The Witching Hour

by Anne Rice

  "But why did she do that?"

  " 'Cause it was Deirdre's, that's why. Miss Carl never had no right to any of those jewels. Miss Mary Beth left them to Stella, and Stella named Antha to get them, and Antha's only daughter was Deirdre. It's always been that way, they all pass to one daughter."

  "Well, what if the necklace is cursed," Rita said. Lord, to think of it around Deirdre's neck and Deirdre the way she was now. Oh, Rita could hardly stand to think of it.

  "Well, if it's cursed, maybe the house is too," Jerry said, "because the jewels go with the house, and lots of other money."

  "You mean to tell me, Jerry Lonigan, that house belongs to Deirdre?"

  "Rita, everybody knows that. How come you don't know that?"

  "You're telling me that house is hers, and those women lived in it all those years when she was locked up and then they brought her home like that, and she sits there and--"

  "Now, don't get hysterical, Rita Mae. But that's what I'm telling you. It's Deirdre's, same as it was Antha's and Stella's. And it will pass to that California daughter when Deirdre dies, unless somebody managed to change all those old papers and I don't think you can change a thing like that. It goes way back, the will--back to times when they had the plantation, and times before that, when they were in the islands, you know, in Haiti, before they ever came here. A legacy is what they call it. And I remember Hershman used to say that Miss Carl started law school when she was a girl just to learn how to crack the legacy. But she never could. Even before Miss Mary Beth died, everybody knew Stella was the heiress."

  "But what if that California girl doesn't know about it?"

  "It's the law, honey. And Miss Carlotta, no matter whatever else she is, is a good lawyer. Besides, it's tied with the name, Mayfair. You have to go by the name or you can't inherit anything from the legacy. And that girl goes by the name of Mayfair. I heard that when she was born. So does her adopted mother, Ellie Mayfair, the one that came today and signed the register. They know. People always know when they're coming into money. And besides, the other Mayfairs would tell her. Ryan Mayfair would tell her. He's Cortland's grandson and Cortland loved Deirdre; he really did. He was real old by the time Deirdre had to give up the baby, and the way I heard it, he was against it all the way, lot of good it did. I heard he really took on Miss Carlotta about that baby, said it would drive Deirdre crazy to give it up, and Miss Carlotta said Deirdre was already crazy. A lot of good it did."

  Jerry finished his bourbon. He poured another glass.

  "But Jerry, what if there are other things that Deirdre's daughter doesn't know?" Rita asked. "Why didn't she come down here today? Why didn't she want to see her mother?"

  Rita Mae, they're going to take my baby!

  Jerry didn't answer. His eyes were bloodshot. He was over the hill with the bourbon.

  "Daddy knew a lot more about those people," he said, his words slurred now. "More than he ever told me. One thing Daddy did say, though, that they were right to take Deirdre's baby away from her and give it to Ellie Mayfair, for the baby's sake. And Daddy told me something else too. Daddy told me Ellie Mayfair couldn't have babies of her own, and her husband was real disappointed over that, and about to leave her when Miss Carl rang her up long distance and asked if they wanted to have Deirdre's baby. 'Don't tell Rita Mae all that,' Daddy said, 'but for everybody it was a blessing. And old Mr. Cortland, God rest his soul, he was wrong.' "

  Rita Mae knew what she was going to do. She had never lied to Jerry Lonigan in her life. She just didn't tell him. The next afternoon, she called the Monteleone Hotel. The Englishman had just checked out! But they thought he might still be in the lobby.

  Rita Mae's heart was pounding as she waited.

  "This is Aaron Lightner. Yes, Mrs. Lonigan. Please take a taxi down and I shall pay the fare. I'll be waiting."

  It made her so nervous she was stumbling over her words, forgetting things as she rushed out of the house and having to go back for them. But she was glad she was doing this! Even if Jerry had caught her then, she would have gone on with it.

  The Englishman took her round the corner to the Desire Oyster Bar, a pretty place with ceiling fans and big mirrors and doors open along Bourbon Street. It seemed exotic to Rita the way the Quarter always had. She almost never got to go down there.

  They sat at a marble-top table, and she had a glass of white wine because that's what the Englishman had and it sounded very nice to her. What a good-looking man he was. With a man like that it didn't matter about his age, he was handsomer than younger men. It made her slightly nervous to sit so close to him. And the way his eyes fixed her, it made her melt as if she was a kid again in high school.

  "Talk to me, Mrs. Lonigan," he said. "I'll listen."

  She tried to take it slow, but once she started it just came pouring out of her. Soon she was crying, and he probably couldn't understand a word she was saying. She gave him that old, twisted little bit of card. She told about the ads she'd run, and how she'd told Deirdre that she could never find him.

  Then came the difficult part. "There are things that girl in California doesn't know! That property's hers, and maybe the lawyers will tell her that, but what about the curse, Mr. Lightner? I'm putting my trust in you, I'm telling you things my husband doesn't want me to tell a living soul. But if Deirdre put her trust in you back then, well, that's enough for me. I'm telling you, the jewels and the house are cursed."

  Finally, she told him everything. She told him all that Jerry had told her. She told him all that Red had ever said. She told him anything and everything she could remember.

  And the funny thing was that he was never surprised or shocked. And over and over again, he assured her that he would do his best to get this information to the girl in California.

  When it was all said, and she sat there wiping her nose, her white wine untouched, the man asked her if she would keep his card, if she would call him when there was any "change" with Deirdre. If she could not reach him she was to leave a message. The people who answered the phone would understand. She need only say it was in connection with Deirdre Mayfair.

  She took her prayer book out of her purse. "Give me those numbers again," she said, and she wrote down the words, "In connection with Deirdre Mayfair."

  Only after she had written it all out, did she think to ask, "But tell me, Mr. Lightner, how did you come to know Deirdre?"

  "It's a long story, Mrs. Lonigan," he said. "You might say I've been watching that family for years. I have two paintings done by Deirdre's father, Sean Lacy. One of them is of Antha. He was the one who was killed on the highway in New York before Deirdre was born."

  "He was killed on the highway? I never knew."

  "It's doubtful anyone down here ever did," he said. "Quite a painter he was. He did a beautiful portrait of Antha with the famous emerald necklace. I came by it through a New York dealer some years after both of them were dead. Deirdre was probably ten years old by that time. I didn't meet her until she went off to college."

  "That's a funny thing, about Deirdre's father going off the road," she said. "It's just what happened to Deirdre's boyfriend too, the man she was going to marry. Did you know that? That he went off the river road when he was driving down to New Orleans?"

  She thought she saw a little change in the Englishman's face then, but she couldn't be sure. Seemed his eyes got smaller for just a second.

  "Yes, I did know," he said. He seemed to be thinking about things he didn't want to tell her. Then he started talking again. "Mrs. Lonigan, will you promise me something?"

  "What is it, Mr. Lightner?"

  "If something should happen, something wholly unexpected, and the daughter from California should come home, please don't try to talk to her. Call me instead. Call me any time day or night, and I promise I shall be here as soon as I can get a plane out of London."

  "You mean I shouldn't tell her these things myself, that's what you're saying?"

  "Yes," he answered, very serious-like, t
ouching her hand for the first time but in a very gentlemanly way that was completely proper. "Don't go to that house again, especially not if the daughter is there. I promise you that if I cannot come myself, someone else will come, someone else who will accomplish what we want done, someone quite familiar with the whole story."

  "Oh, that would be a big load off my mind," Rita said. She sure didn't want to talk to that girl, a total stranger, and try to tell her all these things. But suddenly the whole thing began to puzzle her. For the first time she started wondering--who was this nice man? Was she wrong to trust him?

  "You can trust me, Mrs. Lonigan," he said, just as if he knew what she was thinking. "Please be certain of it. And I've met Deirdre's daughter, and I know that she is a rather quiet and--well, shall we say--forbidding individual. Not an easy person to talk to, if you understand. But I think I can explain things to her."

  Well, now, that made perfect sense.

  "Sure, Mr. Lightner."

  He was looking at her. Maybe he knew how confused she was, how strange the whole afternoon seemed, all this talk of curses and things, and dead people and that weird old necklace.

  "Yes, they are very strange," he said.

  Rita laughed. "It was like you read my mind," she said.

  "Don't worry anymore," he said. "I'll see that Rowan Mayfair knows her mother didn't want to give her up; I'll see she knows all that you want her to know. I owe that much to Deirdre, don't you think? I wish I'd been there when she needed me."

  Well, that was plenty enough for Rita.

  Every Sunday after that, when Rita was at Mass, she flipped to the back of her prayer book and looked at the phone number for the man in London. She read those words "In connection with Deirdre Mayfair." Then she said a prayer for Deirdre, and it didn't seem wrong that it was the prayer for the dead, it seemed to be the right one for the occasion.

  "May perpetual light shine upon her. O Lord, and may she rest in peace, Amen."

  *

  And now it was over twelve years since Deirdre had taken her place on the porch, over a year since the Englishman had come and gone--and they were talking of putting Deirdre away again. It was her house that was tumbling down all around her in that sad overgrown garden and they were going to lock her away again.

  Maybe Rita should call that man. Maybe she should tell him. She just didn't know.

  "It's the wise thing, them putting her away," Jerry said, "before Miss Carl is too far gone to make the decision. And the fact is, well, I hate to say it, honey. But Deirdre's going down fast. They say she's dying."

  Dying.

  She waited till Jerry had gone to work. Then she made the call. She knew it would show on the bill, and she probably would have to say something eventually to Jerry. But it didn't matter. What mattered now was getting the operator to understand that she had to call a number all the way across the ocean.

  It was a nice woman who answered over there, and they did reverse the charges just as the Englishman had promised. At first Rita couldn't understand everything the woman said--she spoke so fast--but then it came out that Mr. Lightner was in the United States. He was out in San Francisco. The woman would call him right away. Would Rita care to leave her number?

  "Oh, no. I don't want him to call here," she said. "You just tell him this for me. It's real important. That Rita Mae Lonigan called in connection with Deirdre Mayfair. Can you write that down? Tell him that Deirdre Mayfair is very sick; that Deirdre Mayfair is going down fast. That maybe Deirdre Mayfair is dying."

  It took the breath out of Rita to say that last word. She couldn't say any more after that. She tried to answer clearly when the woman repeated the message. The woman would call Mr. Lightner right away at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco. Rita was in tears when she put down the phone.

  That night she dreamed of Deirdre, but she could remember nothing when she woke up, except that Deirdre was there, and it was twilight, and the wind was blowing in the trees behind St. Rose de Lima's. When she opened her eyes, she thought of wind blowing through trees. She heard Jerry tell of how it had been when they went to get the body of Antha. She remembered the storm in the trees that horrible day when she and Miss Carl had fought for the little card that said Talamasca. Wind in the trees in the garden behind St. Rose de Lima's.

  Rita got up and went to early Mass. She went to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin and lighted a candle. Please let Mr. Lightner come, she prayed. Please let him talk to Deirdre's daughter.

  And she realized as she prayed that it was not the inheritance that worried her, or the curse upon that beautiful emerald necklace. For Rita did not believe Miss Carl had it in her to break the law, no matter how mean Miss Carl was; and Rita did not believe that curses really existed.

  What she believed in was the love she felt in her heart of hearts for Deirdre Mayfair.

  And she believed a child had a right to know that her mother had once been the sweetest and kindest of creatures, a girl that everybody loved--a beautiful girl in the spring of 1957 when a handsome, elegant man in a twilight garden had called her My beloved.

  Six

  HE STOOD IN the shower ten full minutes, but he was still drunk as hell. Then he cut himself twice with the razor. Nothing major, just a clear indication that he had to play it very careful with this lady who was coming here, this doctor, this mysterious someone who'd pulled him out of the sea.

  Aunt Viv helped him with the shirt. He took another quick swallow of the coffee. Tasted awful to him, though it was good coffee, he'd brewed it himself. A beer was what he wanted. Not to have a beer right now was like not breathing. But it was just too great a risk.

  "But what are you going to do in New Orleans?" Aunt Viv asked plaintively. Her small blue eyes looked watery, sore. She straightened the lapels of his khaki jacket with her thin, gnarled hands. "Are you sure you don't need a heavier coat?"

  "Aunt Viv, it's New Orleans in August." He kissed her forehead. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'm doing great."

  "Michael, I don't understand why ... "

  "Aunt Viv, I am going to call you when I get there, I swear. And you've got the number of the Pontchartrain if you want to call and leave a message before that."

  He had asked for that very suite she had had years ago, when he'd been an eleven-year-old boy and he and his mother had gone to see her--that big suite over St. Charles Avenue with the baby grand piano in it. Yes, they knew the suite he wanted. And yes, he could have it. And yes, the baby grand piano was still there.

  Then the airline had confirmed him in first class, with an aisle seat, at six A.M. No problem. Just one thing after another falling into place.

  And all of it thanks to Dr. Morris, and this mysterious Dr. Mayfair, who was on her way now.

  He'd been furious when he first heard she was a doctor. "So that's why the secrecy," he'd said to Morris. "We don't disturb other doctors, do we? We don't give out their home numbers. You know this ought to be a matter of public record, I ought to--"

  But Morris had silenced him quickly enough.

  "Michael, the lady is driving over to pick you up. She knows you're drunk and she knows you're crazy. Yet she is taking you home with her to Tiburon, and she's going to let you crawl around on her boat."

  "All right," he'd said. "I'm grateful, you know I am."

  "Then get out of bed, take a shower and shave."

  Done! And now nothing was going to stop him from making this journey, that's why he was leaving the lady's house in Tiburon and going straight to the airport where he'd doze in a plastic chair, if he had to, till the plane for New Orleans left.

  "But Michael, what is the reason for all this?" Aunt Viv persisted. "That is what I simply cannot understand." She seemed to float against the light from the hallway, a tiny woman in sagging blue silk, her gray hair nothing but wisps now in spite of the neat curls and the pins in it, insubstantial as that spun glass they would put on the Christmas trees in the old days, what they had called angel hair.

&n
bsp; "I won't stay long, I promise," he said tenderly. But a sense of foreboding caught him suddenly. He had the distinct awareness--that free-floating telepathy--that he was never going to live in this house again. No, couldn't be accurate. Just the alcohol simmering inside him, making him crazy, and months of pure isolation--why, that was enough to drive anyone insane. He kissed her on her soft cheek.

  "I have to check my suitcase," he said. He took another swallow of coffee. He was getting better. He polished his horn-rimmed glasses carefully, put them back on, and checked for the extra pair in his jacket pocket.

  "I packed everything," Aunt Viv said, with a little shake of her head. She stood beside him over the open suitcase, one gnarled finger pointing to the neatly folded garments. "Your lightweight suits, both of them, your shaving kit. It's all there. Oh, and your raincoat. Don't forget your raincoat, Michael. It's always raining in New Orleans."

  "Got it, Aunt Viv, don't worry." He closed the suitcase and snapped the locks. Didn't bother to tell her the raincoat had been ruined because he drowned in it. The famous Burberry had been made for the wartime trenches, perhaps, but not for drowning. Wool lining a total loss.

  He ran his comb through his hair, hating the feel of his gloves. He didn't look drunk, unless of course he was too drunk to see it. He looked at the coffee. Drink the rest of it, you idiot. This woman is making a house call just to humor a crackpot. The least you can do is not fall down your own front steps.

  "Was that the doorbell?" He picked up the suitcase. Yes, ready, quite ready to leave here.

  And then that foreboding again. What was it, a premonition? He looked at the room--the striped wallpaper, the gleaming woodwork that he had so patiently stripped and then painted, the small fireplace in which he had laid the Spanish tiles himself. He was never going to enjoy any of it again. He would never again lie in that brass bed. Or look out through the pongee curtains on the distant phantom lights of downtown.

  He felt a leaden sadness, as if he were in mourning. In fact, it was the very same sadness he had felt after the deaths of those he loved.