like I gave you a used gift!”
“Recycled,” I suggested.
“Right, right. Everything’s this recycling now! I recycled them.”
I had hoped to see a picture of the Julius family, but in all this clutter, there were only two photographs, in a double frame balanced precariously on the television set. Both photographs were very old. One showed a stern small woman with dark hair and eyes standing stiffly beside a somewhat taller man with lighter hair and a thin-lipped shy face. They were wearing clothes dating from somewhere around the twenties, I thought. In the other picture, two girls who strongly resembled each other, one about ten and the other perhaps twelve, hugged each other and smiled fixedly at the camera.
“Me and my sister, her name’s Alicia Manigault, isn’t that a pretty name?” Mrs. Totino said fondly. “I’ve always hated my name, Melba. And the other picture is the only one ever taken of my parents.”
“Your sister is still... does she live close?”
“New Orleans,” Mrs. Totino said. “She has a little house in Metairie, that’s right by New Orleans.” She sighed heavily.
“New Orleans is a beautiful place, I envy her. She never wants to come see me. I go there every now and then. Just to see the city.”
I wondered why she didn’t just move. “You have relatives here now, Mrs. Totino?”
“No, not since . . . not since the tragedy. Of course you know about that.”
I nodded, feeling definitely self-conscious.
“Yet you bought the house, or your husband bought it for you, I understand from Mr.
Sewell.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You aren’t scared? Other people backed down from buying it at the last minute.”
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“Not haunted, is it? I don’t believe in that stuff,” said Mrs. Totino robustly. I looked surreptitiously for a place to deposit my glass. The Coke was flatter than a penny on a railroad track.
“I don’t either.”
“When that lawyer with the stupid name called to say someone really wanted to buy it, and he said it was a couple about to be married, I thought, I’ll just send them a little something . . . after all these years, the house will be lived in again. What kind of shape was it in?”
So I told her about that, and she asked me questions, and I answered her, and all the while she never talked about what I was most interested in. Granted, the disappearance of her daughter, her granddaughter, and her son-in-law had to have been dreadful, but you would think she would mention it. Aside from that stiff reference to “the tragedy” she didn’t bring it up. Of course she was most interested in changes we had made to the apartment over the garage, the one built for her, the one she’d inhabited such a short time. Then she moved to the house, conversationally.
Had we repainted? Yes, I told her. Had we reroofed? No, I told her, the real estate agent had ascertained that Mr. Julius had had a new roof put on when he bought the house.
“He came here to be near relatives?” I asked carefully.
“His relatives,” she said with a sniff. “His aunt Essie never had any children, so when he retired from the Army, he and Charity moved here to be close to her. He’d saved for years to start his own business, doing additions onto houses, carpentry work, stuff he’d always wanted to do. He could have gone anywhere he wanted, but he picked here,” she said gloomily.
“And asked you to live with them?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Want some more Coke? There’s half a can left in the kitchen. No? Yes, they had figured out how they could add an apartment on the garage. Didn’t want me in the house with ‘em. So I moved from New Orleans—I’d been sharing a place with my sister—and came up here. Left her down there.” She shook her head. “Then this all happened.”
“So,” I said, about to ask something very nosy but unable to stop myself, “why did you stay?”
“Why?” she repeated blankly.
“After they
“Recycled,” I suggested.
“Right, right. Everything’s this recycling now! I recycled them.”
I had hoped to see a picture of the Julius family, but in all this clutter, there were only two photographs, in a double frame balanced precariously on the television set. Both photographs were very old. One showed a stern small woman with dark hair and eyes standing stiffly beside a somewhat taller man with lighter hair and a thin-lipped shy face. They were wearing clothes dating from somewhere around the twenties, I thought. In the other picture, two girls who strongly resembled each other, one about ten and the other perhaps twelve, hugged each other and smiled fixedly at the camera.
“Me and my sister, her name’s Alicia Manigault, isn’t that a pretty name?” Mrs. Totino said fondly. “I’ve always hated my name, Melba. And the other picture is the only one ever taken of my parents.”
“Your sister is still... does she live close?”
“New Orleans,” Mrs. Totino said. “She has a little house in Metairie, that’s right by New Orleans.” She sighed heavily.
“New Orleans is a beautiful place, I envy her. She never wants to come see me. I go there every now and then. Just to see the city.”
I wondered why she didn’t just move. “You have relatives here now, Mrs. Totino?”
“No, not since . . . not since the tragedy. Of course you know about that.”
I nodded, feeling definitely self-conscious.
“Yet you bought the house, or your husband bought it for you, I understand from Mr.
Sewell.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You aren’t scared? Other people backed down from buying it at the last minute.”
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“Not haunted, is it? I don’t believe in that stuff,” said Mrs. Totino robustly. I looked surreptitiously for a place to deposit my glass. The Coke was flatter than a penny on a railroad track.
“I don’t either.”
“When that lawyer with the stupid name called to say someone really wanted to buy it, and he said it was a couple about to be married, I thought, I’ll just send them a little something . . . after all these years, the house will be lived in again. What kind of shape was it in?”
So I told her about that, and she asked me questions, and I answered her, and all the while she never talked about what I was most interested in. Granted, the disappearance of her daughter, her granddaughter, and her son-in-law had to have been dreadful, but you would think she would mention it. Aside from that stiff reference to “the tragedy” she didn’t bring it up. Of course she was most interested in changes we had made to the apartment over the garage, the one built for her, the one she’d inhabited such a short time. Then she moved to the house, conversationally.
Had we repainted? Yes, I told her. Had we reroofed? No, I told her, the real estate agent had ascertained that Mr. Julius had had a new roof put on when he bought the house.
“He came here to be near relatives?” I asked carefully.
“His relatives,” she said with a sniff. “His aunt Essie never had any children, so when he retired from the Army, he and Charity moved here to be close to her. He’d saved for years to start his own business, doing additions onto houses, carpentry work, stuff he’d always wanted to do. He could have gone anywhere he wanted, but he picked here,” she said gloomily.
“And asked you to live with them?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Want some more Coke? There’s half a can left in the kitchen. No? Yes, they had figured out how they could add an apartment on the garage. Didn’t want me in the house with ‘em. So I moved from New Orleans—I’d been sharing a place with my sister—and came up here. Left her down there.” She shook her head. “Then this all happened.”
“So,” I said, about to ask something very nosy but unable to stop myself, “why did you stay?”
“Why?” she repeated blankly.
“After they
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