Lasher

by Anne Rice

  Pierce had been so amused. Pierce adored Mona, which was a surprising thing, because in general Pierce liked innocent, cheerful people like his cousin and fiancee, Clancy Mayfair.

  Mona wasn't innocent, except in the most serious sense of the word. That is, she didn't think she was bad, and she didn't mean to do bad. She was just sort of a...pagan.

  And freedom she had all right, for her pagan ways, and the confession of accelerated sexual activity had also been calculated. Within weeks of Mona's decision to go active, the phone had been ringing off the hook with stories of Mona's various liaisons. "Do you know that child likes to do it in the cemetery!" Cecilia had cried.

  But what could Gifford do? Alicia loathed the very sight of Gifford now. She would not let Gifford in the house, though Gifford went there all the time of course. Ancient Evelyn told no one what she saw or didn't see.

  "I told you all about my boyfriends," Mona had said. "Don't choose to worry about this!"

  At least Ancient Evelyn did not tell those tales night and day, of how she and Julien had danced together to the music of the Victrola. And it may not have ever reached Mona's tender ears that her great-grandmother had had an affair with Cousin Stella. After all, not even clever Mr. Lightner had known about that! Not a word in his history about Stella's ladies!

  "That was my grand time," Ancient Evelyn had told Gifford and Alicia with relish. "We were in Europe, and Stella and I were together in Rome when it happened. I don't know where Lionel was, and that horrid nurse, she was out with baby Antha. I never experienced such love as with Stella. Stella had been with many women, she told me that night. She couldn't even count them. She said the love of women was like the creme de la creme. I think it is. I would have done it again, if ever there had been anyone who stole my heart as Stella stole it. I remember when we came back from Europe, we went to the French Quarter together. Stella kept this little place, and we slept in the big bed and then ate oysters and shrimps and drank wine together. Oh, those weeks in Rome had been too brief. Oh..." And on and on it had gone, until they were back to the Victrola again; Julien had given it to her. Stella understood. Stella never asked for it back. It was Mary Beth who had come up to Amelia Street and said, "Give me Julien's Victrola." He had been dead six months, and she'd been tearing through his rooms.

  "Of course I didn't give it to her." Then Ancient Evelyn would take Gifford and Alicia into her room, and crank up the little Victrola. She would play so many old music-hall songs, and then the arias from La Traviata. "I saw that opera with Stella in New York. How I loved Stella."

  "My dear," she had once said to all of them--Alicia, Gifford and little Mona, who might have been too young then to understand--"sometime or other you must know the soft yielding and precious love of another woman. Don't be a fool. It's nothing abnormal. It's sugar with your coffee. It's strawberry ice cream. It's chocolate."

  No wonder Alicia had become what everyone called a perfect slut. She had never known what she was doing. She'd slept with the sailors off the ships, with the army men, with anyone and everyone, until Patrick had swept her off her feet. "Alicia, I'm going to save you."

  Their first night had been one long drunk, until dawn, and then Patrick had announced he was taking Alicia in hand. She was a lost soul, little thing, he would care for her. He got her pregnant with Mona. But those had been the years of champagne and laughter. Now they were just plain drunks; there was nothing left of romance. Except Mona.

  Gifford checked her watch--the tiny gold wristwatch that Ancient Evelyn had given her. Yes, less than one hour more of Mardi Gras, and then at the witching hour it would be Ash Wednesday, and she could go home--back to New Orleans.

  She'd wait until morning, probably, maybe even noon. Then she'd drive into the city, cheerfully oblivious to the hideous stream of traffic exiting New Orleans in the other direction, and be home by four o'clock. She'd stop in Mobile at St. Cecilia's to get the ashes on her forehead. Merely thinking of the little church, of her saints, and her angels, comforted her, and allowed her to close her eyes. Ashes to ashes. One hour more of Mardi Gras, and then I can go home.

  What had been so scary about Mardi Gras, Ryan had wanted to know.

  "That you would all gather there at First Street, just as if Rowan were opening the front door! That's what was so scary."

  She thought again of that medal. Must go make certain it was in her purse. Later.

  "You have to realize what this house means to this family," Ryan had said to her. Ryan! As if she had no idea growing up as she had only ten blocks away, with Ancient Evelyn reciting history to her daily. "I'm not speaking of this Mayfair Witches tale now. I'm speaking of us, this family!"

  She turned her head in against the back of the couch. Oh, if she could only stay in Destin forever. But that wasn't possible and never would be. Destin was for hiding out, not really living. Destin was just a beach and a house with a fireplace.

  The small white phone nestled into the pillows beside her gave a sudden and jarring peal. For a moment she couldn't remember where it was. The receiver fell off the hook as she grappled for it, then put it to her ear.

  "This is Gifford," she said wearily. And thank God it was Ryan who answered:

  "I didn't wake you up?"

  "No," she said with a sigh. "When do I ever sleep anymore? I've been waiting. Tell me everything went all right up there, tell me Michael is better, tell me no one got hurt or..."

  "Gifford, for heaven's sakes. What are you thinking when you say something like that, that a litany will change what may have already taken place? You're flinging charms at me. What good will it do? Do you want to hear the words that are scheduled to come out of my mouth? What am I supposed to do? Break it to you gently if someone got stomped to death by a mounted policeman or crushed by the wheels of a float?"

  Ah, everything was fine. Nothing was wrong at all. Gifford could have hung up then, but that wouldn't have been very considerate of Ryan, who would now break it down for her into a series of small reports, the central theme of which was: "Everything went fine, you fool, you should have stayed in town."

  "After twenty-six years, you don't know what I'm thinking," she said halfheartedly, not really wanting to argue, or even to talk anymore. Her exhaustion was hitting her now, now that Mardi Gras was truly almost over.

  "No, I sure as hell don't know what you're thinking," he said evenly. "I don't know why you're in Florida, instead of here with us."

  "Skip to the next subject," said Gifford blandly.

  "Michael is fine, just fine. Everybody is fine. Jean caught more beads than anybody else in the family; Little CeeCee won the costume award, and Pierce definitely wants to marry Clancy any minute! If you want your son to do things right and proper, you'd better get back here and start talking about the wedding to Clancy's mother. She's certainly not listening to me."

  "Did you tell her we'd pay for the wedding?"

  "No, I didn't get to that."

  "Get to it. That's all she wants to hear. Talk about Michael again. What did you all tell him about Rowan?"

  "As little as we could."

  "Thank God for that."

  "He's just not strong enough to hear the whole story."

  "Who knows the whole story?" asked Gifford, bitterly.

  "But we are going to have to tell him, Gifford. We can't put it off much longer. He has to know. He is on the mend, physically. Mentally, I can't say. No one can say. He looks...so different."

  "Older, you mean," she said dismally.

  "No, just different. It isn't just his graying hair. It's the look in his eye, his way of behaving. He's so gentlemanly and placid, so patient with everyone."

  "You don't need to upset him," said Gifford.

  "Well, you leave it to me," said Ryan, using one of his favorite phrases, which was always brought out with exquisite tenderness. "Just take care of yourself up there. Don't go into the water alone."

  "Ryan, the water's freezing. I've had a fire going all day. It was clea
r, though, clear and blue and quiet. Sometimes I think I could stay here forever. Ryan, I'm sorry. I just couldn't go up to First Street, I just couldn't be in that house."

  "I know, Gifford, I know. But be assured, the kids thought it was the best Mardi Gras ever. Everybody loves being back at First Street. Just about everybody was there, too, at some time or other during the day. I mean at least six or seven hundred of the family trooped in and out. I frankly lost count. Remember the Mayfairs from Denton, Texas? Even they came. And the Gradys from New York. It was wonderful of Michael to let it all go on as usual. Gifford, I don't mean this reproachfully, but if you'd seen how well it went, you'd understand."

  "What about Alicia?" Gifford asked, meaning, Did Alicia make it through sober? "Were she and Patrick all right?"

  "Alicia never made it up to the house. She was completely drunk by three p.m. Patrick shouldn't have come. Patrick's sick. We have to get him some medical attention."

  Gifford sighed. She hoped that Patrick would die. She knew she did. Why kid herself? She had never liked or loved Patrick, and now he was the worst sort of burden to all those around him--a vicious drunk, who took special pleasure in being mean to his wife, and his daughter. Mona didn't give a damn. "I have no respect for Dad," she said coldly. But Alicia was forever at Patrick's mercy. "Why are you looking at me like that? What have I done now? Did you drink the last beer? You knew it was the last beer and you deliberately drank it!"

  "Well, how did Patrick do?" Gifford asked, hoping against hope that he'd fallen and broken his neck, and that Ryan just hadn't wanted to tell her.

  "Had a fight with Beatrice. Something about Mona. I doubt he'll remember a thing. He stormed off home after the parade. You know Bea on the subject of Mona. She still wants to send Mona away to school. And do you realize what's happening between Aaron and Bea? Michael's Aunt Vivian said..."

  "I know," sighed Gifford. "You'd think he would have learned something from his own research into our family."

  Ryan gave a polite laugh. "Oh, forget about that nonsense. If you'd forget that foolishness, you'd stay here and be with us, and enjoy this time. God knows, things can only get worse when we do find Rowan."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "We'll have problems to deal with then, real problems. Look, I'm too tired now to take that on. Rowan's been missing sixty-seven days exactly. I'm worn out from talking to detectives in Zurich and Scotland and in France. Mardi Gras was fun. We all had fun. We were together. But Bea's right, you know, Mona should go away to school, don't you think? After all, she is some sort of bona fide genius."

  Gifford wanted to answer. She wanted to say again that Mona wouldn't go away to school, and that if they tried to force her, Mona would simply get right back on the plane, or the train, or the bus, and come directly home. You couldn't make Mona go away to school! If you sent Mona to Switzerland, she'd be home in forty-eight hours. If you sent her to China, she'd be back, perhaps in less time than that. Gifford said nothing now. She only felt the usual comfortable aching love for Mona, and the desperate faith that Mona somehow would be all right.

  One time Gifford had asked Mona: "What's the difference between men and women?"

  Mona had said: "Men don't know what can happen. They're happy. But women know everything that can happen. They worry all the time."

  Gifford had laughed at that. Her other precious memory was of six-year-old Mona on the day that Alicia had passed out on the porch of the Amelia Street house, right on top of her pocketbook, and Mona, unable to get the key out of it, had climbed up the trellis to the high second-story window, and carefully broken out only a small jagged hole in the glass with the heel of her Mary Jane so that she could reach the lock. Of course the entire glass had to be replaced, but Mona had been so neat about it, so sure of herself. Just little splinters of glass scattered in the garden and on the rug upstairs. "Why don't you just tape wax paper to it?" she'd asked later, when Gifford called the man to fix the window. "That's the way all the other holes in this place are fixed."

  Why had Gifford let that child go through these things? And Mona was still going through them. There was another carousel of grief and guilt that she could ride for hours and hours. Like the Michael and Rowan carousel. Why not? Did a month ever pass that Gifford didn't remember that incident, the image of six-year-old Mona dragging the unconscious Alicia through the front door. And Dr. Blades calling from the clinic across the street:

  "Gifford, your sister is really sick over there, you know, and that child and Ancient Evelyn really have their hands full!"

  "Don't worry about Mona," said Ryan now, as if he were reading her thoughts in this uneasy weary silence. "Mona is the least of our worries. We have a conference scheduled for Tuesday regarding Rowan's disappearance. We will all sit down and decide what to do."

  "How can you decide what to do!" Gifford asked. "You have no evidence that Rowan is being forced to stay away from Michael. You..."

  "Well, honey, we do have evidence, rather strong evidence. That's the thing. We have to realize it. We are certain now that the last two checks cashed on Rowan's personal account were not signed by her. That is what we have to tell Michael."

  Silence. That was the first definitive thing that had happened. And it struck Gifford as hard as if someone had socked her in the chest. She caught her breath.

  "We know for sure they were forgeries," said Ryan. "And honey, those are the last checks. Nothing, I mean nothing, has come into the bank since those were cashed in New York two weeks ago."

  "New York."

  "Yes. That's where the trail runs out, Gifford. We're not even sure that Rowan herself was ever in New York. Look, I've been on the phone three times today about all this. There is no Mardi Gras Day in the rest of the country. I came home to a machine full of messages. The doctor who spoke to Rowan by phone is on his way here from San Francisco. He has important things to say. But he doesn't know where Rowan is. Those checks are our last bit of--"

  "I follow you," said Gifford weakly.

  "Look, Pierce is picking up the doctor tomorrow morning. I'm coming up to get you. I made up my mind earlier."

  "That's absurd. I have my car. We won't be able to drive back together. Ryan, go to bed and sleep. I'll be home tomorrow in time to see this doctor from San Francisco."

  "I want to come get you, Gif. I'll hire a car, and I'll drive your car home."

  "That's stupid, Ryan. I'll leave at noon. I've already planned it. Go meet the doctor. Go to the office. Do whatever you have to do. The point is, the family gathered and it was splendid, just the way it was supposed to be, Rowan or no Rowan. Michael was apparently a trouper. And two forged checks, well, what does that mean?"

  Silence. Of course they both knew what it could mean.

  "Did Mona shock anybody tonight?"

  "Only her cousin David. I'd say she had a good day. Pierce is fine. He's gone out for a dip with Clancy. The pool is steaming. Barbara's asleep. Shelby called; sorry she didn't come home. Lilia called too. Mandrake called. Jenn's snuggled up with Elizabeth in the den. I'm about to collapse where I stand."

  Gifford gave a long sigh. "Mona went home to that house with those two? All alone on Mardi Gras?"

  "Mona is all right, you know she is. Ancient Evelyn would call me here if anything was wrong. She was sitting beside Alicia's bed this afternoon when I left them."

  "And so we lie to ourselves about that, as always, along with everything else."

  "Gifford."

  "Yes, Ryan?"

  "I want to ask you a question. I've never asked you anything like this before, and I don't think I could ask you now, if we weren't..."

  "Talking on the phone."

  "Yes. Talking on the phone."

  They had many times discussed this strange aspect of their long marriage, that their best conversations were on the phone, that somehow or other, they were patient with each other on the phone, and could avoid the battles they fought when together.

  "This is the question," s
aid Ryan in his customary direct way. "What do you think happened on Christmas Day at that house? What happened to Rowan? Do you have any suspicion, any inkling, any vibe of any kind?"

  Gifford was speechless. It was more than true that Ryan had never asked her a question like this in all their lives. Most of Ryan's energy went to preventing Gifford from seeking answers to difficult questions. This was not only unprecedented, it was alarming. Because Gifford realized that she could not rise to the occasion. She didn't have a witch's answer to this question. She thought for a long moment, listening to the fire burn, and to the soft sigh of the water outside, so soft it might have been her own breath.

  A number of thoughts passed vagrantly through her mind. She even almost said, "Ask Mona." But then she caught herself, protective and full of shame that she would encourage her niece in that sort of thing. And without preamble, or any sort of forethought, Gifford said:

  "The man came through on Christmas Day. That thing, that spirit--I'm not going to say its name, you know its name--it got into the world and it did something to Rowan. That's what happened. The man's no longer at First Street. All of us know it. All of us who ever saw him know he's not there. The house is empty. The thing got into the world. It--" Her speech, rapid, high-pitched, faintly hysterical, broke off as abruptly as it had begun. She thought: Lasher. But she could not say it. Years and years ago Aunt Carlotta had shaken her and said, "Never, never, never say that name, do you hear me?"

  And even now, in this quiet safe place, she could not speak the name. Something stopped her, rather like a hand on her throat. Maybe it had to do with the peculiar blend of cruelty and protectiveness which Carlotta had always shown for her. The Talamasca history had said that Antha was pushed through the attic window, that the eye was torn from her head. Dear God! Carlotta couldn't have done such a thing.

  She wasn't surprised that her husband hesitated before responding to her. In the silence she was full of surprise herself. It all loomed before her, and she also knew in these moments the terrible loneliness of her marriage.