Page 16 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
The manager wraps them up carefully, places them inside a gift box, puts that in a bag, and hands over my acquisition as gently as if handling a bomb.
It’s apt.
Any inkling of an idea I had for a future, any future, for myself or the world went up in smoke as soon as I saw the figurines.
“Vivian, what’s going on?” Sebastian asks, his gentle voice easing into the silence between us.
“Sebastian, I need to leave. I can’t explain this.” I gesture to the bag. “But I can’t do this either,” I say, gesturing between us. “I thought I would have more time to figure it all out—what it is, what could be—but I don’t.”
“Vivian, wait! You can talk to me. Let me help you.” Sebastian is bewildered. He reaches for me, but I jump back, tears stinging.
How could I have been so stupid? I wasthisclose to giving in and starting it all again—the story that’s played out over and over as the decades and centuries have passed.
Sebastian doesn’t know the favor I’m doing him by leaving. If he knew the truth, he would already be far away.
Death will find anyone I love and take them. These figurines are more than enough of a reminder of that.
“You need to leave me alone. For your own good,” I say as I grasp the bag and flee.
Four
Everything is frighteningly clear and straightforward on the walk home—the alarm sounding in my brain is high, and piercing.
“Shock” is the only word I can use to describe the feeling of finding the figurines. I don’t even recall leaving the museum, when suddenly I’m home, under the shady trees of Jones Street. I storm up the front steps of my town house and slam the door shut, barricading myself inside.
My phone pings with notifications, likely Sebastian wondering where I am and confused by what happened. I turn it off and sink into the quiet, with only the white noise of the air conditioner. My papers are scattered all over the table—all the notes I’ve taken for my latest article on the Cluskey Vaults, part of it now inspired by Sebastian and his challenge put forth to Jimi to show more.
It’s laughable in hindsight. I thought I could offer this as evidence. Why would Death be moved by words inspired by another potential love when he’s so committed to seeing me alone? When he keeps taking the loves I’ve had?
I sag onto the couch, reliving the image of Sebastian standing there, the confusion and hurt on his face as I ran away. I imagine what he thinks of me: crazed, clutching a thin plastic bag like it was my life preserver. I hate that I can’t tell him what’s wrong.
The bag lies on the floor, listing open. A strangled laugh burbles up inside me at the sight of it. I suppose I should take more care. I just paid half a million dollars for seven tiny pieces of tin.
I slip onto the floor to pull the gift box from the bag. I open it and touch each of the metal pieces. Up close, the paint’s faded in spots, but I picture them as they were when they were new, vibrant colors mirroring real life. William bent over the workbench of his shop, sweating from the forge’s heat, the coals glowing red hot as he steadily poured the tin between the slate plates, setting up the molds to harden. I remember him painting all the fine details with a tiny brush, in awe of how the same huge hands that fixed massive wagon wheels, shod horses, and forged iron could do such delicate, intricate work.
I pull all the figures into my lap. We’re all there, represented in the set: Eulalie in her green gown and golden hair, holding hands with Eugène, Jacques with his black hair and blue eyes in his dark coat.
I pause, holding William himself, skin brown, shirt white, with a hammer in his hand. I trace my finger over the tiny face, the one I once caused so much pain. I push away what it has always cost me, what it cost William, what it cost all the others.
It was unthinkable. The happiness of the last twenty-four hours feels fleeting and idiotic.
How did I imagine I could pursue something with Sebastian?
How did I think Death would let me?
How did I think I could endure another love ... when they always die?
When I lost William, I thought these figurines were lost as well, stolen along with his life. How did they get all the way from New Orleans and into that case? Their beauty admired by museum patrons and a cruel reminder for me. My life has never been my own, from my birth into forced labor to my bargain with Death.
The irony is that I finally have what I wanted. My collection is complete. Something from each of my loves—my own evidence of beauty and cruelty. I take a deep breath, pack the figurines inthe gift box again, and head to the trunk—the one I keep covered with a weighted blanket, as if it were thick and heavy enough to hide the past.
I drag it off and gaze down at the leather steamer, patched and scarred from decades and decades of travel, a fitting final resting place for all my memories.
I unsnap the locks and push open the lid, plumes of dust whirling in the light, angered at being disturbed. The scent of old leather, cedar, and cardamom rises toward me with a faint whiff of mothballs. Inside lies a smattering of objects that, at first glance, look like junk destined for the trash heap.
A weathered sketch ripped in half.
A red silk dupatta edged in broken golden thread depicting birds, flowers, and vines.
