Free Sins of the Fathers by Patricia Sprinkle Page A

the water table was so high it was impossible to dig deep without hitting water. The slab on pilings baffled her, for she could look all the way under it, like under a magician’s table.
    The slabs held not only the names and dates of the deceased, but messages of love and grief:
     
    LEAVING A WIFE AND CHILDREN TO MOURN HIS PASSING
    HER FRIENDS WILL SORELY MISS HER
    ONE OF PURE SPIRIT, BELOVED OF THE LORD
     
    The stones and obelisks sat askew in the soft sand. Those made of concrete or tabby had been worn by years of sun, sand, wind, and subtropical storms until they were spotted, pitted, and difficult to read. All were half-hidden by knee-high grass and weeds dotted with wild flowers. They were the only spots of color in that forlorn place: red, white, orange, and yellow.
    Who were these people who had lived and been laid to rest without anybody to tend their graves? The only surname she saw inside the fence was BAYARD . All had been buried before nineteen hundred.
    Who were the Morrisons, then, who lay outside the fence? Outcasts? Distant relatives? A newer branch of the family who died after the fenced yard was full?
    She bent and tugged a handful of grass away from the stone of a child who had lived less than a year, then stood erect to peer across the clearing again. “I wonder what this clearing was for. A house, do you reckon?”
    Dr. Flo swatted another mosquito and glanced toward the ruin. “It’s small for a house. I don’t see anybody but Bayards here, do you?”
    “And the four Morrisons, outside.”
    Dr. Flo bent to peer down at another stone. “This one is so worn, I can’t read it. How could anybody identify the person to find the next of kin? But since they all seem to be one family, I guess that won’t matter. I can’t imagine why my people would be buried here, though. We never had Bayards in our family, that I ever heard of.”
    Katharine paused at the stone commemorating Marianne Bayard, who had died at sixteen. “So many dead children.” A picture of Susan in high school—dark and glowing after a soccer game or before a prom—rose in her mind. “Dear God, protect her and Jon,” she whispered to the breeze.
    Dr. Flo smacked another mosquito. “It’s a wonder any children survived, with all these bugs. I’ve finished my side, have you?”
    Katharine joined her at the slab at the back. It was the largest of all and, because it was marble, its carving was still crisp. Foot-high letters at one end read, predictably, BAYARD . Below were carved two memorials:

     

    TO THE MEMORY OF
    FRANCIS HAMILTON BAYARD
    BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
    BORN 1818
    DIED 1870
    REQUIESCAT IN PACE

     

    IN MEMORY OF
    ELIZABETH MALLERY BAYARD
    MOTHER OF CLAUDE
    AND WIFE OF FRANCIS
    WHO DIED IN THIS PLACE
    1892

     

    Dr. Flo copied both inscriptions into her notebook. “Probably not important, but at least here’s a Claude mentioned. I haven’t seen Claude Bayard, have you?”
    “I think so.” Katharine wandered back up her side of the cemetery. “Here. He’s buried beside his wife, who died years before he did.”
    Dr. Flo shaded her eyes to peer across the entire plot. “But where could Claude Gilbert and his companions be?”
    As Katharine joined her, she saw a smaller plot behind the first. “Maybe there?” Four graves lay inside a small square. One side was the iron fence. The other three were enclosed by a tabby wall two feet high.
    “There he is!” Dr. Flo leaned over the railing and read the stone for Claude Gilbert, carved from fine marble:

     

    CLAUDE GILBERT
    JUNE 18, 1869– JANUARY 15, 1903
    DEAR HUSBAND AND FATHER

     

    Beside it, a small marble marker sagged sideways. It read, simply,

     

    MARIE GUILBERT
    1825–1889

     

    A second small marble stone lay on its back near the wrought iron fence. It read

     

    FRANÇOISE GUILBERT
    1871–1878
    ANGELS, HOLD HER CLOSE

     

    Katherine felt a catch in her throat as she subtracted. Seven years old and forgotten under all this sand. Yet