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his own destiny was eternally to be. That was what
Grandmere Catherine had taught me about Death, and
that was what I now so firmly believed.
Daphne shed no tears in public. She seemed to
falter only twice: once in the church, when Father McDermott mentioned that he had been the one to marry her and Daddy; and then at the cemetery, just before Daddy's body was interred in what people from New Orleans called an oven. Because of the high water table, graves weren't dug into the ground, as they were in other places. People were buried above ground in cement vaults, many with their family crests
embossed on the door.
Instead of sobbing, Daphne brought her silk
handkerchief to her face and held it against her mouth.
Her eyes remained focused on her own thoughts, her
gaze downward. She took Gisselle's and my hand
when it was time to leave the church, and once again
when it was time to leave the cemetery. She held our
hands for only a moment or two, a gesture I felt was
committed more for the benefit of the mourners than
for us.
Throughout the ceremony, Beau remained back
with his parents. We barely exchanged glances.
Relatives from Daphne's side of the
family stayed
closely clumped together, barely raising their voices
above a whisper, their eyes glued to our every move.
Whenever anyone approached Daphne to offer his or
her final condolences, she took his hands and softly
said "Merci beaucoup." These people would then turn to us. Gisselle imitated Daphne perfectly, even to the point of intoning the same French accent and holding their hands not a split second longer or shorter than
Daphne had. I simply said "Thank you," in English. As if she expected either Gisselle or me to say
or do something that would embarrass her, Daphne
observed us through the corner of her eye and listened
with half an ear, especially when Beau and his parents
approached us. I did hold onto Beau's hand longer
than I held onto anyone else's, despite feeling as if
