Authors: Anne Rice
Rita went up there to the ten o’clock Mass, thinking, Well, I’ll just pass by the Mayfair house on the way back. But she didn’t have to, because Deirdre was there at Mass, sitting between her great-aunts Miss Belle and Miss Millie. Thank the lord no Miss Carlotta.
Deirdre looked dreadful to Rita, like Banquo’s Ghost as Rita’s mother would have said. She had dark circles under her eyes and her dress was some old shiny gabardine thing that didn’t fit her. Padded shoulders. One of those old women in the house must have given her that.
After Mass, as they were going down the marble steps, Rita swallowed, took a deep breath, and ran after Deirdre.
Deirdre at once gave her that beautiful smile. But when she tried to talk, almost nothing came out. Then in a whisper she said: “Rita Mae!”
Rita Mae leaned over to kiss her. She whispered:
“Dee Dee, I tried to do what you asked me. I could never find that man. The card was too ruined.”
Deirdre’s eyes were wide, vacant. She didn’t even remember, did she? At least Miss Millie and Miss Belle didn’t notice. They were saying their hellos to everybody passing. And poor old Miss Belle never noticed anything anyway.
Then Deirdre did seem to recall something. “It’s OK, Rita Mae,” she said. She had the beautiful smile again. She squeezed Rita Mae’s hand and leaned forward and kissed her this time, on the cheek. Then her Aunt Millie said, “We should go now, sweetheart.”
Now, that was Deirdre Mayfair to Rita.
It’s OK, Rita Mae.
The sweetest girl she ever knew.
Deirdre was back at the sanitarium before long. She’d been walking barefoot on Jackson Avenue talking out loud to herself. Then they said she was in a mental hospital in Texas, and after that Rita only heard that Deirdre Mayfair was “incurably ill” and was never coming home again.
When old Miss Belle died, the Mayfairs called Jerry’s dad as they’d always done. Maybe Miss Carl didn’t even remember the fight with Rita Mae. Mayfairs came from all over for that funeral, but no Deirdre.
Mr. Lonigan hated opening the tomb in Lafayette No. 1. That cemetery had so many ruined graves with rotting coffins plainly visible, even the bones showing. It sickened him to take a funeral there.
“But those Mayfairs have been buried there since 1861,” he said. “And they do keep up that tomb, I’ll give them that. They have the wrought-iron fence painted every year. And when the tourists come through there? Well, that’s one of the graves they always look at—what with all the Mayfairs in there, and those little babies’ names, going back to the Civil War. It’s just the rest of that place is so sorry. You know they’re going to tear that place down someday.”
They never did tear down Lafayette No. 1. The tourists liked it too much. And so did the families of the Garden District. Instead they cleaned it up, repaired the whitewashed walls, planted new magnolia trees. But there were still enough broken-down
tombs for people to get their peek at the bones. It was a “historical monument.”
Mr. Lonigan took Rita through there one afternoon, showing her the famous yellow fever graves where you could read a long list of those who had died within days of each other during the epidemics. He showed her the Mayfair tomb—a big affair with twelve oven-size vaults inside. The little iron fence ran all the way around it, enclosing a tiny strip of grass. And the two marble vases stuck to the front step were full of fresh-cut flowers.
“Why, they keep it up real nice, don’t they?” she said. Such beautiful lilies and gladiolus and baby’s breath.
Mr. Lonigan stared at the flowers. He didn’t answer. Then after he’d cleared his throat, he pointed out the names of those he knew.
“This one here—Antha Marie, died 1941, now that was Deirdre’s mother.”
“The one who fell from the window,” Rita said. Again he didn’t answer her.
“And this one here—Stella Louise, died 1929—now that was Antha’s mother. And it was this one over here, Lionel, her brother—‘died 1929’—who ended up in the straitjacket after he shot and killed Stella.”
“Oh, you don’t mean he murdered his own sister.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” Mr. Lonigan said. Then he pointed out the other names going way back. “Miss Mary Beth, now that was the mother of Stella, and of Miss Carl, and now, Miss Millie is actually Rémy Mayfair’s daughter. He was Miss Carl’s uncle, and he died at First Street, but that was before my time. I remember Julien Mayfair, however. He was what you call unforgettable, Julien was. Till the day he died, he was a fine-looking man. And so was Cortland, his son. You see, Cortland died that year that Deirdre had that little baby. Now I didn’t bury Cortland. Cortland’s family lived in Metairie. They say it was all that ruckus over the baby that killed Cortland. But that don’t matter. You can see that Cortland was eighty years old besides. Old Miss Belle was Miss Carl’s older sister. But Miss Nancy, well, she is Antha’s sister. It will be Miss Millie next, you mark my words.”
Rita didn’t care about them. She was remembering Deirdre on that long-ago day at St. Ro’s when they sat on the side of the bed together. The emerald necklace had come to her through Stella and Antha.
She told Red about it now, and it didn’t surprise him at all. He just nodded, and said, yes, and before that the emerald necklace had belonged to Miss Mary Beth and before that to Miss
Katherine who had built the house on First Street, but Miss Katherine was really before his time. Monsieur Julien was as far back as he could recall …
“But you know, it’s the strangest thing,” Rita said. “Them all carrying the Mayfair name. Why don’t they take the names of the men they marry?”
“Can’t,” Mr. Lonigan said. “If they do, then they don’t get the Mayfair money. That’s the way it was set up long ago. You have to be a Mayfair to get Mayfair money. Cortland Mayfair knew it; knew all about it; he was a fine lawyer; never worked for anybody except the Mayfair family; I remember once he told me. It was legacy, he said.”
He was staring at the flowers again.
“What is it, Red?” Rita asked.
“Oh, just an old story they tell around here,” he said. “That those vases are never empty.”
“Well, it’s Miss Carl who orders the flowers, isn’t it?” Rita asked.
“Not that I know of,” Mr. Lonigan said, “but somebody always puts them there.” But then he went quiet again the way he always did. He would never really tell you what he knew.
When he died a year after that, Rita felt as bad as if she’d lost her own father. But she kept wondering what secrets he’d taken with him. He’d always been so good to Rita. Jerry was never the same. He was nervous afterwards whenever he dealt with the old families.
Deirdre came home to the house on First Street in 1976, a mindless idiot, they said, on account of the shock treatments.
Father Mattingly from the parish went by to see her. No brain left at all. Just like a baby, he told Jerry, or a senile old lady.
Rita went to call. It had been years since she and Miss Carlotta had that awful fight. Rita had three children now. She wasn’t scared of that old lady. She brought a pretty white silk negligee for Deirdre from D. H. Holmes.
Miss Nancy took her out on the porch. She said to Deirdre:
“Look what Rita Mae Lonigan brought, Deirdre.”
Just a mindless idiot. And how awful to see that beautiful emerald necklace around her neck. It was like they were making fun of her, to put it on her like that, over her flannel nightgown.
Her feet looked swollen and tender as they rested on the bare boards of the porch. Her head fell to one side as she stared through the screens. But otherwise she was still Deirdre—still pretty, still sweet. Rita had to get out of there.
She never called again. But not a week went by that she didn’t
walk back First just to stop at the fence and wave to Deirdre. Deirdre didn’t even notice her. But Rita did it nevertheless. It seemed to her Deirdre got stooped and thin, that her arms weren’t down in her lap anymore, but drawn up, close to her chest. But Rita was never close enough to make certain. That was the virtue of just standing at the fence and waving.
When Miss Nancy died last year, Rita said she was going to the funeral. “It’s for Deirdre’s sake.”
“But, honey,” Jerry had said, “Deirdre won’t know you’re doing this.” Deirdre hadn’t spoken a single syllable in all these years.
But Rita didn’t care. Rita was going.
As for Jerry, he didn’t want to have anything to do with the Mayfairs. He missed his daddy more than ever.
“Why the hell can’t they call some other funeral home?” he had said under his breath. Other people did it now that his daddy was dead and gone. Why didn’t the Mayfairs follow suit? He hated the old families.
“Least this is a natural death, or so they tell me,” he said.
Now that really startled Rita. “Well, weren’t Miss Belle and Miss Millie ‘natural deaths’?” she asked.
After he’d finished work that afternoon on Miss Nancy, he told Rita it had been terrible going into that house to get her.
Right out of the old days, the upstairs bedroom with the draperies drawn and two blessed candles burning before a picture of the Mother of Sorrows. The room stank of piss. And Miss Nancy dead for hours in that heat before he got there.
And poor Deirdre on the screen porch like a human pretzel, and the colored nurse holding Deirdre’s hand and saying the rosary out loud, as if Deirdre even knew she was there, let alone heard the Hail Marys.
Miss Carlotta didn’t want to go into Nancy’s room. She stood in the hallway with her arms folded.
“Bruises on her, Miss Carl. On her arms and legs. Did she have a bad tumble?”
“She had the first attack on the stairs, Mr. Lonigan.”
But boy, had he wished his dad was still around. His dad had known how to handle the old families.
“Now, you tell me, Rita Mae. Why the hell wasn’t she in a hospital? This isn’t 1842! This is now. Now I’m asking you.”
“Some people want to be at home, Jerry,” Rita said. Didn’t he have a signed death certificate?
Yes, he did. Of course he did. But he hated these old families.
“You never know what they’re going to do,” he swore. “Not just the Mayfairs, I mean any of the old ones.”
Sometimes the relatives trooped into the viewing room and started right in working on the corpse with their own powder and lipstick. Now, nobody with any sense did that kind of thing anymore.
And what about those old Irish guys who’d laugh and joke while they were acting as pallbearers. One would let his end of the coffin go just so his brother would get the full weight of it—prancing around on the graveyard path like it was Mardi Gras.
And the stories the old ones told at the wake could make you sick. Old Sister Bridget Marie the other night downstairs telling about coming over on the boat from Ireland: The mama said to the baby in the bassinet, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll throw you overboard.” Then she tells her little boy to watch the baby. Little while she comes back. The baby’s gone out of the bassinet. The little boy says, “He started crying again. So I threw him overboard.”
Now, what kind of a story is that to tell when you’re sitting right beside the coffin?
Rita smiled in spite of herself. She had always liked old Sister Bridget Marie.
“The Mayfairs aren’t Irish,” she said. “They’re rich and rich people don’t carry on like that.”
“Oh, yes they are Irish, Rita Mae. Or Irish enough anyway to be crazy. It was the famous Irish architect Darcy Monahan who built that house, and he was the father of Miss Mary Beth. And Miss Carl is the daughter of Judge McIntyre and he was Irish as they come. Just a real old-timer. Sure they’re Irish. As Irish as anybody else around here in this day and age.”
She was amazed that her husband was talking this much. The Mayfairs bothered him, that was clear enough, just as they had bothered his daddy, and nobody had ever told Rita the whole story.
Rita went to the Requiem Mass at the chapel for Miss Nancy. She followed the procession in her own car. It went down First Street to pass the old house, out of respect for Deirdre. But there was no sign Deirdre even saw all those black limousines gliding by.
There were so many Mayfairs. Why, where in the world did they come from? Rita recognized New York voices and California voices and even southern voices from Atlanta and Alabama. And then all the ones from New Orleans! She couldn’t believe it when she went over the register. Why, there were Mayfairs from uptown and downtown, and Metairie, and across the river.
There was even an Englishman there, a white-haired gentleman in a linen suit who actually carried a walking stick. He hung back with Rita. “My, what a dreadfully warm day this is,” he said in his elegant English voice. When Rita had tripped on the path, he’d steadied her arm. Very nice of him.
What did all these people think of that awful old house, she wondered, and of the Lafayette Cemetery with all the moldering vaults. They were crowded all through the narrow aisles, standing on tiptoe trying to see over the high tombs. Mosquitoes in the high grass. And there was one of the tour buses stopped at the gates right now. Those tourists sure loved it, all right. Well, get an eyeful!
But the big shock was the cousin who’d taken Deirdre’s baby. For there she was, Ellie Mayfair from California. Jerry pointed her out while the priest was saying the final words. She had signed the register at every funeral for the last thirty years. Tall, dark-haired woman in a sleeveless blue linen dress, with beautiful suntanned skin. She wore a big white hat. like a sunbonnet, and a pair of dark glasses. Looked like a movie star. How they gathered around her. People clasping her hand. Kissing her on her powdered cheek. When they bent real close, were they asking her about Deirdre’s daughter?
Rita wiped her eyes.
Rita Mae, they’re going to take my baby.
Whatever had she done with that little fragment of white card with the word Talamasca on it? Was probably right here in her prayer book somewhere. She never threw anything away. Maybe she should speak to that woman, just ask her how to get in touch with Deirdre’s daughter. Maybe some day that girl ought to know what Rita had to tell. But then what right had she to meddle like that? Yet if Deirdre died before Rita did, and Rita saw that woman again, well, then she’d go and ask. Nothing would stop her.