I hesitated before stepping up to the casket, where Miss LaBarge was resting with two coins over her eyes. They made her look expressionless and somehow inhuman. Soil and flower petals were sprinkled across her body.
“Go on,” Brett said, giving me a little nudge.
Dipping my trowel into the barrel, I leaned over her, my hand quivering, and touched her forehead.
Surprised by how cold her skin was, I jolted, spilling the soil everywhere. Everyone looked in my direction, and I bent down, mortified, and tried to scoop the soil up from the deck.
“Just leave it, Renée,” my grandfather said, pulling me up by the arm.
I walked to the edge of the boat, feeling lost. On the bench across from me sat Eleanor’s mother, hugging her knees as her blond hair blew around her face. Our eyes met for the briefest moment, before we both looked away. After my parents, after Dante, I still didn’t know what to do when confronted with death. That’s the thing nobody tells you. It never gets easier.
The captain opened a latch, pulling open a gate in the handrail at the edge of the deck. With some effort, my grandfather and three other men shifted the lid onto Miss LaBarge’s casket, closed it firmly, then lifted the sealed box to the edge of the deck and slid it into the water. The splash was much smaller than I had expected, and I leaned over the railing and watched as the casket trembled on the surface for a moment before sinking into the sea, a tiny trail of bubbles rising behind the box as if Miss LaBarge had let out one last breath.
That night my grandfather and I returned to the mansion in silence. I tried to sleep but kept being shaken awake by the prickling presence of Dante, as if he were in the room with me, his cold breath tickling my lips. Kicking off the covers, I went to the window, my head throbbing with distorted images: the tip of Miss LaBarge’s nose as she lay in the casket; Brett chewing a crab canapé, the crumbs clinging to his chin as he asked me about Dante.
I pressed my fingers against the pane of glass, now cool from the night air, and imagined I was touching Dante. Cracking open the window, I let the chilly air flutter against the top of my nightgown. Outside, the trees that lined the driveway flexed and bowed in the wind, their shadows shifting across the pavement. I watched them, waiting for Dante’s face to emerge out of the darkness, until the sun rose over the horizon.
The mail arrived early. I jolted awake at the chimes of the doorbell. Through the window I could see a lanky mailman standing on the front stoop, adjusting the bag on his shoulder as he admired the façade of the mansion. Downstairs I could hear Dustin shuffle to the door and greet him.
After pulling on a cardigan, I ran downstairs. Dustin was standing in the foyer, signing something on a clipboard. When he was finished, the mailman handed him a single letter.
“What is it?” I asked, watching Dustin turn it over before shutting the door.
He jumped. “Oh, Renée,” he said, composing himself. “How convenient. It’s for you.”
Hoping it was from Eleanor, I took the letter from him and immediately knew it wasn’t. The envelope was made of a heavy paper, the color of bone. My name was inscribed in fine print. The return address read: Gottfried Academy. I tore the seal open.
Gottfried Students and Parents:
We are deeply saddened to report that the Gottfried community has lost another one of its members. Annette LaBarge, alumna and celebrated philosophy professor, has passed away. She was a friend, colleague, and mentor to many of us at the Academy, and our hearts go out to her family and loved ones.
This tragedy has forced us to evaluate the larger picture of our recent history at Gottfried. After the unfortunate loss of a student, Gideon DuPont, and Headmistress Calysta Von Laark in an accident last spring, along with the unsettling events of two years ago when we lost an esteemed member of our student body, Benjamin Gallow, we no longer believe that Gottfried Academy can provide a safe and healthy learning environment for our students. After careful consideration, we have made the difficult decision to close Gottfried’s doors. The Academy will only remain open to provide services to a small number of students with special needs.
Should you have any questions regarding matriculation at our sister school, Lycée St. Clément, or lingering thoughts about the recent losses to our family, I encourage you to contact me or any Gottfried staff member. Individually and as a community, we remain committed to the health and future success of all our students.
Sincerely yours,
Professor Edith Lumbar
I looked out the windows at the mail truck disappearing behind the trees. Somewhere inside me I had known that Gottfried would have to close; I just didn’t think it actually would. But when I looked down, the letter was still there in my hand, and none of the words had changed.
Dustin glanced at me before picking up a tray with coffee and scones. “I’m so sorry, Renée.”
“Did you know about this?”
Dustin’s face dropped. “Oh, no. I—er—why don’t you talk to your grandfather,” he said, and hurried into the hallway, carrying the platter to my grandfather’s study. I followed him.
Dustin knocked. “Come in,” my grandfather said, taking off his reading glasses when he saw me.
“Is it true?” I demanded, handing him the letter.
He took it from me and skimmed it.
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“You will not be returning to Gottfried,” he said, tossing the letter aside. “But I will be.”