicide?”
There it was again, that unexpected word. This time she was stunned with the realization that, yes, a man in the straits of huge debt to the Black Hand might, indeed, choose suicide. Perhaps this priest had known Benton better than she realized, had heard his confession.
“Yes, Father. The police have officially entered it as an accident.”
“I will accompany you tomorrow, Mrs. Halstead, to make arrangements. It is not a thing I usually do, but then most of my bereaved are also Catholic. With a capital C. All interment is aboveground, because of the high water table. But you know that. I don’t know why I’m even saying that. Just some sort of habit I have.” He took her gently by the elbow. “Come. We will arrange a time for the vigil and the funeral Mass. Had Mr. Halstead much family here?”
“No,” she said. “Only the children and me. And friends, of course.”
“Are your children greatly bereaved at the loss of their father?” He had stopped, a rainbow of light falling on his shoulder.
“No. Well, yes, of course. They are quite sad, but they are very young and hardly understand.” She could not stop looking at the colors of the light falling all around her.
“Perhaps they understand more than you may be aware of.”
“Benton was rarely home, Father. His business required him to travel a great deal.”
“Yes, I believe I knew that.”
He seemed to be waiting for something more.
“And when he was home, well, he was hardly home.” Constance stopped, listening to her words. There was an unexpected peace in her with this man, a bewildering trust in this near stranger. “Yes, hardly,” she repeated, emphasizing the first syllable of the word. “He was not an easy man, Father. He was hard or he was distant. He might as well have been somewhere else. I sometimes wished he were.” There, she had said it. For the first time ever, she had said it. Out loud. To a priest.
“Come with me, Mrs. Halstead. We will make sure that all is as it should be. At least as far as the service and burial are concerned.” He took her gently by the arm and walked with her through the path of colored light falling across the stone floor.
*
Waiting outside was a tall, narrow-shouldered man, who turned at the sound of Father Joseph’s farewell. Martin Birdsong, her family doctor, her dearest childhood friend. How had he known?
“Constance.” He held out his hands to her. “I heard the terrible news. I went by the house, and Analee told me where I might find you. I peeked in through the door, but you were in such earnest conversation, I didn’t want to interrupt.” He clasped her hands firmly. “I’m so sorry, Constance. You must tell me whatever you need.”
“Martin.” She lay one hand on his chest. “If I only knew, you would be the one I would tell.”
“Then let me walk you home.” He offered his elbow, and she took it.
They walked in silence for a time. Above them, mockingbirds flitted among the leaves, pecking away at the blue-black fall berries.
“Is everything arranged to suit you, Constance? No difficulties?”
“Yes, all arranged.”
“As Benton would want it?”
Constance stopped. “I have no idea what Benton would have wanted, Martin. My husband is not only dead, but also a complete mystery to me. I’m not sure I ever knew him at all.”
“That may be true.” Martin led her forward.
“So you knew things I did not?” She had stopped again.
“Perhaps. Perhaps I know only gossip, Constance. What have you learned?”
“That he was an inordinate gambler. That he lied to me about investments to try to get money from my trust.”
“Ah, well, then, I expect there is no more for you to learn. There would be details, of course, but your two statements cover it. He was in debt to the Black Hand, I know. But given his tragic accident—I would bet he went outside for air and a smoke in a card game loss—I expect that is the end of that.”
Constance tripped on her skirt at the remembrance of Benton’s lit cigarette flying through the air. The feel of his hands on her, on the young man he believed her to be. His eyes. Then Benton in the open air.
“Constance?”
Martin clasped her upper arms, supporting her. She leaned against him, the tears released.
“It’s grief, Constance.”
“Not for him.”
“Then for the loss of who he might have been. It’s just as painful, Constance. Let it come.”