by Anne Rice
Again, he was speechless.
"Look, maybe I don't know what I'm talking about," she said.
"No, I think you do," he answered. "And you're right. I have assumed all that. But Rowan, you see, it's a matter of impression. I awoke with the impression that they were good, that I'd come back with the confirmation of their goodness, and that the purpose was something I'd agreed to do. And I haven't questioned those assumptions. And what you're saying is, maybe I should."
"I could be wrong. And maybe I shouldn't say anything. But you know what I've been telling you about surgeons. We go in there swinging, and not with a fist, but with a knife."
He laughed. "You don't know how much it means to me just to talk about it, just to think about it out loud." But then he stopped smiling. Because it was very disturbing to be talking about it like this, and she knew that.
"And there's another thing," she said.
"Which is?"
"Every time you talk about the power in your hands, you say it's not important. You say the visions are what's important. But why aren't they connected? Why don't you believe that the people in the visions gave you the power in your hands?"
"I don't know," he said. "I've thought of that. My friends have even suggested that. But it doesn't feel right. It feels like the power is a distraction. I mean people around me here want me to use the power, and if I were to start doing that, I wouldn't go back."
"I see. And when you see this house, you'll touch it with your hands?"
He thought for a long moment. He had to admit he had not imagined such a thing. He had imagined a more immediate and wonderful clarification of things. "Yeah, I guess I will. I'll touch the gate if I can. I'll go up the steps and I'll touch the door."
Why did that frighten him? Seeing the house meant something wonderful, but touching things ... He shook his head, and folded his arms as he sat back in the chair. Touch the gate. Touch the door. Of course they might have given him the power, but why did he think that they hadn't? Especially if it was all of a piece ...
She was quiet, obviously puzzled, maybe even worried. He watched her for a long moment, thinking how much he hated to leave.
"Don't go so soon, Michael," she said suddenly.
"Rowan, let me ask you something," he said. "This paper you signed, this pledge never to go to New Orleans. Do you believe in that sort of thing, I mean, the validity of this promise to Ellie, to a person who's dead?"
"Of course I do," she answered dully, almost sadly. "You believe in that sort of thing, too."
"I do?"
"I mean you're an honorable person. You're what we call, with great significance, a nice guy."
"OK. I hope I am. And I put my question wrong. I mean, what about your desire to see the place where you were born? But I'm lying to you now, you know, because what I want to say is, is there any chance you'll come back there with me? And I guess a nice guy doesn't tell lies."
Silence.
"I know that sounds presumptuous," he said. "I know there've been quite a few men in this house, I mean I'm not the light of your life, I ... "
"Stop it. I could fall in love with you and you know it."
"Well, then listen to what I'm saying, because it is about two living people. And maybe I've already ... well, I ... what I mean is, if you want to go back there, if you need to go back just to see for yourself where you were born and who your parents were ... Well, why the hell don't you come with me?" He sighed and sat back, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. "I suppose that would be an awfully big step, wouldn't it? And all this is selfish of me. I just want you to come. Some nice guy."
She was staring off again, frozen, then her mouth stiffened. And he realized she was again about to cry. "I'd like to go," she said. The tears were rising.
"God, Rowan, I'm sorry," he said. "I had no right to ask."
The tears won out. She continued to look out towards the water, as if that were the only way to hold the line for the moment. But she was crying, and he could see the subtle movement of her throat as she swallowed, and the tightening in her shoulders. The thought flashed through him that this was the most alone person he'd ever known. California was full of them, but she was really isolated, and in a purely unselfish way, he was afraid for her, afraid to leave her in this house.
"Look, Rowan, I really am sorry. I can't do this to you," he said. "It's between you and Ellie. When you get ready to go, you'll go. And for now, I have to do it for totally different reasons. I've got to get out of here, and I hate like hell to go."
The tears had begun to spill down her cheeks again.
"Rowan ... "
"Michael," she whispered. "I'm the one who's sorry. I'm the one who's fallen in your arms. Now, stop worrying about me."
"No, don't say it." He started to get up, because he wanted to hug her again, but she wouldn't allow it. She reached for his hand across the table and held it.
Gently he spoke to her: "If you don't think I loved it, holding you, wiping your tears, well then you're not using your powers, Rowan. Or you just don't understand a man like me."
She shivered, arms tight across her chest, her bangs falling down in her eyes. She looked so forlorn he wanted to gather her to himself and kiss her again.
"What are you afraid of, really?" he asked.
When she answered, she spoke in a whisper, so low that he could scarcely hear. "That I'm bad, Michael, a bad person, a person who could really do harm. A person with a terrible potential for evil. That is what all my powers, such as they are, tell me about me."
"Rowan, it wasn't a sin to be a better person than Ellie or Graham. And it isn't a sin to hate them for your loneliness, for rearing you in a state of isolation from every blood tie you might have."
"I know all that, Michael." She smiled, a warm sweet smile full of gratitude and quiet acceptance, but she did not trust the things he'd said. She felt that he had failed to see something crucial about her, and he knew it. She felt that he had failed, just as he failed on the deck of the boat. She looked out at the deep blue water and then back at him.
"Rowan, no matter what happens in New Orleans, you and I are going to see each other again, and soon. I could swear to you now on a stack of Bibles that I'll be back here, but in truth, I don't think I ever will. I knew when I left Liberty Street I wasn't ever going to live there again. But we're going to meet somewhere, Rowan. If you can't set foot in New Orleans, then you pick the place, and you say the word, and I'll come."
Take that, you bastards out there, he thought looking at the water, and up at the dirty blue California sky, you creatures whoever you are that did this to me, and won't come back to guide me. I'll go to New Orleans, I'll follow where you lead. But there is something here between me and this woman, and that belongs to me.
She wanted to drive him to the airport, but he insisted on taking a cab. It was just too long a drive for her, and she was tired, he knew it. She needed her sleep.
He showered and shaved. He hadn't had a drink now in almost twelve hours. Truly amazing.
When he came down he found her sitting with her legs folded, on the hearth again, looking very pretty in white wool pants and another one of those great swallowing cable-knit sweaters that made her look all the more long-wristed and long-legged and delicate as a deer. She smelled faintly of some perfume he used to know the name of, and which he still loved.
He kissed her cheek, and then held her for a long moment. Eighteen years, maybe more than that, separated him in age from her and he felt it painfully, felt it when he let his lips again graze her firm, plump cheek.
He gave her a slip of paper on which he'd written down the name of the Pontchartrain Hotel and the number. "How can I reach you at the hospital, or is that not the right thing to do?"
"No, I want you to do that. I pick up my messages all day, at intervals." She went to the kitchen counter and wrote out the numbers on the telephone pad, tore off the page, and put it in his hand. "Just raise hell if they give you any trouble.
Tell them I'm expecting your call. And I'll tell them."
"Gotcha."
She stood back a pace from him, slipping her hands in her pockets, and she lowered her head slightly as she looked at him. "Don't get drunk again, Michael," she said.
"Yes, Doctor." He laughed. "And I could stand right here and tell you I was going to take the pledge, honey, but somehow or other the minute that stewardess ... "
"Michael, don't drink on the plane and don't drink when you get there. You're going to be bombarded with memories. You're going miles away from anybody you know."
He shook his head. "You're right, Doc," he said. "I'll be careful. I'll be all right."
He went to his suitcase, took out his Sony Walkman from the zipper pocket, and checked that he had remembered to bring a book for the plane.
"Vivaldi," he said, slipping the Walkman with its tiny earphones into his jacket pocket. "And my Dickens. I go nuts when I fly without them. It's better than Valium and vodka, I swear."
She smiled at him, the most exquisite smile, and then she laughed. "Vivaldi and Dickens," she whispered. "Imagine that."
He shrugged. "We all have our weaknesses," he said. "God, why am I leaving like this?" he asked. "Am I crazy?"
"If you don't call me this evening ... "
"I'll call you, sooner and more often than you could possibly expect."
"The taxi's there," she said.
He had heard the horn, too.
He took her in his arms, kissing her, crushing her to him. And for one moment, he almost couldn't pull away. He thought of what she'd said again, about them causing the accident, causing the amnesia, and a dark chill went through him, something like real fear. What if he forgot about them, forever, what if he just stayed here with her? It seemed a possibility, a last chance of sorts, it really did.
"I think I love you, Rowan Mayfair," he whispered.
"Yes, Michael Curry," she said, "I think something like that might be happening on both sides right now."
She gave him another of her soft, radiant smiles, and he saw in her eyes all the strength he'd found so seductive in these last few hours, and all the tenderness and sadness, too.
All the way to the airport, he listened to Vivaldi with his eyes closed. But it didn't help. He thought of New Orleans, and then he thought of her; and back and forth the pendulum swung. It was a simple thing she'd said, but how it jarred him. It seemed all these weeks he'd clung to the idea of a magnificent pattern and a purpose that served some higher value, but when she'd asked a few simple and logical questions, his faith had fallen apart.
Well, he didn't believe the accident had been caused by anyone. The wave had simply knocked him off the rock. And then he'd gone somewhere, a stratum others have visited, and there he'd found these beings, and they had found him. But they couldn't do things to people to hurt them, to manipulate them as if they were puppets on strings!
Then what about the rescue, buddy? What about her coming, alone in that boat, just before dark to that very spot in the sea?
God, he was going crazy again already. All he could think about was being with her again, or getting a good slug of bourbon with ice.
Only when he was waiting for the plane to board did something occur to him, something he had not given the slightest thought to before.
He'd lain with her three times in the last few hours, and he had not taken the usual precautions against conception. He had not even thought about the prophylactics he always carried in his wallet. He had not asked her about the matter, either. And to think, in all these years, this was the first time he had let such a thing slip by.
Well, she was a doctor, for the love of heaven. Surely she had the matter covered. But maybe he should call her about it now. It wouldn't hurt to hear her voice. He closed the copy of David Copperfield and started looking for a phone.
Then he saw that man again, that Englishman with the white hair and the tweed suit. Only a few rows away he sat, with his briefcase and his umbrella, a folded newspaper in his hand.
Oh, no, Michael thought dismally, as he took his seat again. All I need now is to run into him.
The call came for boarding. Michael watched anxiously as the Englishman rose, collected his things, and moved to the gate.
But moments later, the old gentleman didn't even glance up when Michael passed him and took a seat by the window in the rear of first class. The old fellow had had his briefcase open already, and he'd been writing, very rapidly it seemed, in a large leather-bound book.
Michael ordered his bourbon with an ice-cold beer chaser before the plane took off. By the time they reached Dallas for a forty-minute stopover, he was on his sixth beer and his seventh chapter of David Copperfield, and he didn't even remember anymore that the Englishman was there.
Seven
HE'D MADE THE cab driver stop on the way in for a six-pack, already jubilant to be in the warm summer air, and now as they made the turn off the freeway and came down into the familiar and unforgettable squalor of lower St. Charles Avenue, Michael felt like weeping at the sight of the black-barked oak trees with their dark foliage, and the long narrow St. Charles streetcar, exactly as he had remembered it, roaring and clattering along its track.
Even on this stretch, in the midst of the ugly hamburger joints and the seedy wooden barrooms and the new apartment buildings towering over boarded-up shopfronts and deserted gas stations, it was his old, verdant, and softly beautiful town. He loved even the weeds exploding in the cracks. The grass grew rich and green on the neutral ground. The crepe myrtle trees were covered with frothy blooms. He saw pink crepe myrtle and purple crepe myrtle, and a red as rich as the red of watermelon meat.
"Look at that, will you!" he said to the driver, who had been talking on and on about the crime, and the bad times here. "The sky's violet, it's violet just like I remembered it, and goddamnit, all these years out there I thought I imagined all this, I thought I colored it in with a crayon in my memory, you know."
He felt like crying. All the time he'd held Rowan while she'd cried, he'd never shed a tear. But now he felt like bawling, and oh, how he wished Rowan were here.
The driver was laughing at him. "Yeah, well, that's a purple sky all right, I guess you could call it that."
"Damn right it is," said Michael. "You were born between Magazine and the river, weren't you?" Michael said. "I'd have known that voice anywhere."
"What you talking about, boy, what about your own voice," the driver teased him back. "I was born on Washington and St. Thomas for your information, youngest of nine children. They don't make families like that anymore." The cab was just crawling down the avenue, the soft moist August breeze washing through the open windows. The street lamps had just gone on.
Michael closed his eyes. Even the cab driver's endless diatribe was music. But for this, this fragrant and embraceable warmth, he had longed with his whole soul. Was there anyplace else in the world where the air was such a living presence, where the breeze kissed you and stroked you, where the sky was pulsing and alive? And oh God, what it meant to be no longer cold!
"Oh, I am telling you, nobody's got a right to be as happy as I am now," Michael said. "Nobody. Look at the trees," he said opening his eyes, staring up at the black curling branches.
"Where the hell you been, son?" asked the driver. He was a short man in a bill cap, with his elbow half out the window.
"Oh, I've been in hell, buddy, and let me tell you something about hell. It's not hot. It's cold. Hey, look, there's the Pontchartrain Hotel and it's still the same, damn, it's still the same." In fact, it looked if anything more elegant and aloof than it had in the old days. It had trim blue awnings, and the old complement of doormen and bellmen standing at the glass doors.
Michael could hardly sit still. He wanted to get out, to walk, to cover the old pavements. But he'd told the driver to take him up to First Street, that they'd double back to the hotel later, and for First Street he could wait.
He finished the second beer just
as they came to the light at Jackson Avenue, and at that point everything changed. Michael hadn't remembered the transition as so dramatic; but the oaks grew taller and infinitely denser; the apartment buildings gave way to the white houses with the Corinthian columns; and the whole drowsy twilight world seemed suddenly veiled in soft, glowing green.
"Rowan, if only you were here," he whispered. There was the James Gallier house on the corner of St. Charles and Philip, splendidly restored. And across the street the Henry Howard house, spiffed up with a new coat of paint. Iron fences guarded lawns and gardens. "Christ, I'm home!" he whispered.
When he first landed he had regretted getting so drunk--it was just too damned hard to handle his suitcase and find a taxi--but now he was past that. As the cab turned left on First Street and entered the dark leafy core of the Garden District, he was in ecstasy.
"You realize it's just the way it used to be!" he told the driver. An immense gratitude flooded him. He passed the fresh beer to him, but the driver only laughed and waved it away.
"Later, son," he said. "Now where are we going?" In the slow motion of dream time, it seemed, they glided past the massive mansions. Michael saw brick sidewalks, the tall stiff magnolia grandiflora with their shiny dark leaves.
"Just drive, real slow, let this guy here pass us, yeah, very slow, until I tell you to stop."
He had chosen the most beautiful hour of the evening for his return, he thought. He wasn't thinking now of the visions or the dark mandate. He was so brimful of happiness all he could think about was what lay before him, and about Rowan. That was the test of love, he thought dreamily, when you can't bear to be this happy without the other person with you. He was really afraid that the tears were going to come pouring down his face.
The cab driver started talking again. He had never really stopped talking. Now he was talking about the Redemptorist Parish and how it had been in the old days, and how it was all run-down now. Yeah, Michael wanted to see the old church. "I was an altar boy at St. Alphonsus," Michael said.
But that didn't matter, that could wait forever. Because, looking up, Michael saw the house.
He saw its long dark flank stretching back from the corner; he saw the unmistakable iron railings with their rose pattern; he saw the sentinel oaks stretching out their mammoth branches like mighty and protective arms.