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Calliope's Kiss

By Linda P. Kozar

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July 1947
New Orleans. Louisiana


Chapter One
Fever Pulse

Family and friends of the deceased gathered like black clouds before a storm. Near the gilded ironwork cross at the entrance to Saint Louis Number One, they whispered prayers, consoling one another. But discreet voices faded to reverent silence as the priest approached, followed by a young acolyte bearing a crucifix.
Calliope Ducharme paused to smooth her dress and hair, tousled from the hurry-scurry carriage dash. Young and attractive, her honey-hued curls bounced along the curve of her elegant shoulders as she inched ahead to take her place with the immediate family. But all heads turned in response to the sudden arrival of the hearse, its roof festooned with an array of saffron-colored lilies, red roses and fragrant jasmine.
Men removed their hats as the hearse came to a stop. Some flicked lit cigarettes to the ground and shuffled them out. But one man, face half-hidden under a gray hat, took a few lingered puffs before snuffing his out against the iron fence, showering red ash on the grass below. When he removed his hat, she noticed a mat of thin hair Brill-creamed to a high gloss. His eyes, small and black, focused on hers, but she turned to avert his gaze, focusing her attention on the hearse.
Six pallbearers drew near. The driver in a black suit and cap stepped out and patted the ebony hood. “It’s a Eureka three-way loader. Just acquired it.” Pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket he polished the spot he’d just touched. “We can unload from either side or the back.”
The funeral director emerged solemn-faced from the passenger door, shot a frosty glance toward the driver and motioned to the pallbearers. “Gentlemen, if you would approach the right side of the vehicle, please.” At that, the driver snapped to attention. With the flick of a lever, the right side of it rose up, revealing the dark mahogany casket within. The pallbearers clasped the handles, lifted and took a few asynchronous steps before repositioning the load at the funeral director’s instruction.
Then, with spider-like unison, their faces barely masking the strain, the six men bearing the casket stood behind the priest. The immediate family fell in behind. Uncle Bernard and Piper, who caught Calliope’s eye, motioned for her to join them. The priest opened a small prayer book and began to recite in Latin, the cloud of mourners followed as he led the way forward, some in pairs leaning in grief upon one another, others alone.
“Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori…”
Calliope started forward, but to her surprise walked out of her right shoe. In the time it took to slip it back on, dozens of people had already gone ahead of her, following the procession. She tried to work her way through the crowd, but only managed to fall in behind one relative, Aunt Babette. There were too many people in front of her and the narrow path between tombs made it next to impossible to forge ahead.
After a few hapless attempts, she lifted her right hand to shield her eyes from the brightness of the noonday sun and caught a glimpse of Piper’s hat. She sighed. But for her awe at the exquisite ceiling frescoes in the St. Louis Cathedral, she would have been where she should have been. When the service concluded, she’d lingered to admire the artistry and as usual lost all track of time.
“…perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent.”
Though Latin was not her strong suit, she listened intently to the priest as he read and managed to remember a rough translation from childhood prayers:
"Jesus, forgive our sins, save us from the fires of hell: lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are most in need of your mercy.”
Prayers for Aunt Florrie. Could there be any doubt as to her destination?
Sheathed in a simple black dress of polished muslin, she tugged at both sides of the flared collar to widen it. Years of living in New York City had done little to help acclimate her to the semi-tropical heat. She felt a twinge of pity for all the men in wool suits, especially the pallbearers.
Calliope gazed ahead, following the solemn line of familiar faces, connecting names with memories. But her gaze settled on the vibrant brilliance of the priest’s garments. As the procession veered to the right, she had a better view of his ornate robes. Clothed in fine linens embroidered with gilded gospel images—a cross, a chalice, a tree, his measured steps trailed the way to the family tomb.
The images of the tree and the cross somehow brought to mind her mother’s pendant. From the day she’d learned of her parent’s death, she’d held the tangle of chains and gemstones close to her until Philomene wisely put them away for safekeeping.
Calliope reached up to clutch the chain at her neck. Cast in gold, it depicted the tree of life, its trunk fashioned into a small cross. Her mother, a skilled artisan, had designed it herself. She would be proud to see Calliope wearing the cross, but disappointed at the lack of faith it inspired in her child. What was it mama used to say? “Remember my dear ma fifille, our family tree is rooted in Christ.”
She had without a doubt inherited her love of art from her mother. But her interest in God was limited to the masterful artistry she found in churches—stained glass masterpieces, sculptures in marble or cast in bronze, ceiling frescoes, and altar crosses. Her commercial art ranged from portraits to landscapes, but she was mostly recognized for her portraitures. In in her spare time however, she painted images that haunted her dreams in the dark night hours, dreams that had intensified since her return.
Attracted by movement in the corner of her eye, Calliope spotted the iridescent gleam of mosquito hawks hovering low to the ground, diaphanous wings emitting the faintest whir. The sight of them brought back unpleasant memories. She turned her head, and as she did, she caught a whiff of cheap cologne wafting in the hot air. She missed a step on the uneven brick path and her right foot sank into a mire of clay. Her best pair of shoes, ruined! With a flick of her ankle, she shook free. One side of her heel now caked in clay, she let out a sigh, frustrated at the day’s mishaps.
The humid air hung like a sticky cloak about her. Insufferable summer! She’d planned to move back to New Orleans after graduating, but not until autumn, and only for an extended visit. She was supposed to receive a small inheritance within the year—as soon as she turned twenty-one. Finishing the season in New York would have suited her just fine, but after receiving the telegram about Aunt Florrie’s unstable condition, her plans had changed.
Tiny rivulets of perspiration began to trickle from her temples and down her neck. She dabbed at the moisture with a small linen handkerchief in her hand, turning her attention to her surroundings. She dreaded the thought of seeing her parent’s tomb, but she would soon have to. Their loss had cast a permanent shadow on her life.
Rows of aboveground tombs plastered white, gleamed in the brightness of the day. A yawning silence, only broken by sighs of grief muffled by lace handkerchiefs or stoic coughs. Little white houses. All in a pretty row.
Fresh flowers cascaded from stone vases in front of some; tiger lilies, fern fronds, red roses, bright orange hibiscus, fragrant gardenias and pale pink camellias. Wilted petals, rolled together like Cuban cigars, perfuming the still air. And the stark silhouettes of withered, utterly desiccated blooms in others.
Native blossoms paid respect as well. Morning glories curlicued slithering vines from tree to tomb, violet blooms dotting the slender sprigs. Angel’s trumpets twined arches between tombs, heralding visitors, and brilliant yellow railroad daisies peeked from cracks and chinks in the plastered walls, even on the flat roofs. A tropical jungle, creeping, covering, reclaiming.
The sight of crude graffiti on a certain tomb sent an icy chill down her spine. Cross-marks in threes scrawled across the door in red, the color of dried blood. Voodoo. Petitions to Marie Laveau for vengeance, riches—love. Shards of red brick below the tomb door revealed the source material. Red brick dust. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. But as she walked on, she noticed other tombs further vandalized, gaped open, the brownish bones of the dead exposed to all who passed by.
Ahead, Uncle Bernard’s younger sister Babette, stout as a railroad trestle, made the sign of the cross. Her left hand clenched around the garnet rosary she carried, whispered prayer petitions. The distant prayers of the priest, now a mere echo among the tombs.
Sister to her late father and present guardian, Uncle Bernard, Babette spent most of her time in church and chapel, lighting candles, her prayers and petitions a means of making herself useful. A spinster, doomed to a solitary life. Calliope had heard the story time and again. In her teens, Babette had aspired to be a nun, but was refused permission to enter the convent by her father. No matter. Aunt Babette never married. She’d found a way to embrace the austere life, albeit in a roundabout way.
Heart in her throat, she stared straight ahead. Her parent’s above-ground tomb, was roped round and round with vines. Little ferns grew from chinks between the granite. A heavy stone vase filled with shriveled brown stalks lay tilted on its side. The tomb was obviously unkempt and untended to, Calliope felt a lump in her throat.
She turned her face away, straining to hear the prayers of the priest beyond the sound of blood pounding in her head. Her legs wobbled. The cloying scent of floral decay. The heat. Death. She blinked, trying to steady, to focus on tombs now gone opaque. Dizzy. Everything washed in white. She followed the procession with her ears, straining to hear footsteps, sobs. But Calliope’s legs wobbled and she tumbled to the ground.
By sheer force of will, she struggled to rise to her feet only to collapse again in a dazed heap. Suddenly, she felt a pair of strong hands grasp her waist and shoulder. A man’s hands supporting her, lifting her up. Now raised to a seated position, her back supported, she tried to focus.
“I saw you fall. Are you all right? Should I send for an ambulance?” A face, strangely familiar, hovered above hers but soon blurred into a pool of watercolors.
She shook her head but time seemed to move slowly.
He fanned her face with something. “Are you distraught? Overcome with emotion? Or is it the heat? This heat is relentless.”
The man’s face suddenly came into focus for Calliope as it hovered above hers, and curiously, his eyes seemed to illuminate recognition.
“You’re Calliope Ducharme, aren’t you?” A smile widened across his jaw line. “Why, it’s been years.”
The undertaker approached and handed the man something. She heard the man utter a faint thanks.
“Calliope, how are you dear?” Aunt Babette’s round rosy face intruded, the garnet rosary beads clacking together against her wrist.
She tried to nod at her aunt, but she wasn’t sure how to respond. Part of her was aware of the fact that the procession was in partial disorder. She imagined every eye straining to see what had happened. She closed her eyes and wished she were invisible. Muted voices and whispers hemmed in on her.
“Miss Ducharme?” the deep masculine voice inquired. “Can you manage to swallow some water?”
“I-I think so.”
He propped her up. She sipped at first, then gulped down the warm water, soon emptying the tin cup. The fluid began to revive her at once. The undertaker returned with a second cup. And after a few minutes of fanning and watering, Calliope began to feel more like herself. She opened her eyes and studied the young man who held her in his arms. Louis Russo. A face from her childhood memories, the object of her one and only childhood crush, forever etched in her thoughts. Her first sight of him had been from the vantage point of her swing under the wide oak tree. He’d arrived at her house with his parents for a fourth of July picnic. Even as a child he was tall for his age. But she mostly remembered his dark hair and dashing looks. From that point on, her heart beat faster at the sight of him, in fact, at the very mention of his name. Though the two had barely spoken a word to one another, she’d imagined many a conversation with him.
Her head resting in his hands, Calliope spoke. “I remember you well.” She corrected herself. “As well.”
“Do you?” He smiled.
“You’re Louis Russo.”
A small crowd suddenly surrounded them, mumbling, moving in closer. She grasped the edge of his coat. “Please, make them go away.” “Please.” She turned her head and latched onto her aunt’s hand. “Please send them on.”
The young man looked at Babette. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”
Her jaw set in a determined square Aunt Babette nodded, then tilted her head forward and stood straight. Calliope watched as her aunt flicked her wrist at the onlookers.
“Hurry along everyone. Calliope needs room to breathe. She’ll be fine.”
With patient determination, the young man urged the remaining stragglers on their way. He helped Calliope to her feet. “Are you certain you can stand?” An expression of concern washed across his face.
Her lips quivered, though she tried to smile. “I think so. Thank you.” She glanced around, longing for an open space, away from the wag of tongues and judgment, far from whispers and hushed conspiratorial tones. To her relief, most of the crowd had moved on, but she overheard a fragment of conversation between two women, the last to leave.
“…she’s always been an odd one...”
The sting of tears in her eyes, Calliope turned her face away. But at the same moment, his arms circled and supported her, leading her to a place a short distance away.
“I heard what they said. Don’t worry about them.” He lowered her to the stoop of a large tomb. Her back against the stone, he crouched before her. Brows in a studied frown, he began to examine her for injuries.
She followed his stare and noticed two streams of blood rolling down her shins.
“May I?” He looked up for permission to lift the hem of her dress. “I know a bit about first aid. Every soldier does. Or did.”
“You fought in the war?”
“That I did. I was a soldier.” He winked. “Came home a bit early.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Caught a bit of shrapnel in my leg. They say it damaged a tendon. Nicked an artery too. It seems that a soldier who can’t run well isn’t much use.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m thankful I have a leg.” He paused. “Other fellows weren’t so lucky.” He took off his suitcoat, slung it over his right shoulder and searched the pockets. “That’s a relief. Wool jackets and hot summers don’t fare well together.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. I gave my handkerchief to a woman I know. She’d forgotten to bring hers.”
Calliope smiled. “What a gentleman. I seem to have forgotten mine as well.”
He shook his head. “Then it seems we’re out of luck. And you’ve managed to make quite a mess. Knees skinned, wrists slightly scraped, and if you will excuse me saying so, your nylons are ripped to shreds. Other than that, Miss Ducharme, how do you feel?”
The realization hit her as he spoke. “Oh no.”
“What is it?”
“My nylons!” Though the war was over, nylons were still hard to come by. It took her six months and far too much money to finally find a decent pair—now in shreds.
“Pardon me? All that hubbub about nylons?” He shook his head. “You had me worried there for a minute, young lady.”
She sighed. “If you knew what a woman has to go through to find a pair, you’d understand.”
An elderly woman in a dark grey dress approached. She smiled, revealing an accordion of rice paper skin under the shade of a wide-brimmed black hat. Frayed silk hair, white as milkweed escaped from the confines of her hat, faint wisps loose about her ears. Gray eyes, surely striking in her youth, now sunken and watery, widened.
“There you are, Louis. I found my handkerchief, so here’s yours.” Her brows raised at the sight of Calliope’s knees. “Please, won’t you take mine as well? It seems like this beautiful young lady needs a handkerchief more than I do. And here, take this cologne. There’s a bit of alcohol in it.”
She paused to eye Calliope. Why, you’re Calliope Ducharme, aren’t you? My, you’ve grown up into such a lovely girl.”
“Thank you.” She bowed her head a moment.
He reached for the handkerchiefs as well as the orange water. As he did so, Calliope caught a glimpse of the woman’s handkerchief monogramed with the letters “AE.”
“Are you certain?” he asked unscrewing the cap on the bottle and sniffing its contents.
The woman blinked her eyes closed a moment. “Quite certain. I’ve cried my share of tears in this world. No need for more. Besides, it’s the least I can do to help.”
The woman gestured toward the family mausoleum ahead. Calliope looked in dread at seeing her parent’s names carved in granite.
Rene’ Ducharme, Eleanor Ducharme—died April 21, 1932.
“You probably don’t remember me, but your aunt and I were dear friends. I knew your parents as well. Lovely couple. I was sad to see them taken so soon from this world.”
Calliope blinked, trying hard to remember, thoughts and memories boiling madly. “Your face is faintly familiar to me. Maybe I’ve seen you in photographs.”
“Perhaps.” She rested a hand on Calliope’s shoulder. “Bless you, child. I do hope you feel better soon. I’m certain we will speak to one another again soon.” She took a few steps away, pausing to cast a sorrowful glance, then turned to rejoin the other mourners.
A sudden memory of the orange water fragrance came to her, a flash of two women talking, or was it arguing? The woman and Aunt Florrie! Why would they argue? And what were they arguing about? She wished she’d asked for the woman’s name.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he asked, “Do you know her?”
Calliope shook her head. “No, I was trying to recall.”
“Everyone calls her Miss Elliot. Miss Adelaide Elliot.”
He soaked the handkerchief with cologne and began dabbing at Calliope’s wounds. Bright red splotches soon dotted the pure white of the linen. “She’s a fixture around town. Sweet lady. Lost her only son in the Battle of the Bulge.”
“Oh, how sad.” She looked away.
“You know, I almost hate to use her handkerchief. Looks expensive.” He smiled. “This stuff isn’t exactly rubbing alcohol, but it has enough in it to do a decent job of disinfecting your wounds. Your knees aren’t as bad as they look, though I’m guessing they’ll be sore for a few days.”
Thoughts of the past vanished in his presence. Her knees began to sting as he applied the cologne, but she hardly noticed. Her heart pounded a frightening percussion. He’s just a man, the mere object of a childish crush. Louis Russo, at my side? She decided to take her mind off him, to instead focus on a clutch of wisteria wrapped around the tomb. The branches intertwined like a pretty woven basket, fragrant blossoms like purple grapes. She pressed a cluster of blossoms in her hands. Soft as velvet. Sweetly fragrant. Am I dreaming?
“So, you’re not certain whether or not you know her?”
She shook her head, and stared back at him, trying hard to keep from swooning. Calliope stole a glance his way again. Hair dark as ganache, eyes sincere, lashes long and feathery. Darling, truly darling.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concern in his eyes.
“I’m fine. A bit overheated and a bit undernourished, thank you.”
“You haven’t eaten? That’s not advisable, you know.”
She reached for a dry magnolia leaf and fanned herself. “Is it particularly hot today?”
He glanced up at the sky and loosened his tie. “The heat and humidity can bring anyone down. It’s always hottest before a summer storm. See those clouds?” He drew closer and pointed over her head. The presence of him so near made her breathless. But she lingered on his eyes, turning to see where he pointed. Billowing mountains from the west, gloomy and full, traveled the speed of pachyderms—or seemed to.
“A bad one, do you think?”
He nodded. “Just your garden variety summer storm.”
She gulped. “Will it rain soon?”
He glanced off to the left, then back to her. “Oh, in about an hour I guess; maybe less. Probably just enough time for us to finish paying our respects.”
He paused, face flushed. “How callous of me! I—I honestly didn’t mean for what I said to come out that way. She’s your aunt.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You didn’t offend me. Aunt Florrie was ill for quite a long time. Death was an end to her suffering. Is that awful for me to say?”
Silence hung between them until he spoke, crashing into it with a strong voice. His brows came together. “Not in my opinion with what I’ve seen.” He stood. “Do you feel up to walking now, Miss Ducharme? We should catch up with the others.” He tucked the handkerchief into his breast pocket.
“Yes, I think so.” She managed a reassuring smile. “Please, call me by my first name, will you?”
He grinned. “All right.” Louis fastened his grip on her arm and shoulder and placed the other around her waist. She felt she would faint at his touch, but managed to keep what was left of her composure.
As they made their way slowly along the uneven path, Calliope caught his eye. “Mr. Russo, thank you for helping me. Frankly, I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”
“Now, that’s not fair. If we’re on a first-name basis, we have to be fair about it. Louis. You must call me Louis. And you are most welcome, Calliope. It’s all in a day’s work, at least for a knight-in-shining-armor.” He winked.
A smile crept across her face. Louis had a way about him, an easy charm. The man was even better than she’d imagined he would be.
By the time they’d caught up, the priest was almost done. He made the sign of the cross and the cemetery attendants lifted the polished mahogany coffin above their heads. A deep guttural wailing began—her uncle, the loudest of all.
A short, squatty man with receding reddish hair, and watery brown eyes even under normal circumstances, he paused to stare at Calliope, then covered his face in his hands. Piper stood by his side, glaring disapproval at her.
Surrounded by cousins, in-laws and friends, Bernard sank to a tomb step, head bowed, an agony of bereavement across his face.
A few tears rose without warning, and in spite of her resistance, brimmed from her eyes and down her cheeks. Surely, he must have loved her. Wasn’t there a bit of sorrow, a shred of grief? She studied her uncle’s features between sobs. To the best of her recollection, she’d never seen him cry. She thought back to her parents’ funeral. Were there tears then?
She was a child when it happened and the tears flowed easily then, but in the years since, emotions rationed out of her in stingy portions. Calliope blinked back the wave, and leaned against the corner of a smaller tomb, hands clasping the corner of the rough-hewn stone. She read the words chiseled on the tomb underneath her:

Beatrice Anne Robichaux 1792-1792
“Sweet Child of Heaven.”

She brushed her fingertips over the inscription. A newborn. Probably died of yellow fever. A lonely echo of grief filled her heart. She’d buried her own parents. How much harder must it be for parents to bury a child?
Louis’s hand quietly brushed across the inscription and touched hers, returning her startled expression with a look of earnest concern. He must have seen the anguish on her face.
Grim-faced attendants began sliding the coffin into the tomb, accompanied by the sounds of wood and stone, scraping against one another. Aunt Florrie, home at last. Her bones would be at rest next to her parent’s tomb.
The monotone voice of the priest repeated the words he knew so well, “…ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The last words as he sprinkled a handful, but just as he did, a sudden gust of wind caught and scattered the earth to the air. Leaves in the ornamental trees began to flutter like tiny flags. Aunt Babette’s cloche’ hat lifted and blew off and rolled like a square tire down the corridor of tombs before the funeral director caught it, a triumphant grin on an otherwise dour face.
In spite of the wind, the square alabaster door was hoisted up, fitted into place, and sealed. The inscription, minus the year, carved in anticipation of her death, added to the previous names. Aunt Florrie had been sick for a very long time indeed. Time enough to prepare. Time enough to wait. Time enough to die.

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