Chapter 8.4 - Talking to the Dead

“This is going to be perfect!” the museum curator swooned when Claire opened the door to reveal the impressive decor of the old mansion. The latter was so used to it she didn’t realize the impression it would make on a person who was seeing it for the first time. “You really grew up here?”

“Yes, this used to be my grandparents’ house, it has been in our family for many generations.”

The curator sketched a timid smile before asking.

“Doesn’t it feel scary, living here all by yourself? It’s so…remote.” She hesitated, looking around and trying to figure out how this situation would make her feel if she were in Claire’s place, empowered or creeped out. Creeped out won decisively.

“I got used to it,” Claire responded, smiling back to put her conversation partner at ease. “It’s home.”

“Of course,” the curator continued. “It must be difficult managing the property all by yourself, I certainly wouldn’t want to be the person who has to maintain all of this.”

“I have help,” Claire offered but didn’t elaborate. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please. No sugar,” the curator made herself comfortable in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “Well, the good news is that we won’t have any trouble fitting the party in here, besides, people might get the chance to see some of your new work. There is new work, isn’t there?” she went straight to the heart of the issue.

Claire nodded.

“Can I see it?”

“Of course,” Claire pointed to the adjacent room, which was already starting to fill up with large canvases.

“A little dark, perhaps,” the curator commented, and then noted to herself that her art would be dark too if she had to live alone in this place. She tried to imagine what November nights wrapped in rain might feel like in here when one was all alone and she shivered as if she had touched a ghost. She was pretty sure the darned place was haunted, she could feel it in her bones. 

“Listen,” she hesitated again, “this is certainly none of my business, but are you sure you don’t want to move to New Orleans? I think I can find you a really nice place to rent, introduce you to a few people, you could get out more…”

“Thank you for offering, but I wouldn’t have enough room,” Claire pointed at the mess of canvases, pigments, oils and paintbrushes that surrounded them. “I’m very lucky to have this place and as I said, it’s home.”

“Of course,” the curator changed the conversation. “When should I send the crew to set things up in here?”

“Any time next week would be good. I go into town on occasion to pick up a few necessities, but I’m not gone for long and I always leave the door open,” Claire continued.

“Aren’t you worried about thieves and such?”

“Oh, no. We’re trusting country folks here, people would be offended.”

“I think I got all I need, let me take a few pictures for the team, to get them an idea of what the setting looks like.”

Claire walked her to the door and watched her leave, then struggled to close the heavy doors behind her.

“Who was that, dear?” Grandmother asked from the kitchen.

“The gallery curator,” Claire answered. There were warm beignets on the table; she grabbed one and bit into it, really pleased. “They’re setting up a party in here for potential patrons.”

Grandmother was silent for many uncomfortable minutes, then couldn’t help herself.

“You didn’t tell her about us.”

“Maman, you know she wouldn’t understand. People don’t know our family history.”

“Still, you could at least have mentioned something,” Grandmother continued, upset.

“I promise you I’ll bring up you and papa during the next conversation.”

“I’m starting to feel like you’re embarrassed by us, you never mention us to a living soul.”

“Maman, you’ve been gone for decades, it’s not something one drops casually into the conversation. Most people don’t speak to the dead.”

“Still, you could have mentioned us,” Grandmother muttered. “And stop eating the beignets, they are for after dinner.”

“What happened?” Grandfather came in from outside. His rain boots were covered in mud which he dragged in and all over the kitchen floor to Grandmother’s upset. “A party? In here? Make sure to tell the movers to mind the mirrors when they bring stuff in.”

“I will.”

“How is dinner coming up? It’s almost eight,” he made his way around the kitchen lifting lids off the pots on the stove to find out for himself.

“Just you wait!” Grandmother hushed him away. “Claire, can you please set the table?”

“Yes, maman.”