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Authors: DeVa Gantt
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night?”
“Mama,” he reiterated happily. “She plays with me and tells me things.”
“He’s lying!” Yvette protested, but when Charmaine told her to hush, she grumbled under her breath: “Well, he is.”
“What does she tell you, Pierre?” Charmaine asked, stepping closer.
“Can’t tell. I’m not ’apposed to.”
“Why aren’t you supposed to?” John asked.
“Mama…she says never to tell.”
“Pierre,” Charmaine offered, “maybe you’ve been dreaming.”
“Oh no,” he replied resolutely. “She wakes me up, and sometimes she visits me when I take my nap. She took me to her big room that day when that auntie spanked me…”
Jeannette began to weep, her wounds reopened.
With an instinct born of love, Pierre crawled from his bed and cuddled next to her. “Don’ cry, Jeannie. I sorry I made you cry.”
Charmaine was at a loss and turned to John, but one look at his face—the pallor that rivaled the goose flesh that crawled up her neck—and she knew he’d be of little help. What was wrong with him? Men were supposed to be strong.
“He’s obviously been dreaming,” she reasoned with weak conviction.
Sometime later, she climbed back into bed, but Pierre’s bizarre story kept her awake, amplified by John’s grave eyes staring at the French doors, as if he fully expected the ghost of Colette Duvoisin to float through them.
Saturday, September 2, 1837
Surprisingly, Charmaine awakened early the next morning, so early in fact, she heard Paul descend the stairs at the crack of dawn. Coming to an abrupt decision, she threw back the covers. She’d breakfast with him. Perhaps he could make some sense of last night and the fantastic chain of events that had shaken all of them. Unlike John, Paul would prove sensible: laugh at her and then supply some logical explanation.
As she dressed, she wondered if John had remained in the children’s room the entire night. She crept to the connecting door and gingerly opened it. All four occupants were sleeping soundly. Pierre was cuddled in the crook of John’s body, his back pressed against John’s chest. He clutched his elder brother’s hand, a substitute for the stuffed lamb, which had fallen to the floor again.
Charmaine was captivated, the similarities between man and boy remarkable. Though Pierre’s hair was a shade closer to his mother’s, the cut of his face, the almond shaped eyes—Frederic’s eyes—were the same. Even in sleep, they worked beneath closed lids. So, too, did John’s, though the movement ended there. He was totally relaxed, his face youthful. He was rather handsome now, his even breathing stirring the fine locks atop Pierre’s head. Her gaze roamed further, to the two arms, juxtaposed, Pierre’s creamy white against its swarthy counterpart. Paradoxically, the limbs drew strength and comfort from each other.
She closed the door, freezing when it creaked on swollen hinges. It roused Pierre. He turned over, found John in his bed, and sat up.Yawning, he leaned forward until his face was only an inch from his brother’s and tried to pry open an eyelid. John turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. The three-year-old immediately straddled his back.
“Have mercy on me, Pierre,” the man groaned as the boy began bouncing. “If I were a horse, I would have slept in the stable last night.”
Charmaine stifled a giggle, watching as Pierre slipped to John’s side and squeezed into the space between man and wall. To her surprise, he stuck a thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes. She shut the door and finished her toilette.
Paul sat alone at the table, sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper. When Charmaine stepped closer, his eyes slowly lifted, and a smile broke across his face. “This is an unexpected surprise. Why are you up so early?”
“I don’t know,” she fibbed, dissembling under his charismatic charm. “I guess I just couldn’t sleep.” Stupid answer! Tell him the truth…that
“Mama,” he reiterated happily. “She plays with me and tells me things.”
“He’s lying!” Yvette protested, but when Charmaine told her to hush, she grumbled under her breath: “Well, he is.”
“What does she tell you, Pierre?” Charmaine asked, stepping closer.
“Can’t tell. I’m not ’apposed to.”
“Why aren’t you supposed to?” John asked.
“Mama…she says never to tell.”
“Pierre,” Charmaine offered, “maybe you’ve been dreaming.”
“Oh no,” he replied resolutely. “She wakes me up, and sometimes she visits me when I take my nap. She took me to her big room that day when that auntie spanked me…”
Jeannette began to weep, her wounds reopened.
With an instinct born of love, Pierre crawled from his bed and cuddled next to her. “Don’ cry, Jeannie. I sorry I made you cry.”
Charmaine was at a loss and turned to John, but one look at his face—the pallor that rivaled the goose flesh that crawled up her neck—and she knew he’d be of little help. What was wrong with him? Men were supposed to be strong.
“He’s obviously been dreaming,” she reasoned with weak conviction.
Sometime later, she climbed back into bed, but Pierre’s bizarre story kept her awake, amplified by John’s grave eyes staring at the French doors, as if he fully expected the ghost of Colette Duvoisin to float through them.
Saturday, September 2, 1837
Surprisingly, Charmaine awakened early the next morning, so early in fact, she heard Paul descend the stairs at the crack of dawn. Coming to an abrupt decision, she threw back the covers. She’d breakfast with him. Perhaps he could make some sense of last night and the fantastic chain of events that had shaken all of them. Unlike John, Paul would prove sensible: laugh at her and then supply some logical explanation.
As she dressed, she wondered if John had remained in the children’s room the entire night. She crept to the connecting door and gingerly opened it. All four occupants were sleeping soundly. Pierre was cuddled in the crook of John’s body, his back pressed against John’s chest. He clutched his elder brother’s hand, a substitute for the stuffed lamb, which had fallen to the floor again.
Charmaine was captivated, the similarities between man and boy remarkable. Though Pierre’s hair was a shade closer to his mother’s, the cut of his face, the almond shaped eyes—Frederic’s eyes—were the same. Even in sleep, they worked beneath closed lids. So, too, did John’s, though the movement ended there. He was totally relaxed, his face youthful. He was rather handsome now, his even breathing stirring the fine locks atop Pierre’s head. Her gaze roamed further, to the two arms, juxtaposed, Pierre’s creamy white against its swarthy counterpart. Paradoxically, the limbs drew strength and comfort from each other.
She closed the door, freezing when it creaked on swollen hinges. It roused Pierre. He turned over, found John in his bed, and sat up.Yawning, he leaned forward until his face was only an inch from his brother’s and tried to pry open an eyelid. John turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. The three-year-old immediately straddled his back.
“Have mercy on me, Pierre,” the man groaned as the boy began bouncing. “If I were a horse, I would have slept in the stable last night.”
Charmaine stifled a giggle, watching as Pierre slipped to John’s side and squeezed into the space between man and wall. To her surprise, he stuck a thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes. She shut the door and finished her toilette.
Paul sat alone at the table, sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper. When Charmaine stepped closer, his eyes slowly lifted, and a smile broke across his face. “This is an unexpected surprise. Why are you up so early?”
“I don’t know,” she fibbed, dissembling under his charismatic charm. “I guess I just couldn’t sleep.” Stupid answer! Tell him the truth…that
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