French Silk(131)

A struggling wisteria vine and one quick, shy chameleon were all that remained alive in the courtyard. The foundation of the fountain was cracked and crumbling. The basin around the naked cherub was filled with stagnant rainwater and dead leaves. The glider was rusty and squeaked when Claire gave it a gentle push.

"We used to have ferns hanging everywhere. When the airplane ferns made babies, we'd pinch them off and root them in water before planting them in clay pots. Every spring we'd plant perennials in the flower beds and they'd bloom sometimes through December. On mild evenings we'd eat supper out here. Before I started school, Mama used to sit in this chair and tell me fairy tales," she said, lovingly running her hand over the rusty wrought iron.

"Seeing it like this makes me sad. It's like viewing the corpse of someone you love." She gave the courtyard another poignant glance, then stepped back into the sun room. In the kitchen, she checked a tin in the pantry and found that it still contained Bigelow tea. "I made tea the last time I was here. Would you like some?"

Without waiting for his answer, she rinsed out the kettle and turned on the stove beneath it. She was reaching into the cabinet for china when Cassidy captured her busy hands and drew her around to face him.

This moment had been inevitable. She had known that eventually Cassidy would ask her about it and she would have to tell him. She had prolonged it for as long as possible but could delay no longer.

"Claire," he asked softly, "why did you kill Jackson Wilde?"

His eyes were gazing intently into hers. The time had come.

"Jackson Wilde was my father."





* * *



Chapter 29

? ^ ?

Spring 1958



It was hot in the Vieux Carré even though May was only a few days old. Blossoms had burst in such abundance that the air was heavily perfumed. Leaves were new and vibrantly green. The vitality of spring rushed through the veins of three schoolgirls, filling them with a lust for life that couldn't be appeased by English literature, geometry, French, or chemistry.

With energy pumping and looking for an outlet, they abandoned their studies to sneak off in search of the forbidden pleasures to be found in the French Quarter. They gorged on Lucky Dogs bought from a street vendor and had their palms read by a strolling gypsy lady with a parrot on her shoulder.

On a dare from Lisbet, Alice glanced inside one of the strip joints on Bourbon Street when a teasing barker swung the door open as she passed. Squealing, she raced back to where her friends were waiting. "What'd you see?"

"It was gross," Alice squealed.

"Was she naked?"

"Except for tassels. She was twirling them."

"Liar," Lisbet said.

"I swear."

"No one can really do that. It's anatomically impossible."

"It is if they're no bigger than yours," Alice taunted.

Mary Catherine Laurent diplomatically intervened. She often played the role of peacemaker, disliking strife of any kind, but particularly among her friends. "She didn't have on anything else?"

"Not a stitch. Well, she had a tiny triangle of glitter over you-know-what."

"Her *?" Dumbfounded, the two other girls gaped at Lisbet. "Well, that's what my big brother calls it." Lisbet's brother was a sophomore at Tulane and often inspired awe among his younger sister's friends.

Alice sniffed loftily. "That sounds like something he'd say. He's rude, crude, and socially unacceptable."

"And you're passionately in love with him," Mary Catherine teased.

"I am not."

"Are so."

"It doesn't matter," Lisbet said, striking off down the sidewalk, the pleats of her blue and gray plaid parochial-school skirt brushing against her calves. "He likes Betsy Bouvier. He told me he got his hand up her skirt on their last date." She glanced over her shoulder at Alice, who looked stricken. "Gotcha, Alice!"

"Oh!"

"Does cunt mean the same thing as *?" Mary Catherine asked as she skipped to catch up.

"Shh!" She was sprayed by the admonitions of her two friends. "My God, Mary Catherine. Don't you know anything?"

"Well, I don't have any brothers," she said defensively. "Does it mean the same thing?"

"Yes."

"But," Alice added, "if any man ever says that to you, you should slap his face."

"Or knee him hard right in the nuts."

"It's bad, then?"

"It's about the worst," Lisbet said, dramatically rolling her eyes.

"Yesterday you said 'f*ck' was the worst."

The two girls looked at each other and shook their heads over Mary Catherine's ignorance and confusion. "She's hopeless."

They browsed in the gaudy souvenir shops lining both sides of Bourbon Street, pretending to admire the feathered, spangled Mardi Gras masks while actually studying a coffee mug with a detailed phallic handle.

"Do you think they really get that big when … you know, when you're doing it?" Alice whispered.

Lisbet answered with an air of superiority, "Oh, much bigger than that."

"How would you know?"