CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning greets us with somber news. Claude Durand has died in the hospital. It seems his heart stopped around four in the morning, and the doctors were unable to restart it. I recall the dream that woke me and wish that I’d checked my phone. A part of me can’t help but wonder if his death coincides with the ending of that second performance.
The Lacroixs react predictably. Josephine bursts into tears at the news. Etienne hides behind stoicism. Amelia weeps softly, burying her head in her hands, and Gabriel simply looks shocked.
“There was nothing they could do?” Josephine asks.
“Well, if there was, I’m sure he’d still be alive,” Etienne replies coldly. He almost immediately regrets his statement and says, “I’m sorry. I’m just… this is…” He lifts his hands and lets them drop.
It's not my place to speak, or I would tell him that his feelings are valid, but perhaps everyone should take some time to themselves for a moment. I'm about to leave with the children when Josephine asks, "How is Audrey?"
I don’t feel good about hesitating, but considering the disdain she showed for her husband up until his heart attack, I am interested to know exactly how Audrey is doing.
“She’s barely coherent, apparently,” Etienne replied. “I guess their marriage hadn’t been doing well, and she feels guilty that they fought so much before he died.”
Amelia releases a soft sob, and Etienne lowers his head. “Mary, will you take the children away, please? This isn’t a conversation they need to hear.”
Heat comes to my cheeks. I knew that, but I allowed my own selfish curiosity to get in the way. There's no indication that there's foul play involved in Claude's death. For Heaven's sake, I saw him die with my own eyes. There's no murder here. For the first time, I have to agree with Sean. I'm simply being a busybody.
“Come along, children.”
I take them away again, but this time, instead of going upstairs, I take them outside to the gardens. Fresh air can work wonders for grief.
It seems to help Amelia. She stops crying after a few minutes and looks around at the delicately pruned trees and carefully cultivated flowers arranged in pleasing patterns. This garden is small compared to most of the estates I’ve worked for, but I rather enjoy that. It doesn’t seem to swallow you up or overwhelm you the way so many larger estates do.
Gabriel, on the other hand, still seems to be in shock. His eyes are large and staring, and his shoulders are slumped. He shuffles his feet rather than walks, and several times I have to call to him when we turn because he continues on in the direction we’re walking without paying attention to us.
I decide I must talk to them. We reach a bench, and I sit both of them down on either side of me. “I am so sorry for your loss, children. I know you loved him very much.”
“He was nice,” Amelia says. “He was really kind to us when Grandpa died, and he’s always encouraged us and talked to us when no one else would. People always treat us like we’re stupid because we’re kids, but he’d listen to what we had to say and talk to us like we had a right to have an opinion. I know that seems silly, but that meant a lot to us.”
“That doesn’t sound silly at all,” I tell her. “Adults have a difficult time remembering childhood. We want to protect children, and that colors all of our interactions with them. It’s hard to understand that sometimes what children need is to feel validated and appreciated.”
I turn to Gabriel. “How are you feeling? I know that sounds like a foolish question, but when we’re grieving, it can help sometimes to express that grief.”
He blinks but continues to stare straight ahead. When he replies, his voice is wooden. “I’m sad.”
"I know. I'm sad, too."
“Why?” Amelia says, a slight edge to her voice. “You didn’t know him.”
That reaction is common, too. Children don't understand their grief, and it's natural to resent people who act as though they do.
“I’m sad because Claude has left behind several people who love him very much. Those people will have to mourn him and carry on with their own lives without him, and that’s always a sad and difficult journey. I’ve lost both of my parents and my younger sister. I was very sad to lose them. I feel sorry that you two have to feel the same way.”
That is a lie, but a noble one. I felt some grief when my father died, but I don’t miss my mother at all. As for Annie, losing her was more than just grief. It broke me, and I’ve come to learn that not all of the pieces were put back together.
That being said, my role here is not to convince the children that I suffered a worse tragedy than they have but to show them that I do understand grief and really do sympathize with them.
Amelia’s lip trembles. “Audrey’s going to be sad. I know she was angry with him, but she loved him. She’s going to feel really sad.”
“Yes,” I agree. “She will have perhaps the most difficult journey of anyone.”
That isn’t quite a lie since I don’t know for sure whether to believe Audrey’s disdain, Audrey’s grief, both or even neither. But it’s probably the truth regardless of the answer to that question.
I turn to Gabriel. I really would like to engage with him a little. I know I shouldn’t push for him to break out of his shock, but the sooner he can do so on his own, the easier things will be for him. If I can just nudge him in the right direction, then he’ll recover sooner.
“What’s your favorite memory of Claude, Gabriel?”
Gabriel doesn’t say anything. He only stares blankly ahead into the distance.
“He dressed up as Santa Claus one year,” Amelia said. “And brought us presents. He bought me a brand-new horsehair bow for my violin, and he gave Gabriel a framed picture of Herbie Hancock.”
“Oh?” I turn back to Gabriel. “Who’s Herbie Hancock?”
Gabriel doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets abruptly to his feet. “I’m sorry, Miss Mary. I don’t feel well. May I go lie down?”
“Of course, dear. But before you go, I need to make this clear to you. You did nothing wrong. Regardless of anything else, you need to know that this wasn’t your fault.”
He holds my gaze for a moment. When I don’t say anything else, he says, “Okay,” almost as an afterthought.
I nod, and he walks back to the house. I feel terrible for not being able to get through to him, but perhaps I was being too aggressive after all. Grief is not something one can rush past. I’ll allow him some time to process this on his own and then approach him later when he’s ready.
“He feels guilty, you know,” Amelia says. “We both do.”
“Why do you feel guilty?” I ask her.
She shrugs and says glumly, “We played the piece. We weren’t supposed to play that piece.”
Annie’s hate-filled eyes flash across my mind again. I blink the image away and ask, “Why would you think that playing a song would kill…” I catch myself and amend the question. “Why aren’t you supposed to play that piece?”
Amelia looks back toward the house and bites her lip. I follow her eyes and see Gabriel climbing the steps to the back door. When the door closes behind him, she turns to me and says, “You can’t tell anyone else about this, all right? Promise me.”
A chill runs down my spine, although I don't quite know why. "I promise."
Her lip trembles again, but before she can start crying, she takes a deep breath and says, “That song is cursed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Jacques Poitier cursed that song, and now anytime anyone plays it, someone close to them dies.”
I don’t respond right away. The truth is that I’m not sure how to respond. The sensible woman in me denounces the claim as rubbish, but of course I can’t say that to a grieving child, not so bluntly, at least.
And then there’s the part of me that can’t help but wonder if there’s a kernel of truth to it. I’ve encountered several legends before, and while it’s true that no voodoo curse has been proven true, there has always been an element of truth, a thread that, when pulled, unravels the true mystery behind the legend.
And while there is still no hard evidence to suggest that there is foul play in Claude’s death, there is now enough soft evidence that I feel justified in pulling that thread and finding that truth.
“Who is Jacques Poitier?” I ask.
“He was Grandpa’s biggest rival. He died before I was born, but I guess he and Dad were the two biggest jazz pianists in New Orleans a long time ago. They were both on the radio a lot, and they both worked with a lot of superstars like Louis Armstrong, B.B. King and Ray Charles.
“But Grandpa started getting bigger than Jacques, and Jacques didn’t like it. He wanted to be the best. So he challenged Grandpa to a contest, and whoever lost had to stop playing piano in New Orleans.”
“Where did you hear this story?” I ask.
“I heard bits and pieces of it from Claude, Dad and Grandma. I listened in and eventually figured it all out.”
“I see. Go on.”
She took a deep breath. “So the contest was held at the Midnight Melody. At the time, Grandpa didn’t own it. I think it was the same guys who owned the Disco Dynasty club.”
I have no idea what the Disco Dynasty club is, but it’s not really important to me, so I only say once more, “I see.”
“Anyway, they had the contest. Grandpa won with that piece. Jacques was so angry that he couldn’t play piano in New Orleans anymore, that he cursed Grandpa’s song and said that whoever played it again would lose someone close to them that night.”
“How horrible.”
“Yeah. He wasn’t a very nice guy.”
“It doesn’t sound like it. But Amelia, you and Gabriel just found that song in the attic the other night, right?”
“Actually, you found it,” she replies.
I stiffen as I recall that. It was I who found it. And if that music really is somehow connected to Claude’s death, then I bear the responsibility for it.
I swallow and say, “Yes. You’re right. I only mean… how do you know that this piece is the cursed piece?”
“Because Grandpa never played it again. Not until the night he died.”
“But how do you know that’s the piece he played? It was buried behind compositions from decades of work. How do you know that your grandfather played that particular one?”
“The name. Vie Apres a la Mort. Afterlife. That was the name of the song he played to win the f and the name of the song he was playing when he died.”
She looks back at the house. "And it's the song Gabriel played when Claude died." She looks at me and says, "Now you know why Grandma got angry with us and why Dad was so scared. They both know about the curse, and even if they say they don't believe it, I know they do."
She shivered. “I hope they burn that music. I hope no one ever plays it again.”
Tears well in her eyes. I’m about to comfort her when she stands abruptly and runs toward the house. I call her name, but she ignores me.
I sit on the bench for a while, trying to make sense of what I've heard. I don't believe that the song actually cursed anyone.
But Josephine was angry. And both she and Etienne were frightened. I must understand why. Perhaps then I’ll learn the true nature of this “curse.”