Corpus Christmas

Epilogue

Tuesday, December 22

“… anybody ask you who I am, who I am, who I am…”

The jazz version of an old Southern folk carol floated through the basement room and Pascal Grant sang along as he folded his few clothes into neat bundles and fit them into the canvas bag Mrs. Beardsley had given him for Christmas.

She seemed sorry that he was leaving the Breul House, but had surprised him by saying, “I think you’ll make an excellent gardener, Pascal.”

“If anybody ask you who I am,” he warbled, “Tell ’em I’m a child of God.”

He put his tapes in the side pocket because he pla

On the radio, a tenor sax picked up the melody line. “The little cradle rocks tonight in glo-or-ry, the Christ Child born in glory.”

He and Rick weren’t leaving till tomorrow, but he wanted to be ready. So much had happened that sometimes his head got dizzy thinking about it-Rick’s grandfather in jail for hitting Dr. Shambley and killing him even though he didn’t mean to, then Rick’s mom and aunt flying in to look after Rick and Mr. Munson, and Rick’s mom saying maybe he and Rick ought to go on down to Louisiana because Mr. Munson was going to pay to get out of jail and since he was mad at Rick somebody had to feed her two dogs and the cat.

Two dogs and a cat! thought Pascal, dazed with happiness. He’d never even thought about having a pet before.

“Mary rocks the cradle, peace on earth…”

When everything that was his was crammed inside his new suitcase and old knapsack, Pascal looked all around him and suddenly remembered that Mrs. Beardsley had said, “Now, Pascal, you must leave your room exactly as you found it.”

Well, he knew what that meant.

Very carefully, he took down the posters that Dr. Peake had said he could have and rolled each one tightly, secured them with rubber bands and carried them out to the storage bin in one of the storerooms. He hated to give them back, but there was no room in his cases.

Finally, he took everything out of the trunk with men’s clothes and laid on the bottom the paper picture with the fu

Mrs. Beardsley was standing on the stairs as Pascal Grant returned from the storage rooms and her heart melted at the sight of his beautiful face. She was rather sad that he was leaving the Breul House, but the city was becoming so crazy and he was so vulnerable. Surely Louisiana would be better for him.

As joyous music surged through the open door in final chorus, she smiled fondly. “All packed?”

“Yes, Mrs. Beardsley. And I did everything you said, too-put my room back just like I found it.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“If anybody ask you who I am, tell him I’m a child of God.”

Margaret Maron

Born and raised in central North Carolina, Margaret Maron lived in Italy before returning to the USA where she and her husband now live. In addition to a collection of short stories she's also the author of 16 mystery novels. Her works have been translated into seven languages her Bootlegger's Daughter, a Washington Post Bestseller won Edgar Anthony, Agatha, and Macavity awards. She is a past president of Sisters in Crime and of the American Crime writers' league, and a director on the national board for Mystery Writers of America.