Only Fools Walk Free - Sandra R Neeley Page 0,18

can depend on me — I won’t let you down.”

“Let’s hurry, Mom, I want to get started today,” she said as she turned and followed her mother down the path, stopping to turn back and wave at him.

Samuel couldn’t believe it. She’d waved at him!

He paced the ground restlessly until he heard her angelic laugh as she and her mother returned.

She skipped along beside her mother, the both of them carrying bags of cleaning supplies, and her mother pulled a small red wagon behind them with even more needed tools.

And Samuel watched spellbound as she talked about how happy cleaning the crypt would make the man who lived in it.

Having gotten permission, and been given keys for access to the tomb, they unlocked the gate and spent the afternoon scrubbing the sides of the crypt, pulling weeds, and gathering up the gris-gris bags and the other offerings left behind every night by those who still believed that Maman ‘Vangeline could grant their wishes from beyond the grave. They didn’t dispose of the offerings and notes. Instead they enlisted the help of the cemetery caretaker and erected a small wooden stand with a tray on top similar to a shallow three sided box which would allow any who wished to leave favors and offerings in the small wooden tray next to the crypt. It was inside the fenced in area of the family crypt and they’d have to lean over the fence to do it, but the hope was it would keep the site a little neater and cleaner. Claire and her mother respectfully gathered all the offerings scattered about the crypt and placed them inside the small tray atop the stand they’d erected. They used a gas-operated weedeater to cut down the small patch of grass and to edge around the crypt.

It was late afternoon when they finally took a break. Claire and her mother stood back, surveying their work.

“Looks good, Claire-bear,” her mother said.

“Yes, it does. But still, we have more to do.”

“We can come back next weekend if you want to.”

“Really?!” Claire asked excitedly.

“Really. We can make it a regular thing if you like.”

Claire rushed over to her mother. “Thanks, Mom! I’d really like that.”

Later that evening as the nightly visitors began to silently slip into the cemetery, making their way to the Dupont crypt to leave their gifts and make their wishes known, Samuel sat quietly, watching them, listening to their pleas for intercession from Maman ‘Vangeline. They respectfully placed their wishes and gifts in the new tray provided. And the anger he usually felt, the frustration that he took out on those that dared to deface the resting place of his mother and his beautiful Clarice, was not there.

He thought of the little girl — Claire — and her need to make the crypt beautiful again. Of his feeling of connection to her, and he smiled. Maybe, his Clarice was closer than he thought, and maybe, just maybe, she was not resting in this old crumbling crypt behind him. Maybe she’d been given a second chance, and her heart had brought her back to the one place her soul always knew she could find him.

Chapter 6

Months went by, and every week Claire and her mother would come to visit him. In actuality, they weren’t visiting him, they were taking care of the crypt, but still, he was there, so he liked to pretend they were visiting him. He’d begun to look forward to their arrival, expected them even. They’d spend the whole afternoon, cleaning and beautifying the crypt, even hanging decorations for whatever holiday was next on the gate — wreaths of green and red for Christmas, orange and brown for Thanksgiving, green for St. Patrick's day, and green, gold and purple beads and masks hung on all the posts of his fence for Mardi Gras.

As the seasons changed and passed, the girl grew up, but always she came for her visits. Eventually, she came alone, having grown old enough to bring herself. Claire had grown into a beautiful young woman, and if ever he had doubts of her being Clarice, they were long gone. There were afternoons that she’d not do any more than pick up the litter and gifts strewn about the ground. Then, she’d take a seat on the ground, leaning against the gate as Clarice had always done. She’d ask, “Would you like me to read you a story?” Then she’d read aloud from books of her favorite sonnets. It was on