“It was always a relief when they walked back out into the smell of grass and the sound of birds. Not that the little chapel was gloomy, or ill kept. A prayer said there was peaceful, with the sunlight filtered through stained glass, the votive flickering in front of Dad’s little niche.

But Judith still prefered the brighter serenity of the cemetery. They settled on their usual bench.

“Mother,” Judith said, “doesn’t it bother you that Dad was cremated?”

“No,” Mother said. She looked at Judith “Does it bother you that I will be?”

For a moment, Judith couldn’t speak. This was the first she’d heard of it.

“A little,” she said.

“Are you afraid the Almighty will be confused by ashes come Judgement Day?” Mother asked.

“I suppose not,” Judith said.

“That’s good. Yes, I’ve decided to be cremated. I would like my ashes to be mixed in with Bill’s. Then you can do what you want with them. ”

“Keep them in the columbarium. Bury them in the Scardino family plot. Display them on the mantle. Scatter them. I don’t care. God will take care of us either way.” They sat for a moment, as Judith tried to get used to the idea.

Mother was not one of those women who made romantic requests for the sake of drama. If she said she wanted to be cremated, then she wanted to be cremated. It was just that she’d always in the past been so intent on doing what was proper, what was accepted, and on this Catholic island cremation was not proper. It was for paupers and birds of passage. There were people who were still shocked by Dad’s urn.

“I’m so damned tired of this body,” he’d said near the end. “Burn it.”

Was Mother that tired of hers?

She wished Mother would smile again. Judith longed to see that old, self-satisfied curve of the lips that used to appear in newspaper photos. “Mrs. William Scardino-Quiller presided over the Lady’s Fundraising Tea for the Wartime Orphans Aid Committee with her usual elan…” She wished she could hear Mother and Shirley’s voices again in another room, talking quietly, conspiratorily, sometimes bursting into the light giggles of schoolgirls. The sound had always astonished Judith, no matter how often she heard it.

Mother stood up. “I suppose we should eat,” she said. “Is The Rose all right with you?”

She always asked that, and Judith always said “yes.”

They were seated at the corner table near an old painting of the French Quarter and the one of old Amadou. That was just where they were always put, and Judith suspected it was Artie’s way of showing where he stood — or where he imagined they stood. A new painting was up which seemed to distract Mother slightly.

She kept looking over her shoulder at it. “Hmmm.” She cocked her eyebrow at Judith.

Tuesday was no longer the day Mother ate at the Rose. Now it was early Saturday morning, after visiting Dad. Louie always came to the table less to take their order than to greet them and make sure they wanted what they usually wanted. Green omelets, with a salted tomato, and afterwards they’d talk, sipping Island Sours. They would discuss how their week had gone. Judith would try to find out how Mother was fillling her hours and Mother always became tightlipped and guarded. Judith suspected she didn’t want anyone to know how empty her time was now that she was no longer sitting on committees and going to teas.

This week, she said, she’d spent a day at grandmother’s helping to clean out the pantry, which had needed a good going over. And by the way, she added, “Your brother has a girlfriend.”

Judith at first thought she hadn’t heard correctly. “Yes,” mother said dryly. “A girffriend. That silly Ambriz girl.”

“Oh.” Judith wasn’t sure what to say, though she supposed it wasn’t surprising. Henri Ambriz’ daughter, Muriel, was pretty, but not very bright. Or very sweet. Or very stable. Or very good. Last year she’d stolen her father’s car and was caught doing 80 on Drum Street.

“How do Beth and Henri feel about it?”

Mother shrugged. “They are resigned. She comes over after school to do homework with Elisha. I think the Ambrizes are just glad she’s not taking off to Rakehell Point to drink and smoke cigarettes.

“But Elisha and Muriel, they aren’t really….”

“She convinced him to kiss her in the back yard last Monday night.”

“He liked it.”

“They’ve done it every night since.”

“What do you think?” Judith asked.

Mother shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m being wise,” she said. “But he’s happier. I like that.”

It had been so hard for Elisha. Near the end, when Dad was hardly ever awake, Elisha would stand at the foot of his bed and watch him, as if he were waiting.

Late, late one night, Judith had found him sitting in the chair watching Dad sleep. “I don’t want him to go without saying goodbye,” he’d told Judith.

Well, none of them got to say goodbye, not really. Dad had slipped away in his hospital bed, at 3:16 am precisely, after Mother sent Lish and Judith home to sleep. Mother slid her hand gently from his and stepped away from his bedside to get a drink of water.

When she got back, he was gone. Judith was convincd he’d chosen that instant because he couldn’t bear to leave Mother behind.

“Lish may get hurt,” Mother said. “No. He will get hurt. But maybe at bottom he’s like every other boy. Maybe he has to find his way to manhood in his own way.”

Before Judith could ask another question, Mother said, in her “don’t-interrupt-me” voice, “Now tell me about your week. How are things going?”

“Everything’s fine,” Judith said. “Just fine.”

Nursing school was fine. The residence hall was fine. Her three roommates were fine. The classes were fine. What else was there to say, really?

Sometimes, it was better not to think too much. Something inside her that used to leap towards the sky, something that had been the same bright shade of blue, now felt gray and and dusty and chained to the earth.

Suddenly, Judith remembered something. “I saw Mrs. Patch on Thursday. Do you remember her? The lady who hugged you in front of St. Elmo’s at Dad’s memorial? Tipitana Patch. She brought her little girl to the hospital. Dolleen. Isn’t that a funny name?”

Mother offered neither the disapproving frown nor superior moue Judith had hoped for.

“I asked her who she wanted to see, and she said she wanted to see me. She said she wanted to know how we were all doing.”

Mother cocked an eyebrow. “…but she brought that addled daughter of hers to you,” she said. “What did she really want?”

“Well, after we’d exchanged a few pleasantries, she very casually said she wanted my opinion about Dolleen. I told her immediately, of course, that I couldn’t diagnose anything, that I had no business even telling her what I thought. If Matron ever found out I’d be… Well, it would be bad for me. Very bad.”

“She listened to me. She nodded. And then she went on talking like I’d not said anything at all, began telling me all about Dolleen. Well, you know, the poor little thing is five now, and still doesn’t talk.”

“Not a prepossessing child, I must say,” Mother said.

“And her gait is so odd, the way she rocks from side to side and she’s so badly coordinated. And now Doctor Edmonds — the one from Philadelphia — he told Tippy that Dolleen is spastic and retarded and will never learn anything much and needs to be in a home, and he even gave Tippy a list of places — on the mainland Mother! — where she could be housed.”

“‘Thats what he said!’ Tippy told me. “‘Housed! I know what kind of place he meant! Miss Judy, he’s talking about making us do it! He’s using words like ‘the best interests of the child,’ like I wouldn’t know what’s good for my girl! Started toting up our other kids and saying they deserved more of my attention. ‘If you people will have litters of seven,’ he said. Litters! And now Ambrose is saying as maybe the doctor is right… My poor man, don’t judge him, Miss, he loves his girl, but he just doesn’t know what to do.”

“Harold Edmonds is a mainlander,” Mother said flatly. “He likely took one look at the Patch woman and… Well, that’s all I’m going to say.”

“While Tippy was talking I watched Dolleen. No, she doesn’t look very bright, but she kept looking at me and then at Tippy, and a couple times she began working her mouth and tongue, and making those grunting noises and playing with her fingers like she sometimes does. And something occurred to me. I thought, well, maybe as a family friend, not as a student nurse, but as a friend…”

“That was risky,” Mother said.

“Believe me, I was praying nobody would walk in. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to just sit down with Dolleen for a moment and treat her like she was any other five-year-old girl. There were a few books that had been donated to the pediatric ward, and I took one out, a book about Noah’s Ark, and handed it to her, and we sat down on the floor together.

Once she was sitting, she seemed more steady, and she looked at the pictures as any normal five-year-old would, that is, she would examine a picture, then turn a page. I talked, but she didn’t pay any attention to me. She did sway just a little bit. I noticed once that she listed slightly to the right, then corrected herself. If I touched her, she would immediately look at me and the second time I did it, she pointed to a picture as though she thought it was significant. ‘That’s pretty,’ I said, but she frowned and looked at me, poking at the picture with her finger.

So I looked at it more closely. All the animals were marching into the Ark, two by two. Lions, giraffes, horses, tigers… She was pointing at the kangaroos, and at first I thought, well, maybe she’s never seen a picture of a kangaroo before. But then I realized, she was pointing at the belly of the kangaroo on the left. It had a pouch, and a tiny little head was peeking out of it. The artist couldn’t resist smuggling in a baby kangaroo.”

“‘Oh what a pretty baby!’ I said. Dolleen kept looking at me. Then she turned back to the book and began poking the animals with her fingers. Lion, lion. Giraffe, giraffe. Horse, horse. Tiger, tiger… and then, kangaroo, kangaroo, kangaroo. She looked at me again. Then she looked back down at the book, and turned the page.”

“Very carefully, I got up. I walked a few feet behind her. She was completely engrossed in the book, her head down.” I smacked my hands together as hard as I could, so loudly Tippy jumped in her seat. Dollene didn’t move.

“‘O kick me in the arse,’ Tippy said as she stood up. ‘She’s not slow! She’s deaf as a post!'”

“That Harold Edmonds.”Mother said. “Such a stupid man.”

“So we talked. She understands not to mention anything about me when he takes Dolleen in to get her hearing checked. I’m pretty sure they’re going to find something going on, especially with her inner ear. That could explain the balance issues.”

“You know what Tippy said to me before they left? She said, ‘You’re just like your daddy, hon.”

“‘Sometimes I can see Mr. Quiller looking right out through your eyes.'”

“It sounds like you had a good week,” Mother said.

“She’s right, you know,” Mother continued. “Sometimes I do see… Oh, well, here he comes,” she was looking past Judy, an irritated line between her brows, and Judy knew without turning who she meant. “I wish that man would shave. The thing on his chin looks so unsanitary.”

Artie Macana always came out to say hello when they were at The Rose.

“I see you’ve added a new painting,” Mother said.

“Ah yes, the beauteous Roselyn. My great-grandmother. We found an old picture of her in Grandpa’s desk, and I thought it was about time the restaurant’s namesake got her due. Hired one of those Mainland artists who come through here every spring to fix something up for us. “You know…”

He grinned and looked sideways at the painting.

“She was not exactly virtuous, poor Roselyn. But she was a beauty, no doubt of that.”

Judith felt her face turn red. She was remembering what Mother had called Artie’s Aunt Kristal. “Daughter of a pimp and granddaughter of a whore.”

“I just wanted to come by and make sure everything was good for you ladies,” he said.

“It’s always good, Artie,”Judy smiled. “How’s your father doing?”

“Better since he got the wheelchair. Now at least Laurette can push him around town. He goes to the park a lot.”

“It cheers him up to see people, especially when they come up and talk to him. A lot of folks do that. Of course, we’d all love it if they’d both get out of that house.”

“I understand why he won’t go. Hey, I grew up there; I’m sentimental about the place myself. But the drains are a mess and for two old people… Well, you know what? Mimi pointed out to me the other night Pa doesn’t have much time left, and if he wants to spend it there, God bless him. Let him be where he wants to be.”

Soon the brunch rush would begin. After they’d paid their bill and stepped out to the patio, they kissed goodbye.

Judith had to get back to the nursing school, where she would wipe off her makeup and put on her uniform and spend the day either studying or taking orders from men who had — maybe — half her intelligence and industry. Still, Brigitte thought, it had been a good morning together, one that had left her feeling better about her daughter.

The girl had been so flat since Bill died. She’d never had much gumption to begin with, and Brigitte had worried Judith’s small portion of audacity had been crushed entirely out of her.

Now Brigitte knew it wasn’t. Tipitana Patch was a vulgar woman, but Brigitte was glad she’d brought her awful daughter to see Judith. When the moment came, Judith had looked over her shoulder, weighed the risks and consequences and, after all, done exactly what she wanted to do.

It was still early in the day. Brigitte didn’t want to go home yet. Elisha was at the library now, helping Ogden Trumble shelve books. Lately he and that Sergei Pasco had been volunteering at the library. Jerome Pasco was still awful, of course, but she supposed Sergei was inoffensive enough. He and Jerome were teaching Elisha carpentry and in general keeping him busy, and that was a good thing. But it meant the house was often empty, and she couldn’t stand the gray light in the rooms during the day, the silence.

Oh well. Today, she’d do what she always did on Saturday, take a walk down along the Harbor road, maybe swing down to the park. She’d go to the art museum and look at the pictures, then the library to see if the new magazines had gotten in. After she stopped by to check in on Mama and have a talk, it would late enough to go home and turn on some lights. She turned to start the walk and…

Shirley. And Doreen Sugar and Paula Cardo from the Pioneer Committee. Brigitte felt that odd click inside, the adjustment from “this is normal” to “this is no longer normal.” She nodded a cool greeting and was about turn away, when Shirley said, “Brigitte, wait.”

Doreen was hovering, trying to get Shirley’s attention. “Could we have a minute?” Shirley said over her shoulder.

Doreen and Paula moved a few feet away. “Did you get my letter?” Shirley asked.

“Yes.” Brigitte had had it for three days now.

“Were you ever planning to answer it?”

It was Brigitte thought, oddly liberating when you stopped giving a damn.

She’d not really been aware in the past of her own eagerness to propitiate Shirley, to answer quickly. Now she was free to think before she responded.

Before she could, however, Shirley said “You know, we aren’t children any more. This isn’t a game.”

“Did you write it, Shirley? Or was it a group effort?”

“You know I wrote it. We all agreed I should, we all…”

“…worked out the terms.” said Brigitte.

“How do you all imagine me making my statement? Standing in the gazebo in Reckoner Park, maybe, with a microphone? Would the Committee put an advance announcement of the event in its weekly newsletter, make sure there’s a big enough crowd come to see?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Shirley. “All it would take is just one, offhand comment to Miss Sherman at the Beacon, something she could put in her column. We just need something to show that you’re on the right page.”

“And why would the society columnist want to talk to me?”

“Bridge, I’m trying to help. Look, Bill is… I’m sorry, but he’s gone.”

“You don’t have to worry about what he would think anymore, you can say what you think. You can say the truth. Just do that and the Committee will accept you back..”

“And that truth would be what?”

“Please, don’t pretend to be stupid.” Shirley sighed.

“I mean, the truth about Artiste Macana and his so-called church. It’s not like it even exists any more, is it, not like you would be doing it any hurt. That place has been boarded up for weeks now, thank God. The Milk Committee’s gone, so that huckster has no pitch left for you to queer. You can just make one little thing, one comment…”

“About Tante and Artiste being communists.”

“Yes.”

“No thank you.” Brigitte turned and had walked a few steps when she felt Shirley’s hand on her shoulder.

“Oh for pity’s sake. Bridge, you’re talking to me, to Shirley.”

“I know you. You’ve never even liked your aunt. You were always talking about what a hopeless, weepy, self-rightous prig she is. Has that changed all of a sudden?”

Again, Brigitte thought for a moment. One of her weekly chores was visiting her aunt and Artiste. Judy would go with her because Brigitte and Tante always ended up annoying each other to the point of speechlessness. And when that insipid, two-faced Marion was there — as she usually was — it was almost unbearable.

“No,” she said. “That’s still the same.”

“So why not just say…”

“Because it’s not true.”

Shirley stepped back, shaking her head. “My God,” she said. “You haven’t changed, have you? You’re still a child!”

“You haven’t grown up one bit since we were in grammar school.”

It was time to go. “Don’t think you can just turn your back on me, Brigitte Duday!”

“Don’t you dare expect me to come running after you this time. I know you. Everyone does, and everyone knew your vulgar crook of a father. I closed my eyes for years to your family, do you hear me? Do you hear me…?” Brigitte heard.

She kept walking.