Authors: Anne Rice
My mother’s house. My house? Where was Michael? There was a sudden opening in the crowd, and once again she saw the long flank of the coffin. Was she seeing a woman’s profile against the satin pillow from where she stood? Ellie’s coffin had been closed. Graham had had no funeral. His friends had gathered at a downtown bar.
You are going to have go up to that coffin. You are going to have to look into it and see her. This is why you came, why you broke with Ellie and the paper in the safe, to see with your own eyes your mother’s face. But are these things actually taking place, or am I dreaming? Look at the young girl with her arm around the old woman’s shoulder. The young girl’s white dress has a sash! She is wearing white stockings.
If only Michael were here. This was Michael’s world. If only Michael could take off his glove and lay his hand on the dead woman’s hand. But what would he see? An undertaker shooting embalming fluid into her veins? Or the blood being drained into the gutter of the white embalming table? Deirdre. Deirdre was written in silver letters on the white ribbon that hung from the nearby wreath of chrysanthemums. Deirdre on the ribbon across the great bouquet of pink roses …
Well, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you move? She moved back, against the door frame, watching an old woman with pale yellow hair open her arms to three small children. One after another they kissed the old woman’s wobbling cheeks. She nodded her head. Are all these people my mother’s family?
She envisioned the house again, stripped of detail, dark and fantastically large. She understood why Michael loved that house, loved this place. And Michael didn’t know that that was her mother’s house. Michael didn’t know any of this was happening. Michael was gone. And maybe that was all there would ever be, just that one weekend, and forever this unfinished feeling …
I gotta go home, it isn’t just the visions, it’s that I don’t belong out here anymore. I knew it that day I went down to the ocean …
The door opened behind her. Silently she stepped to the side. An older couple passed her as if she were not there, a stately woman with beautiful iron gray hair swept back in a twist, in a perfect silk shirtwaist dress, and a man in a rumpled white suit, thick-necked and soft-voiced as he talked to the woman.
“Beatrice!” Someone spoke a greeting. A handsome young man came to kiss the pretty woman with the iron gray hair. “Darling, come in,” said a female voice. “No, no one’s seen her, she’s due to arrive anytime.” Voices like Michael’s voice, yet different. A pair of men talking in whispers over their wineglasses came between her and the couple as they moved on into the second room. Once again, the front door was opening. Gust of heat, traffic.
She moved over into the far corner, and now she could see the coffin clearly, see that half the lid was closed over the lower portion of the woman’s body, and why that struck her as grotesque she didn’t know. A crucifix was set into the tufted silk above the woman’s head, not that she could see that head, but she knew it was there, she could just see a dash of flesh color against the gleaming white. Go on, Rowan, go up there.
Go up to the coffin. Is this more difficult than going into an Operating Room? Of course they will all see you, but they won’t know who you are. The constriction came again, the tightening in the muscles of her face and her throat. She couldn’t move.
And then someone was speaking to her, and she knew she ought to turn her head and answer, but she did not. The little girl with the ribbon watched her. Why wasn’t she answering, thought the little girl.
“ … Jerry Lonigan, can I help you? You’re not Dr. Mayfair, are you?”
She looked at him stupidly. The beefy man with the heavy jowls and the prettiest china blue eyes. No, like blue marbles, his eyes, just perfectly round and blue.
“Dr. Mayfair?”
She looked down at his hand. Large, heavy, a paw. Take it. Answer that way if you can’t talk. The tightening in her face grew worse. It was affecting her eyes. What was this all about?—her body frozen in alarm though her mind was in this trance, this awful trance. She made a little gesture with her head at the distant coffin. I want to … but no words would come out. Come on, Rowan, you flew two thousand miles for this.
The man slipped his arm around her. Pressure against her back. “You want to see her, Dr. Mayfair?”
See her, talk to her, know her, love her, be loved by her .… Her face felt as if it were carved of ice. And her eyes were unnaturally wide, she knew it.
She glanced up into his small blue eyes, and nodded. It seemed a hush had fallen over everyone. Had she spoken that loud? But she hadn’t said anything at all. Surely they didn’t know what she looked like, yet it seemed they were all turning to look at her as she and this man walked into the first room, and the message traveled by whispers. She looked closely at the red-haired girl with the ribbon as she passed. In fact, she stopped without meaning to, stranded, on the threshold of the second room, with this nice man, Jerry Lonigan, beside her.
Even the children had stopped playing. The room seemed to darken as everyone moved soundlessly and slowly, but only a few steps. Mr. Lonigan said:
“You wanna sit down, Dr. Mayfair?”
She was staring at the carpet. The coffin was twenty feet away. Don’t look up, she thought, don’t look up until you actually reach the coffin. Don’t see something horrible from a distance. But what was so horrible about all this, how could this be worse than the autopsy table, except that this was … this was her mother.
A woman stepped up behind the little girl, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Rowan? Rowan, I’m Alicia Mayfair, I was Deirdre’s fourth cousin once removed. This is Mona, my little girl.”
“Rowan, I’m Pierce Mayfair,” said the handsome young man on her right, extending his hand suddenly. “I’m Cortland’s great-grandson.”
“Darling, I’m Beatrice, your cousin.” Whiff of perfume. The woman with the iron gray hair. Soft skin touching Rowan’s cheek. Enormous gray eyes.
“—Cecilia Mayfair, Barclay’s granddaughter, my grandfather was Julien’s second son born at the First Street house, and here, Sister, come, this is Sister Marie Claire. Sister, this is Rowan, this is Deirdre’s girl!”
Weren’t you supposed to say something respectable to nuns, but this sister couldn’t have heard. They were shouting in her ear. “Deirdre’s girl, Rowan!”
“—Timothy Mayfair, your fourth cousin, we’re glad to see you, Rowan—”
“—glad to see you on this sad … ”
“Peter Mayfair, we’ll talk later on. Garland was my father. Did Ellie ever talk about Garland?”
Dear God, they were all Mayfairs. Polly Mayfair, and Agnes Mayfair, and Philip Mayfair’s girls, and Eugenie Mayfair, and on and on it went. How many of them could there possibly be? Not a family but a legion. She was clasping one hand after another, and at the same time cleaving to the beefy Mr. Lonigan, who held her so firmly. Was she trembling? No, this is what they call shaking, not trembling.
Lips brushed her cheek. “ … Clancy Mayfair, Clay’s great-granddaughter. Clay was born at First Street before the Civil War. My mother is Trudy Mayfair, here, Mother, come, let Mother through … ”
“ … so glad to see you, darling. Have you seen Carlotta?”
“Miss Carlotta’s feeling pretty bad,” said Mr. Lonigan. “She’ll meet us at the church—”
“—ninety years old now, you know.”
“—do you want a glass of water? She’s white as a sheet, Pierce, get her a glass of water.”
“Magdalene Mayfair, Rémy’s great-granddaughter. Rémy lived at First Street for years. This is my son, Garvey, and my daughter, Lindsey. Here, Dan, Dan say hello to Dr. Mayfair. Dan is Vincent’s great-grandson. Did Ellie tell you about Clay and Vincent and … ”
No, never, about anyone.
Promise me you will never go back, that you’ll never try to find out.
But why, why in the name of God? All these people—why the paper, the secrecy?
“—Gerald’s with her. Pierce stopped by. He saw her. She’s fine, she’ll be at the church.”
“Do you want to sit down, honey?”
“Are you all right?”
“Lily, darling, Lily Mayfair. you’ll never remember all our names, don’t try.”
“Robert, honey. We’ll talk to you later.”
“—here if you need us, Rowan. Are you feeling all right?”
I am. I’m fine. I just can’t talk. I can’t move. I …
There was tightening again of the facial muscles. Rigid, rigid all over. She held tighter to Mr. Lonigan’s hand. He said something to them about her paying her respects now. Was he telling them to go away? A man touched her left hand.
“I’m Guy Mayfair, Andrea’s son, and this is my wife, Stephanie, she’s Grady’s daughter. She was Ellie’s first cousin.”
She wanted to respond, was clasping each hand enough, was nodding enough? Was kissing back the old woman who kissed her enough? Another man was talking to her but his voice was
too soft. He was old, he was saying something about Sheffield. The coffin was twenty feet away at most. She didn’t dare look up, or look away from them, for fear she’d see it accidentally.
But this is what you came for, and you have to do it. And they are here, hundreds of them …
“Rowan,” said someone to her left, “this is Fielding Mayfair, Clay’s son.” Such a very old man, so old she could see all the bones of his skull through his pale skin, see the lower and upper teeth and the ridges around his sunken eyes. They were holding him up; he couldn’t stand by himself, and all this struggle, so that he might see her? She put out her hand. “He wants to kiss you, honey.” She brushed his cheek with her lips.
His speech was low, his eyes yellowed as he looked up at her. She tried to hear what he was saying, something about Lestan Mayfair and Riverbend. What was Riverbend? She nodded. He was too old to be treated badly. She had to say something! He was too old to be struggling like this just to pay his respects to her. When she squeezed his hand, it felt so smooth and silky and knotted and strong.
“I think she’s going to faint,” someone whispered. Surely they weren’t talking about
her.
“Do you want me to take you up to the coffin?” The young man again, the handsome one, with the clean preppie face, and the brilliant eyes. “I’m Pierce, I met you just a second ago.” Flash of perfect teeth. “Ellie’s first cousin.”
Yes, to the coffin. It’s time, isn’t it? She looked towards it, and it seemed that someone stepped back so that she might see, and then her eyes shifted instantly upwards, beyond the face on the propped-up pillow. She saw the flowers clustered about the raised lid, a whole jungle of flowers, and far to the right at the foot of the coffin a white-haired man she knew. The dark-haired woman beside him was crying, and saying her rosary, and they were both looking at her, but how in the world could she possibly know that man, or anyone here? But she knew him! She knew he was English, whoever he was, she knew just how his voice would sound when he spoke to her.
Jerry Lonigan helped her step forward. The handsome one, Pierce, was standing beside her. “She’s sick, Monty,” said the pretty old woman. “Get her some water.”
“Honey, maybe you should sit down … ”
She shook her head, mouthing the word no. She looked at that white-haired Englishman again, the one with the woman who was praying. Ellie had wanted her rosary in the last week. Rowan had had to go to a store in San Francisco to buy one. The woman was shaking her head and crying, and wiping her nose, and the
white-haired man was whispering to her, but his eyes were fixed on Rowan.
I know you.
He looked at her as if she’d spoken to him, and then it came to her—the cemetery in Sonoma County where Graham and Ellie were buried, this was the man she had seen that day by the grave.
I know your family in New Orleans.
And quite unexpectedly another piece of the same puzzle fell into place. This was the man who’d been standing outside Michael’s house two nights ago on Liberty Street.
“Honey, do you want a glass of water?” said Jerry Lonigan.
But how could that be? How could that man have been there, and here, and what had all this to do with Michael, who had described to her the house with the iron roses in the railing?
Pierce said he would go get a chair. “Let her just sit right here.”
She had to move. She couldn’t just remain here staring at the white-haired Englishman, demanding of him that he explain himself, explain what he’d been doing on Liberty Street. And out of the corner of her eye, something she couldn’t bear to see, something in the coffin waiting.
“Here, Rowan, this is nice and cold.” Smell of wine. “Take a drink, darling.”
I would like to, I really would, but I can’t move my mouth. She shook her head, tried to smile. I don’t think I can move my hand. And you are all expecting me to move, I really should move. She used to think the doctors who fainted at an autopsy were fools, really. How could such a thing affect one so physically? If you hit me with a baseball bat, I might pass out. Oh, God, what you don’t know about life is really just beginning to reveal itself in this room. And your mother is in that coffin.
What did you think, that she would wait here, alive, until you came? Until you finally realized … Down here, in this strange land! Why, this is like another country, this.
The white-haired Englishman came towards her. Yes, who are you? Why are you here? Why are you so dramatically and grotesquely out of place? But then again, he wasn’t. He was just like all of them, the inhabitants of this strange land, so decorous and so gentle, and not a touch of irony or self-consciousness or false sentiment in his kindly face. He drew close to her, gently making the handsome young man give way.
Remember those tortured faces at Ellie’s funeral. Not a one under sixty yet not a gray hair, not a sagging muscle. Nothing like this. Why, this is what they mean when they talk about “the people.”
She lowered her eyes. Banks of flowers on either side of the velvet prie-dieu. She moved forward, her nails digging into Mr.
Lonigan before she could stop herself. She struggled to relax her hand and to her utter amazement, she felt she was going to fall. The Englishman took hold of her left arm, as Mr. Lonigan held her by the right one.