They nodded simultaneously, picking at the corn chips in the basket on the table. “Bless his soul,” Karen-Lucie added.
“Totally. And his wife’s too.”
“Hell yeah.” Karen-Lucie put a hand to her mouth. “Yvie, I was betrayed. Bee-trayed. I want you to know that.”
Yvonne nodded.
“That’s all I’m going to say.”
Yvonne nodded again.
“My heart is broken,” Karen-Lucie said.
“I know that,” Yvonne said.
“Broken. He broke my heart.” Karen-Lucie flicked a corn chip and it flew across the table.
After a number of minutes went by, Yvonne asked, “Why do Joy’s eyes roll around when she’s talking to me?”
“Oh. ’Cause her son killed a girl here years ago and buried her in the backyard and then finally told his mama. Yes, darlin’， I am serious.” Karen-Lucie nodded. “He’s in prison now for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be. Joy and her husband got divorced and her husband got all the money—they were rich but he got all the money—and Joy lives in a trailer now, outside of town, and if you go there you will see a photograph she has on her mantel, taken of her standing right next to her son, and she has her hand on his chest in this gesture of affection, but it covers up the numbers on his uniform so the photograph looks like he’s just wearing a dark blue shirt.”
“God,” Yvonne said. “My God.”
“I know.”
“How old was he when he did this?”
“Fifteen, I think. Sixteen? They charged him as an adult because he didn’t tell anyone for almost two years. Just left her buried in their backyard. If he’d told, he wouldn’t have gotten life. But he got life. Without parole.”
“A dog didn’t dig up the body?”
“No, ma’am, that did not happen. I guess he buried her deep enough.” Karen-Lucie held up two fingers. “Two years, and he says, Mama—I got to tell you something.”
“What happened to the family of the girl?”
“They moved. Joy’s ex-husband left too. Won’t have anything to do with his son at all. Wiped his hands clean. Joy goes every month to see her boy in Joliet.”
Yvonne shook her head slowly, drew her fingers through her hair. “Whew,” she said.
After a long silence, Karen-Lucie said, “I’m awful sorry you never had your kids, Yvie, I know you wanted kids so bad.”
“Well,” said Yvonne. “You know.”
“You’d have been a good mama, I do know that.”
Yvonne looked at her friend. “It’s life. It’s all just friggin’ life.”
“Yes, it is,” Karen-Lucie said. “Yes, it is.”
The next morning, which was three mornings after she had first arrived, Yvonne Tuttle approached Linda at the kitchen sink. Linda had not known Yvonne was still in the house and she was startled to find the woman standing behind her as she washed her coffee cup. “Have you seen my white pajamas?” Yvonne asked with direct curiosity.
“Why would I have seen your pajamas?” Linda placed the coffee cup in the drainer.
“Well, because they’re missing. I mean, they’re just gone. And things don’t just go. If you see what I mean.”
“I don’t.” Linda dried her hands on the dish towel.
“Well, I mean my white pajamas that I put each morning beneath my pillow are gone.” Yvonne made a sign with her arms, like an umpire calling it safe. “Gone. And they have to be somewhere, so I thought I’d ask. I mean, maybe the maid took them to wash them or something.”
“The maid did not take your white pajamas.”
Yvonne looked at her for a long moment. “Huh,” she said.
Linda felt fury rising in her, almost uncontrollable. “We do not go stealing things in this house.”
“I was just asking,” Yvonne said.
During the last weekend of the festival a show was mounted in the same room at the former private high school where the welcoming reception had been. On one side were the faculty photographs, and on the other were student photographs. Yvonne stood with Karen-Lucie and Tomasina off to the side, watching people move slowly around the room. “I hate this,” Yvonne said.
Tomasina switched his pocketbook to his other wrist. “Karen-Lucie, do you get used to people staring at your photographs? Look at the way that woman there is tilting her head, she’s wondering. Wondering what the cracked plates in your photos mean.”