Death Du Jour Read Free Page A

why we’re trying to find her bones. So they can receive proper treatment.” I wasn’t sure just what proper treatment was for a saint, but it sounded right.
    I pulled out the diagram and showed it to her. “This is the old church.” I traced the row along the north wall, and pointed to a rectangle. “This is her grave.”
    The old nun studied the grid for a very long time, lenses millimeters from the page.
    “She’s not there,” she boomed.
    “Excuse me?”
    “She’s not there.” A knobby finger tapped the rectangle. “That’s the wrong place.”
    Father Ménard returned at that moment. With him was a tall nun with heavy black eyebrows that angled together above her nose. The priest introduced Sister Julienne, who raised clasped hands and smiled.
    It wasn’t necessary to explain what Sister Bernard had said. Undoubtedly they’d heard the old woman while in the corridor. They’d probably heard her in Ottawa.
    “That’s the wrong place. You’re looking in the wrong place,” she repeated.
    “What do you mean?” asked Sister Julienne.
    “They’re looking in the wrong place,” she repeated. “She’s not there.”
    Father Ménard and I exchanged glances.
    “Where is she, Sister?” I asked.
    She bent to the diagram once again, then jabbed her finger at the southeast corner of the church. “She’s there. With Mère Aurélie.”
    “But, Sis—”
    “They moved them. Gave them new coffins and put them under a special altar. There.”
    Again she pointed at the southeast corner.
    “When?” we asked simultaneously.
    Sister Bernard closed her eyes. The wrinkled old lips moved in silent calculation.
    “Nineteen eleven. The year I came here as a novice. I remember, because a few years later the church burned and they boarded it up. It was my job to go in and put flowers on their altar. I didn’t like that. Spooky to go in there all alone. But I offered it up to God.”
    “What happened to the altar?”
    “Taken out sometime in the thirties. It’s in the Holy Infant Chapel in the new church now.” She folded the napkin and began gathering coffee things. “There was a plaque marking those graves, but not anymore. No one goes in there now. Plaque’s been gone for years.”
    Father Ménard and I looked at each other. He gave a slight shrug.
    “Sister,” I began, “do you think you could show us where Élisabeth’s grave is?”
    “ Bien sûr .”
    “Now?”
    “Why not?” China rattled against china.
    “Never mind the dishes,” said Father Ménard. “Please, get your coat and boots on, Sister, and we’ll walk over.”
    Ten minutes later we were all back in the old church. The weather had not improved and, if anything, was colder and damper than in the morning. The wind still howled. The branches still tapped.
    Sister Bernard picked an unsteady path across the church, Father Ménard and I each gripping an arm. Through the layers of clothing, she felt brittle and weightless.
    The nuns followed in their spectator gaggle, Sister Julienne ready with steno pad and pen. Guy hung to the rear.
    Sister Bernard stopped outside a recess in the southeast corner. She’d added a hand-knitted chartreuse hat over her veil, tied under her chin. We watched her head turn this way and that, searching for markers, getting her bearings. All eyes focused on the one spot of color in the dreary church interior.
    I signaled to Guy to reposition a light. Sister Bernardpaid no attention. After some time she moved back from the wall. Head left, head right, head left. Up. Down. She checked her position once more, then gouged a line in the dirt with the heel of her boot. Or tried to.
    “She’s here.” The shrill voice echoed off stone walls.
    “You’re sure?”
    “She’s here.” Sister Bernard did not lack self-assurance.
    We all looked at the mark she’d made.
    “They’re in little coffins. Not like regular ones. They were just bones, so everything fit into small coffins.” She held her tiny arms out to