She looked at him, smiled softly, and nodded. He lifted the canvas from the easel.
"What are we going to do now, Jack?" I asked. "We'll do what she wants," he replied. "Go on. Help her along."
I took Mommy's elbow and gently turned her toward the doorway.
"Thank you, dear," she said, but kept her eyes forward as we followed Jack out of the studio, down the stairs, and out of the house, moving with funereal slowness.
"I know where Paul Tate is buried," Jack told me. We continued around the side of the house. Jack held the flashlight so the beam parted the darkness and provided a path for us to the iron-gated cemetery that contained a single tomb. In the glow of Jack's flashlight, it looked ghoulishly yellow instead of gray. Uncle Paul's name and dates were engraved on the granite, as was his epitaph: "Tragically lost but not forgotten."
Mommy paused at the entrance and turned to Jack and me. "Thank you," she said. "But I must be alone now."
"I understand, madame," Jack said and handed her the canvas. I was deeply impressed with his understanding and sensitivity.
My mother took the canvas and entered the small graveyard.
Jack stepped back and reached for my hand. We waited and watched.
Mommy knelt at the tomb and lowered her head. She said a silent prayer and then laid the canvas against the stone. She looked up at the stars. Her shoulders shook with her sobs, and then she seemed to gather new strength before producing a book of matches.
Carefully she lit one and held it to the corner of the canvas. It took a while, but the flame finally leaped from the match to the dried material. The flame grew, consuming the canvas, traveling up toward the picture of Uncle Paul. Mommy remained there, staring into the flames. The smoke curled upward until it was caught by a breeze and carried into the night. Soon the canvas was burning fully, the flames so bright they illuminated the tomb and its surroundings. Mommy looked like part of the fire for a moment, and then, as quickly as it had exploded into a small conflagration, it began to dwindle. The canvas collapsed into ashes and sparks near the stone tomb. When it looked nearly burned out, Jack released my hand and stepped into the fenced graveyard. I followed.
He knelt down to take my mother's arms and help her to her feet.
"It's time to go now, madame," Jack said. "It's over."
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. It's over."
"Mommy?"
Slowly she turned and, like one emerging from a deep sleep, gazed at me and realized who I was. Her face softened into a happy smile. "Pearl, my darling, Pearl."
"Mommy," I cried and embraced her. We held each other for a long moment. My body shook with sobs against her, and she stroked my hair gently, kissing my forehead. I straightened up and wiped the tears from my eyes and cheeks, smiling. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, dear. I'm all right."
"We've got to go home, Mommy. We've got to get back to Daddy and Pierre. Pierre needs you desperately. He thinks you blame him for what happened to Jean, and the doctors say that's why he won't come out of his catatonic state."
She nodded, thoughtful. And then she looked at Jack, really noticing him for the first time.
"This is Jack Clovis, Mommy. He's helped me, helped us."
She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said.
Jack nodded. "Let me continue to help you, madame. Come to my trailer and freshen up for your journey home," he suggested.
"That's very kind of you, monsieur." She gazed back at the tomb where the sparks continued to die. She sighed deeply, took one step forward, a contented smile on her face, and then collapsed into Jack's quick arms.
I gasped. He lifted her as easily as he had lifted me. "She's all right," he said. "She's just exhausted. Let's get her to the trailer."
He carried her to the car and put her in the front seat. I sat beside her, keeping her head on my shoulder until we reached the trailer. She was already regaining consciousness when we brought her in and set her down on the sofa. I put a cold washcloth over her forehead, and Jack got her some cold water. Her eyes continued to flutter and close, flutter and close. Finally, they remained open, but she looked very confused.
"You're all right, Mommy. You're safe now."
"Where am I?" she asked gazing around.
I explained and she drank some water.
"I don't even know what day it is," she said. "I've lost all track of time."