Felice by Angela Davis-Gardner

Author:Angela Davis-Gardner
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780440337263
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

The train rattled over a bridge; Felice looked out at the frozen river that snaked through the snow-covered marsh to the bay. She thought of the dark water running beneath the glittering epidermis of ice, and of the fish and other creatures living there. Many years ago, it was said, some of the village children had skated on the river, during spring thaw; the ice had cracked and one boy had fallen in. His body had been found at the edge of the bay, so the story went, supported by a chaplet of fish.

The Gaspereau River near Wolfville would be frozen now too. Felice imagined Uncle Adolphe, having refused to say the rosary with her unless she sat in his lap, and enraged at her refusal, chasing her to the high bank above the river. She would look down at the ice, the sheet of it shimmering like heaven, as Uncle Adolphe lunged, his hands spread like octopi. She would float down like a petal. The ice would melt to receive her, and then close again above her head. Later, she would be found on the riverbank, the ground beneath her verdant and mossy, an oval of eternal springtime in the snow. It would be known as the Miracle of the Gaspereau. All the nuns and girls would come for the funeral. The apparition of Our Lady of the Willow would descend and hover above Felice; though She would appear only as brilliant light to everyone but Sister Agatha—who would see the true face—all would understand the significance of the moment.

The conductor had to ask twice for her ticket, for Felice was crying into the plush armrest, in mourning for the lovely young girl outstretched in the coffin. “Mademoiselle?” When he touched her shoulder, Felice started. Through her tears, the man’s eyes had a sinister gleam. “I am so sorry, Mademoiselle, but I need your ticket, if you please.” She blinked and the face was transformed; distressed gray eyes behind spectacles, and cheeks like blancmange.

She produced the ticket and the conductor punched it, making bowing motions all the while and occasionally touching his hat, as though uncertain whether or not he should remove it. “May I offer my condolences, Mademoiselle? The good priest at Nevette has told me. Is there something I might bring you—broth, a pillow?”

“No, thank you.”

“Anything that the Fundy Railway Line can do to be of service. Is this your first train ride, Mademoiselle?”

Felice shook her head. She had been once with Mama, another time with her whole family just before Mama and Papa left for Boston. The train had been crowded on that last trip to Wolfville, and Philippe had had the window seat most of the time. Her tears rose again as she thought of that injustice.

The conductor mumbled something, touched his hat, and moved on, exercising the puncher in midair. Across the aisle a lady in a feathered hat leaned forward, evidently about to speak, her features arranged in a smile.

Felice echoed the expression, wanly, and turned to the window.

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