Authors: Anne Rice
“I do not speak of retribution. I do not speak of revenge. I speak of illumination, understanding, and above all, resolution. I speak of the final light of truth.
“These people, the Mayfairs, do not know who they are anymore. I tell you the young woman was an innocent. I’m convinced of it. But we know. We know; and Lasher knows. And who is Lasher? Who is this spirit who chose to reveal his pain to me; who chose to show to me his very tears?”
Arthur posted this letter from St. Louis, Missouri. A bad carbon was sent two days later from New York, with a brief postscript, explaining that Arthur had booked passage home, and would be sailing at the end of the week.
After two days at sea, Arthur rang the ship’s doctor, complaining of chest pains and asking for a standard remedy for indigestion.
A half hour later, the doctor discovered Arthur dead of an apparent heart attack. The time was half past six on the evening of September 7, 1929.
Arthur had written one more brief letter on shipboard the day before his death. It was in his robe pocket when he was found.
In it, he said that he was not well, and suffering from violent seasickness, which he hadn’t experienced in years. There were times when he feared he was really ill, and might not see the Motherhouse again.
“There are so many things I want to discuss with you about the Mayfairs, so many ideas going through my head. What if we were to draw off that spirit? That is, what if we were to invite it to come to us?
“Whatever you do, do not send another investigator to New Orleans—not now, not while that woman, Carlotta Mayfair, lives.”
H
E WAS KISSING
her as his fingers stroked her breasts. The pleasure was so keen. Paralyzing. She tried to lift her head. But she couldn’t move. The constant roar of the jet engines lulled her. Yes, this is a dream. Yet it seemed so real, and she was slipping back into it. Only forty-five minutes until they landed at New Orleans International. She ought to try to wake up. But then he kissed her again, forcing his tongue very gently between her lips, so gently yet forcefully, and his fingers touched her nipples, pinching them as if she were naked under the small woolen blanket. Oh, he knew how to do it, pinch them slowly but hard. She turned more fully towards the window, sighing, drawing up her knees against the side of the cabin. No one noticing her. First class half empty. Almost there.
Again, he pinched her nipples, just a little more cruelly, ah, so delicious. You cannot be too rough, really. Press your lips harder against mine. Fill me with your tongue. She opened her mouth against his, and then his fingers touched her hair, sending another, unexpected sensation through her, a light tingling. That was the miracle of it, that it was such a blending of sensations,
like soft and bright colors mingling, the chills moving down her naked back and arms, and yet the heat pounding between her legs.
Come inside me! I want to be filled up, yes, with your tongue, and with you, come in harder.
It was enormous, yet smooth, bathed as it was in her fluids.
She came silently, shuddering beneath the blanket, her hair fallen down over her face, only dimly aware that she wasn’t naked, that no one could be touching her, no one could be creating this pleasure. Yet it went on and on, her heart stopping, the blood pounding in her face, the shocks moving down through her thighs and her calves.
You are going to die if it doesn’t stop, Rowan. His hand brushed her cheek. He kissed her eyelids.
Love you
…
Suddenly, she opened her eyes. For a moment nothing registered. Then she saw the cabin. The little blind was drawn, and everything about her seemed a pale luminous gray, drenched in the sound of the engines. The shocks were still passing through her. She lay back in the large soft airline seat and yielded to them, rather like dim, beautifully modulated jolts of electricity, her eyes drifting sluggishly over the ceiling as she struggled to keep them open, to wake up.
God, how did she look after this little orgy? Her face must be flushed.
Very slowly, she sat up, smoothing back her hair with both hands. She tried to reinvoke the dream, not for the sensuality but for information, tried to travel back to the center of it, to know who he had been. Not Michael. No. That was the bad part.
Christ, she thought. I’ve been unfaithful to him with nobody. How strange. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Very warm. She was still feeling the low, vibrant, debilitating pleasure even now.
“How long before we land in New Orleans?” she asked the stewardess who was passing.
“Thirty minutes. Seat belt buckled?”
She sat back, feeling for the buckled seat belt, and then letting herself go deliciously limp. But how could a dream do that, she thought. How could a dream carry it so far?
When she was thirteen, she used to have those dreams, before she knew they were natural or what to do about them. But she’d always wake before the finish. She couldn’t help it. This time, it had just taken its own course. And the odd thing was, she felt violated, as if the dream lover had assaulted her. Now, that was really absurd. But it wasn’t a good feeling, and it was extremely strong.
Violated .…
She raised her hands to her breasts under the blanket, covering them protectively. But that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Besides, it wasn’t rape at all.
“You want a drink before we land?”
“No. Coffee.” She closed her eyes. Who had he been, her dream lover? No face, no name. Only the sense of someone more delicate than Michael, someone almost ethereal, or at least that was the word that came to her mind. The man had spoken to her, however, she was sure of it, but everything except the memory of the pleasure was gone.
Only as she sat up to drink the coffee did she realize there was a faint soreness between her legs. Possibly an aftereffect of the powerful muscular contractions. Thank God there was no one else near at hand, no one beside her or across the aisle from her. But then she never would have let it go so far if she hadn’t been concealed, under the blanket. That is, if she could have forced herself awake. If she had had a choice.
She felt so sleepy!
Slowly she took a sip of the coffee and raised the white plastic shade.
Green swampland down there in the deepening afternoon sun. And the dark brown serpentine river curving around the distant city. She felt a sudden elation. Almost there. The sound of the engines grew harsher, louder with the plane’s descent.
She didn’t want to think about the dream anymore. She honestly wished it hadn’t happened. In fact, it was dreadfully distasteful to her suddenly, and she felt soiled and tired and angry. Even a little revolted. She wanted to think about her mother, and about seeing Michael.
She had called Jerry Lonigan from Dallas. The parlor was open. And the cousins were already arriving. They had been calling all morning. The Mass was set for three
P.M.
and she wasn’t to worry. She should just come on over from the Pontchartrain as soon as she arrived.
“Where are you, Michael?” she whispered, as she sat back again, and closed her eyes.
THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES
PART VIII
The Family from 1929 to 1956
THE IMMEDIATE AFTERMATH OF STELLA’S DEATH
In October and November of 1929, the stock market crashed and the world entered the Great Depression. The Roaring Twenties came to an end. Wealthy people everywhere lost their fortunes. Multimillionaires jumped out of windows. And in a time of new and unwelcome austerity, there came an inevitable cultural reaction to the excesses of the twenties. Short skirts, booze-swilling socialites, and sexually sophisticated motion pictures and books went out of style.
At the Mayfair house on First and Chestnut Streets in New Orleans, the lights went dim with Stella’s death and were never turned up again. Candles lighted Stella’s open-casket funeral in the double parlor. And when Lionel, her brother, who had shot her dead with two bullets in front of scores of witnesses, was buried a short time after, it was not from the house but from a sterile funeral parlor on Magazine Street blocks away.
Within six months of Lionel’s death, Stella’s art deco furniture, her numerous contemporary paintings, her countless records of jazz and ragtime and blues singers, all disappeared from the rooms of First Street. What did not go into the immense attics of the house went out on the street.
Countless staid Victorian pieces, stored since the loss of Riverbend, came out of storage to fill the rooms. Shutters were bolted on the Chestnut Street windows never to be opened again.
But these changes had little to do with the death of the Roaring Twenties, or the crash of the stock market, or the Great Depression.
The family firm of Mayfair and Mayfair had long ago shifted
its enormous resources out of the railroads, and out of the dangerously inflated stock market. As early as 1924, it had liquidated its immense land holdings in Florida for boom profits. It continued to hold its California property for the western land boom yet to come. With millions invested in gold, Swiss francs, South African diamond mines, and countless other profitable ventures, the family was once again in a position to lend money to friends and distant cousins who had lost all they had.
And lend money right and left the family did, pumping new blood into its incalculably large body of political and social contacts, and further protecting itself from interference of any sort as it had always done.
Lionel Mayfair was never questioned by a single police officer as to why he shot Stella. Two hours after her death, he was a patient in a private sanitarium, where in the days that followed weary doctors nodded off listening to Lionel rave about the devil walking the hallways of the house at First Street, about little Antha taking the devil into her bed.
“And there he was with Antha and I knew it. It was happening all over again. And Mother wasn’t there, you see, no one was there. Just Carlotta fighting endlessly with Stella. Oh, you can’t imagine the door slamming and the screaming. We were a household of children without Mother. There was my big sister Belle clinging to her doll, and crying. And Millie Dear, poor Millie Dear, saying her rosary on the side porch in the dark, shaking her head. And Carlotta struggling to take Mother’s place, and unable to do it. She’s a tin soldier compared to Mother! Stella threw things at her. ‘You think you’re going to lock me up!’ Stella was hysterical.
“Children, I tell you, that’s what we were. I’d knock on her door and Pierce was in there with her! I knew it and all this in broad daylight. She was lying to me, and
him
with Antha, I saw him. All the time I saw him! I saw him! I saw them together in the garden. But she knew, she knew all along that he was with Antha. She let it happen.
“ ‘Are you going to let him have her?’ That’s what Carlotta said. How the hell was I supposed to stop it? She couldn’t stop it. Antha was under the trees out there singing with him, tossing the flowers in the air, and he was making them float there. I saw that! I saw that so many times! I could hear her laughing. That’s how Stella used to laugh! And what did Mother ever do, for Christ’s sake! Oh, God, you don’t understand. A household of children. And why were we children? Because we didn’t know how to be evil. Did Mother know how? Did Julien know how?
“Do you know why Belle’s an idiot? It was inbreeding! And
Millie Dear’s no better! Good God, do you know that Millie Dear is Julien’s daughter! Oh, yes, she is! As God is my witness, yes, she is. And she sees
him
and she lies about it! I know she sees him.
“ ‘Leave her alone,’ Stella says to me, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I know Millie can see him. I know she can. They were carrying cases of champagne for the party. Cases and cases, and there was Stella up there dancing to her phonograph records. ‘Just try to be decent for the party, will you, Lionel?’ For the love of heaven. Didn’t anybody know what was going on?
“And Carl talking about sending Stella to Europe! How could anyone get Stella to do anything! And what did it matter if Stella was in Europe? I tried to tell Pierce. I grabbed that young man by the throat and I said, ‘I’m going to make you listen.’ I would have shot him too if I could have done it. I would have, oh God, in heaven, why did they stop me! ‘Don’t you see, it’s Antha he’s got now! Are you blind?’ That’s what I said. You tell me! Are they all blind!”
On and on it went, we are told, for days on end. Yet the above is the only fragment noted verbatim in the doctor’s file, after which we are informed that “the patient continues on about she and her and him and he, and one of these persons is supposed to be the devil.” Or, “Raving again, incoherent, implying someone put him up to it, but it is not clear who this person is.”
On the eve of Stella’s funeral, three days after the murder, Lionel tried to escape. Thereafter he was kept permanently in restraints.
“How they managed to patch up Stella, I’ll never know,” one of the cousins said long after. “But she looked lovely.
“That was Stella’s last party, really. She’d left detailed instructions as to how it was to be handled, and do you know what I heard later? That she’d written all that out when she was thirteen! Imagine, the romantic notions of a girl of thirteen!”
Legal gossip indicated otherwise. Stella’s funeral instructions (which were in no way legally binding) had been included with the will she made in 1925 after Mary Beth’s death. And for all their romantic effect they were extremely simple. Stella was to be buried from home. Florists were to be informed that the “preferred flower” was the calla or some other white lily, and only candles would, be used to light the main floor. Wine should be served. The wake should continue from the time of laying out until the body was removed to the church for the Requiem Mass.
But romantic it was, by anyone’s standards, with Stella dressed
in white in an open coffin at the front end of the long parlor, and dozens of wax candles giving off a rather spectacular light.
“I’ll tell you what it was like,” said one of the cousins long after. “The May processions! Exactly, with all those lilies, all that fragrance, and Stella like the May Queen in white.”