couldn't nudge away.
After the funeral drive back to New Orleans, I
collapsed with emotional exhaustion and slept into the
late morning. Beau woke me to tell me Monsieur Polk
had just called.
"And?" I sat up quickly, my heart pounding. "I'm afraid it's not good news. The experts tell
him everything is identical with identical twins, blood
type, even organ size. The doctor who treated Gisselle
doesn't think anything would show in an X ray. We
can't rely on the medical data to clearly establish
identities.
"As far as my being the father of Pearl . . . a
blood group test will only confirm that I couldn't be,
not that I could. As Monsieur Polk said, those sorts of
tests aren't perfected yet."
"What will we do?" I moaned.
"He has already petitioned for a hearing and we
have a court date," Beau said. "We'll tell our story, use
the handwriting samples. He wants to also make use
of your art talent. Monsieur Polk has documents
prepared for us to sign so that we willingly surrender
any claim to Paul's estate, thus eliminating a motive.
Maybe it will be enough."
"Beau, what if it isn't?"
"Let's not think of the worst," he urged. The worst was the waiting. Beau tried to
occupy himself with work, but I could do nothing but
sleep and wander from room to room, sometimes
spending hours just sitting in Pearl's nursery, staring
at her stuffed animals and dolls. Not more than fortyeight hours after Monsieur Polk had filed our petition
with the court, we began to get phone calls from