*
Constance made it through the formalities, the technicalities of the modest coping grave of stone and plaster, topped with gravel. She comforted the children, who cried but were so used to their father’s extended absences that they had hardly noticed a difference. She managed the friends from their New Orleans social milieu who came to offer condolences. She was grateful for Martin Birdsong’s steady presence as business associates paid their respects. She accepted repeated remarks about the tragedy of such an accident, their comments on how the trains must be redesigned to have closed vestibules between the cars, their comments on the preciousness of her children. She prayed she did so with grace.
In a momentary pause in the flow of Benton’s acquaintances, while Martin went to fetch some water, a small man darted into the line. His sudden appearance startled her, then terrified her. His bizarre A La Souvarov mustache froze her gaze above his thin lips as he whispered, “You shall hear from me soon, Madame. Count on it.” Fear flooded her. He scurried away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as he had come. She struggled to control herself, aghast, even as she reached out for the next hand extended to her in condolence. That was the man. The man she had seen near her fence. Perhaps the man on that train. Constance knew that sinister face.
The Mass was somber; the church half-filled. Constance sat with her veil, one arm around each child. Too young for this, she thought. Analee beside them, Martin just behind, lent her strength. The interment at St. Louis Cemetery was brief. Once done, Constance put her arms around the children to guide them toward the street. Their house in the Faubourg Marigny was near enough to walk. Martin and Analee were with them if one of the girls became too tired. Before she reached the cemetery’s exit, Father Joseph stopped her.
“Be at peace, my dear,” he said. “And do not be afraid. No harm will come to you.”
Constance startled at those last words. Martin stepped discreetly aside. What did Father Joseph mean? He must have seen that man. In his face she saw that he understood more of who her husband had been than she would have imagined. She thought again of the confessional. Ah, yes, she thought. Benton would do whatever took hold of him and then wash it away with words. Had he confessed his rage with his infant son? Would the infant son of Mary save him? This priest knows more of that man than I do.
“You need not worry, my dear. You are wondering if he came to confession.”
Eyes lowered, Constance nodded. Then raised her lids, her gaze direct. “Father, I am not so sure that I believe those confessions were sincere.” Dared she speak like this to a priest?
“Ah, I see.” He took her arm and guided her a few steps away. “The confessional is sacred, Mrs. Halstead. There is nothing I can share with you about your husband. But I can share with you my understanding of the God I serve.”
Anger was rising in her. “That my husband could do anything and simply confess, and it’s all wiped away.”
“I was going to phrase it a bit differently, Mrs. Halstead. That would imply a God whose love must be sought after. You remember, I mentioned catholic with a small c—as in universal. Everywhere all the time. You see, my dear, if God’s love is unconditional, then the purpose of confession is for us, not for God. I am quite partial to Psalm 139 which tells us that even if we make our bed in hell, even there his hand upholds us. It assures us that there is nowhere and no way we can turn, even away from him, to escape the love of God.” He looked up at the sky for a moment. “That is difficult theology, I know. It goes against the human grain. And it may not be of comfort to you. I give it to you however you may take it.”
She nodded her head again, thoroughly puzzled. She rejoined her two companions and guided the children onto the sidewalk. At a certain point, Analee reached down and lifted Maggie into her arms. As they neared home, they passed under the fringe trees that lined the street. The limbs were low enough to reach up and touch the golden leaves. Maggie stretched her hand up and pulled at them. Of course, Delia had to be lifted to them also, and only by Martin. The girls laughed as they batted branches back and forth, the leaves dancing. Between the golden tangle of branches and leaves, Constance could see blue fragments of sky.
CHAPTER 20
Through the following days, Constance negotiated life by habit: rising, putting up her hair, eating what little she could of the seductive meals Analee put before her—shrimp gumbo, hominy grits and molasses, and ?les flottantes. She occupied herself from morning to night making lists for the orphanage; playing with the girls, tucking them in; taking down and brushing her hair, counting the obligatory hundred strokes; and, finally, lying in bed with her head and dreams in the treacherous vestibule of a moving train. Sometimes she was there alone; sometimes fully herself with Benton; sometimes cowering from a mustached man who said, “I will see you.” Waking in terror and sitting the night through till morning, afraid to dream again.
On Wednesday Analee came to the back stoop where Constance was watching as the girls played tag, and handed her an envelope. She took it in puzzled surprise.
“Lady say give you this. Not a calling card. But she say give it. I sat her in the drawing room and said I’d fetch you. Now I’m gone go make y’all some tea. Then I’ll come watch the girls. It’s about time they have a snack, anyway.” Analee went back through the door.
Constance stood for a moment, examining the envelope. The address was in her own handwriting to Mrs. Albert Richard. The envelope had been opened, then resealed with red wax, stamped with an elegant capital R. This was the very note she had dropped at Mrs. Richard’s house, here, back in her hand.
“Mrs. Richard.” Constance nodded in greeting to her unexpected guest on the davenport.
“Dorothea, dear. I thought we had that settled at the luncheon.”
In her elegant tight-waisted suit, but again uncorseted, Dorothea stood in greeting. Constance motioned for her to sit down. She herself sat perched on the edge of a small wing chair near her guest, wishing to be free herself of her own corset.
“I hope all is well,” Constance said. “Tea is on its way.”
“Oh, yes, my dear, quite well. Plans are going splendidly. Except one thing.”
Constance looked down at the envelope in her hand.
Dorothea leaned toward her. “You see, my dear, I cannot accept this note of regret from you.” She lifted her empty palm, laid her hand back in her lap. “Actually, of course, I can. More to the point is that I am simply not willing to. As captain of the krewe, I am here to insist that you accept the invitation to be an attendant for Marian Berger, Queen of all compass points to the South.”
“Mrs. Ri . . . Dorothea, I deeply appreciate your visit—and the invitation—but I simply must still decline. For a number of reasons. Please, Dorothea, don’t make me go into this now. I have only just buried my husband.”
“Yes, I know that, Constance. It is a difficult time. You are a widow now.” She took her time. “But are you grieving?”
“Am I grieving?” Constance’s head shot up with a jolt. “I am a recently bereaved widow. From a terrible accident.”
“Yes, I am quite aware, my dear,” said Dorothea. “Yes. You are bereaved. But are you bereft? Is your heart forever broken? Will you never recover?”
“I’m sure that I shall recover at some point.” Constance stared straight into Dorothea’s eyes. “Most people do.”