fractal

Dear Winifred, I think I’m now ready to give up more information about the accident that defined my childhood and adolescence, and, to a certain extent, my self. Uncle Buddy and Mother were driving at night and Mother slammed the car into a tree. I was only eight at the time and asleep in the back seat, so I wasn’t hurt too badly; Buddy died on impact and Mother was so mangled, it took three years and multiple surgeries to get her close to normal. Thanks to daddy’s millions she underwent extensive therapy, both physical and psychological, and when she finally returned, she was bizarre in ways I can’t quite pin down. She spent sixteen months in California and returned to a facility in Covington for the rest of her makeover. To a child, that seems like a lifetime. When she returned home, she was kept in a part of the house I rarely visited, so I saw her very seldom. Most of the time, she looked like a mummy, face and hands swathed in bandages. The curtains were always drawn and the lights were kept dim, so she really was the invisible woman, forgetful and emotionally distant as well. She and I had been as close as a mother and son could be, and she tried so hard to be that way for me again. But life with dad and me was a constant struggle, as if she were trying to become again who she had been. Uncle Buddy had lived with us since before I was born; but as far back as my memory goes, my parents fought about him constantly. I was too young to discern the details and they never quarreled in front of me, but I can remember hearing them fighting while I was in bed trying to sleep. All I could pick out of the conversation was “Buddy” this and “Buddy” that. I know Mother wanted him to leave and dad wanted him to stay, odd because he was Mother’s brother, in fact her twin. I also picked up hints that there was something wrong with him, something that made him incapable of coping. But that’s it. I also wanted him to leave because I saw him as the cause of my parents’ dissension and I was afraid they’d split up. So when he died, I was glad, which produced feelings of guilt as if I had willed him to his death. Once I got that fixed in my head, it took years of shrinking to get it out. After Mother came home finally repaired and refashioned, they STILL fought about dead Uncle Buddy and eventually Mother left. The struggle to be herself again was overwhelming. That was in 1960. According to the shrinks, the fact that she left me without saying good-bye, or even arranging to see me once in a while, is at the root of my problems. That, and my wanting Buddy dead. She had been in Covington ever since, first, in a rental, then in the house where we were living when the accident occurred. When she left, dad moved to Flagstaff because he had always wanted to live in the west whereas Mother loved the south, and she then took the house as part of her settlement. She didn’t want me, so I went to Flagstaff too. I got the parent who was rich, but missed out on the one I adored. Oh well, such is life. Actually, Mother died in that accident too because the pieced-together creature who came back from various clinics was not the mother who adored me in return but a stranger who looked vaguely like her and had her memories. Her soul was gone. More of my saga after I’ve had a chance to revisit and explore my childhood home… I’m in Flagstaff now and leave for New Orleans 2/8. Malachi Dear Mal, Sounds like you’ll get to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras! Wish I could crash. It’s an anthropologist’s dream. My colleagues here are very jealous! I can tell you now that the dig is at the Roman amphitheater at Autun. It’s just vaguely possible that we’ve dug up a guy who worked on the famous Romanesque church of St. Lazarus there. On the site there were tools of the sort used by sculptors and/or masons. One of the skeletons is decidedly peculiar and was almost certainly that of a VERY deformed person. IF the skeleton turns out to be such, and was somehow related to at least one of the other two, then we have a couple who harbored a wretch who would most certainly have died without the intervention of the couple. That explains why they were holed up in ruins rather than in a more conventional dwelling. The freakish person would have had to remain hidden. I don’t know if we’ll ever puzzle all this out. DNA tests may not be possible and will take ages, if we can get any material to test. The freak had a broken neck and one or both of the others may have killed him. Or he may have offed himself. I’m really pleased that this project has taken me back to Burgundy, specifically Autun. I’ve been interested in the motif of the suicide of Judas as depicted on capitals in a cluster of churches in this area: Autun, Saulieu and Vézelay. I wonder why that theme was so popular here in the twelfth century. There’s a Suicide at the cathedral of Strasbourg, but it’s a restoration and who knows how well it reflects what was there originally? Perhaps you could take a break and come for a visit? I’d love to see you again. No strings attached… Winifred Dear Winifred, You aren’t the only one wishing you were here. I’m doing a sort of archaeological dig of my own. But first things first. The flight to New Orleans was uneventful and my rental car was waiting for me. If I have to stay for any length of time, I’ll lease something. Apparently I’m suddenly very rich. The coroner is still curious, almost suspicious, about Mother’s death but the cause was quite obvious and there was no hint of foul play. They’re still curious about why she didn’t call for help, but I can only imagine that death was so sudden, she didn’t have a chance to do so. It’s also quite possible, even likely, that she wanted to die. Celestine convinced them Mother was given to eccentricity—she was in her late eighties—and there was no way to figure out her motives for bizarre actions. The coroner decided that a more than perfunctory autopsy wasn’t necessary, especially since she was under a physician’s care, so he released the body for whatever. Celestine is an old black woman, a little older than mom, who had been living with her forever. I sort of remember Cel from way back when. Mother depended on her very much since her own mother died when she was very young. She was spooky then and she’s spooky now. She was very upset that any sort of post mortem was done; she claims Mother instructed her to do whatever it took to prevent anyone from doing an autopsy, showed the coroner Mother’s will, which did indeed state that. Mother was always prissy about nudity and always locked the door when she was in the shower. This was after the accident. I imagine she was pretty scarred up and didn’t want anyone to see what she must have considered disfigurement. So Cel had a funeral parlor cremate her at once. I wonder what the hell I’m doing here! Claiming my inheritance, I guess… I’ll be glad when I can clear out. I’ll have to decide what to do with the ashes. I arrived at the house late in the day and, since Cel is still living here, all the utilities were on. She offered to leave but I could use some help going through the mountains of stuff Mother accumulated through the years. The house is fantastic in more ways than one. It’s on the Bogue Falaya, one of Louisiana’s more beautiful waterways, between the river and a swamp. Hence the name Mother gave the house years ago, Cypress Shadows. It’s hemmed in by immense trees, mostly southern pine, but there are a quite a few cypress, water oak, magnolia, and river birch in the mix. I guess Mother thought cypress shadows were classier than pine shadows. She had notions about what was classy and what was not. Celestine tells me the land is subject to catastrophic flooding, hence the house is about eleven feet off the ground on pilings. Every inch of wall space is crammed with art: paintings, sculptures, candle holders, gewgaws. Some of the sculpture is miniature copies of capitals that look like the ones at St