Forever by Margaret Pemberton Page B

uncontrollably as the cortège made its way to the St Louis Cemetery in Basin Street, where the Clay mausoleum had stood, receiving its family members, since the city had been founded on the swamp beneath its streets. Judge Clay had no intention of burying his wayward son elsewhere.
    The Judge’s face was haggard, deep lines etched from nose to mouth and furrowing his brow as his elder, remaining son, walked at his side. The storm clouds that could blow up with such unexpectedness and ferocity over the city, threatened in the distance.
    When the cortège reached the cemetery Beau’s out-of-state friends eyed their surroundings uneasily. The usual swift, neat cremations amongst rose-laid gardens had been no preparation for Beau’s burial. Monolithic tombs, like tenements, towered above the ground. The dead seemed literally to press in on them on either side and more than one New Yorker wished he hadn’t made the trip.
    Mae Jefferson stood beside her mother, shivering despite the steaming heat of the afternoon. She had not wanted to come but her mother had been adamant. Respect had to be shown. Besides, the Judge would notice which families had attended and which had not, and he was a very influential man.
    Mae looked away as the priest officiated beside the ebony casket lying on the catafalque, not listening as the well-known words rolled sonorously over the bowed heads around her. In the distance she could see the tomb of Etienne de Bore, the first planter to make sugar a commercial enterprise in the South. And somewhere, unknown and unmarked, lay the rotting bones of Marie Laveau, infamous Voodoo Queen of Old New Orleans.
    Her grandmother had told her many tales of Marie Laveau and her supernatural powers: tales her mother discounted and refused to listen to. But Mae knew voodoo was real. Her grandmother had told her so.
    There was a distant rumble of thunder and a few of the bowed heads turned, eyeing the sky and calculating how long it would be before they were caught in a torrential downpour. Tina Lafayette’s sobs were heard above the noise. Charles Lafayette stood apart from her, disassociating himself from a spectacle that could only give rise to gossip. There was no sign of Gussie.
    Mae closed her eyes and dug her nails into her palms. She hated her mother for forcing her to endure such an ordeal. Somewhere in the vast crowd she had seen Eden’s dark head and wished that Eden were standing next to her.
    â€˜â€¦ ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
    The macabre, swathed corpse was ceremoniously lifted from the coffin and carried into the giant mausoleum. There it was placed on a stone shelf. The hot, dry air would accomplish the rest.
    The sun-tanned blonde from La Jolla screamed and was hastily shushed by those around her. New Orleans burials were unlike any other. There was no room, no suitable burying land, for the luxury of coffins.
    The mausoleum was sealed, the iron gates swung into place. Judge Clay looked momentarily disorientated and then walked with pathetic dignity back through the overgrown churchyard and towards his limousine, the mourners parting silently as they made way for him.
    In the Lafayette mansion Gussie lay prostrate on the bed she had barely left since hearing of Beau’s death. Gold velvet drapes were drawn across the window, plunging the room into dark shadow. In her imagination she followed the funeral procession every step of the way, from the elegant Clay home to Beau’s final resting place amongst his ancestors. She knew that Eden was going with her mother; that Mae was going with hers. She knew that her father, out of respect for Judge Clay, was also attending. She, too, could have been there, but she could not have borne to be only one of a nameless crowd. To have her tears regarded on the same level as Mae’s. She wanted to wear a black dress and black silk stockings and a heavy veil over her face. She wanted people to be in awe of her