Page 80 of Phantom
“Actually, I have it on good authority, à la Madam G, that the grave everyone thinks is hers is just a front for tourists. The Voodoo Priestess is actually on the much quieter and more peaceful side. It avoids the drunken vandals and any disrespectful tourists.”
“Good. It always made me angry to see what’s been done to it. I get paying respects—”
“Any respect can be paid to it like an altar, while she can still be left in peace,” Sol agrees and spans his large hand across my lower back. “Come, we can’t keep her waiting.”
My eyes widen and if it weren’t for Sol’s gentle nudge, I would’ve stopped in my tracks. “Marie Laveauis waiting for us?”
“Of course not.” He chuckles. “Here, hold these.”
Rather than removing his hand from my back, he gives me the flowers, and uses his newly free hand to fish a big skeleton key from his pocket. He leads me to a section of the brick wall where paint has worn off. After glancing around, no doubt making sure we’re alone, he inserts the key into the center of a curvyXmarking the brickwork. He twists it, and the wall shifts to reveal the outline of a door. Sol easily pushes the door forward and he slides it to the right like a barn door, eliciting a low rumble of metal on metal.
Once it’s open, he escorts me through the entry and returns the doorway to its stationary position behind us.
“Come, pretty muse,” Sol murmurs.
My inner muscles flutter at his command. I quickly shove my desire to the back of my mind, and enjoy the way he gently guides me with his hand pressing lightly on my lower back. The comforting touch makes me shiver and I notice in the corner of my eye that even the right side of his lips lift up in a smug, crooked grin.
The sun blazes down on us and bounces off the raised brick and stone tombs. I can already feel the sweat prickling on my nape, threatening to slide down my spine.
Sol doesn’t seem to mind the heat even in his suit as he leads us through the maze of graves. I resist stopping at each one, although the curiosity in me keeps me lingering every now and then at certain plots.
“My inquisitive little muse,” Sol teases when I get too slow. “The way you long to explore the world reminds me of how I used to be. Come on, not too much farther.”
His words make my heart twist for him, but I leave it be, for now. When I see the gravestone that’s feet taller than the others, I understand why we’re here.
Perched at the peak of a gray stone obelisk are two macabre skulls, positioned back to back. One is perpetually in a morbid laugh, while a frown is carved into the other, reminiscent of the theater tragedy and comedy masks.
A figure in black and as tall as Sol emerges from behind another grave and I have to blink a couple of times before I realize it’s Ben. His eyes flick to mine and flash with surprise before settling back on Sol.
“Just in time, brother. She’s been asking for you.”
Sol grunts his reply as we round another tomb. Maggie is on the other side, holding her daughter high up on her hip with a lace fan working away to cool them off. They’re both in black, and Maggie’s dress flatters her curves while baby Marie’s sequins glitter in the sun.
“Scarlett,” Maggie whispers with a surprised smile and quickly moves to give me a half hug. “I didn’t know you would be here this time.”
“This time?”
She nods. “We come with her to his grave every Sunday.”
My eyes dart to the tall pillar underneath the tragedy and comedy skulls. Outlining the freestanding family tomb is a short wrought iron fence, about as tall as my shins. The small patch of ground within is filled to the brim with bouquets of dried snapdragon shells. The little tan, skull-shaped husks have holes for eyes and mouths gaping open in silent screams, giving the effect that tiny skeleton heads pile around the grave.
Stone-carved tattered curtains drape the monument, unveiling the nameBordeauxengraved on a painstakingly etched stage. At the end of a long list of French and biblical names with English spelling, is one that seems weathered, but more recent than the rest. Ten years ago, from the inscription.
Jean-Pierre Abraham Bordeaux
Loving father, doting husband, dutiful leader
La vie est une grande mascarade, alors laissez les bons temps rouler.
The last part is a popular Cajun French phrase, so I access my freshman French diction class to decipher the rest until I finally figure it out.
“Life is one big masquerade, so let the good times roll.”
The tribute to both the Bordeauxs’ opera house and the New Orleans motto brings a smile to my face, until I notice the statuesque woman standing in front of it.
Her silver hair is tied up into a sleek chignon on top of her head and a black lace dress envelopes her frail body. Under her breath, she hums to herself an achingly familiar tune. She looks fragile in every way, until her midnight eyes turn to me.
A swirl of madness fights with clarity there, a look I’ve feltintimately, and my heart breaks for the woman. She’s clutching a black parasol with a skull handle, and twists a skull ring on her pale, knobby left ring finger with her thumb. The entire ensemble reminds me of the so-calledsuperstitionsI’ve always thought my friends had. It finally dawns on me that they might not be superstitious at all.
