by Anne Rice
On and on he talked, watching her fierce little hand move with the fine-point pen. About the replicas of monuments, the small plastic version of Chartres Cathedral which the children could enter. The importance of scale, ratios. And what if there were a park with a great circle of stones there?
"Oh, and yes, a special assignment, something I want you to do tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. No, later. You do this. You're to go down to the Private Museum...."
"Yes, sir."
"The Bru, are you familiar with the Bru, the big French doll? My princess."
"The Bru, sir, yes sir, oh, that doll."
"Bru Jne 14; thirty-six inches in height; wig, shoes, dress, slip, et cetera, all original. Exhibit Number One."
"Yes, sir, I know exactly."
"She's to be packed by you, and no one else, with appropriate assistance, and then properly insured, and see to that yourself, and then shipped ... shipped to ..." But to whom? Was it presumptuous to send it directly to the unborn child? No, it should go to Rowan Mayfair, shouldn't it? Of course it should. And for Michael, some other memento, just as precious in its own way, something carefully crafted of wood, one of the very, very old toys, the knight on its horse, yes, all made of wood, that one, with the original paint clinging to it ...
But no, that was not the right gift, not for Michael. There was one gift, one precious gift, something as fine as the Bru, and something he wanted to put in Michael's hands.
He rose from the desk, bidding the young Leslie to keep her chair, and moved across the spacious sitting area and down the hall to his bedroom.
He had placed it beneath the bed, the simple signal to Remmick that it was precious and must not be touched by the most well-meaning of servants. He dropped to his knees, felt for it, then slipped it out, the light blazing beautiful on the jeweled cover.
The moment of long ago was right there, the pain, the humiliation, Ninian laughing at him, telling him what a terrible blasphemy he had done, to put their tale into sacred style with sacred language.
For a long moment he sat, cross-legged, shoulder against the side of the bed. He held the book. Yes, for Michael. Michael, the boy who loved books. Michael. Michael would never be able to read it perhaps; it did not matter. Michael would keep it and it was rather like giving it to Rowan, too. She would understand that.
When he came back into the inner office, he had the book wrapped in a large white towel.
"This, this book, for Michael Curry, and the Bru for Rowan Mayfair."
"The Bru, sir, the princess?"
"Yes. That one. The packing is terribly important. I may want you to take these gifts down yourself. The fact that the Bru might break, it's unthinkable. Neither present must be lost. Now let's get on to other things. Send out for food if you're hungry. I have a memo here that the Prima Ballerina is out of stock worldwide. Tell me this is a lie."
"It isn't."
"Take dictation. This is the first of seven faxes pertaining to the Prima Ballerina...."
And on they went down the list, and when he did finally look at the clock again, with any serious intent, it was well past midnight. Indeed, the hour had dwindled to one. The snow still fell. Little Leslie's face had turned the color of paper. He was tired enough to sleep.
He fell into the large soft empty bed, vaguely conscious that the young Leslie was still hovering about, asking questions he could no longer hear that well. Extending her invitation.
"Good night, darling," he said.
Remmick opened the window just a little bit, the way he'd been instructed to, and the wind made a fierce howl that blotted out all sounds, all time, any conceivable lesser noise rising up the narrow margins between the dark and mournful buildings. A bit of icy air touched his cheek, making the warmth of the heavy covers all the more delicious.
Don't dream of witches; don't think of their red hair; don't think of Rowan in your arms. Don't think of Michael with the book in his hands, cherishing it as no one else ever did, except those evil brethren who betrayed Lightner. Don't think of the three of you sitting together at their hearth; don't go back to the glen, not now, not for a long long time; don't walk among circles of stone; don't visit caves; don't succumb to the temptation of mortal beauties who may die at your touch.... Don't call them, don't beg to hear a coldness, estrangement, evasion in their voices.
And by the time the door was closed, he was slumbering.
The Bru. The street in Paris; the woman in the store; the doll in its box; the big paperweight eyes looking up at him. The sudden thought beneath the streetlamp that a point had come in history where money could make possible all manner of miracles, that the pursuit of money even for one single individual could have great spiritual repercussions for thousands.... That in a realm of manufacture and mass production, the acquisition of wealth could be utterly creative.
In a shop on Fifth Avenue only steps from his door, he had stopped to look at The Book of Kells, the perfect reproduction which anyone could own now, and leaf through and love, the precious book that had taken so many to create at Iona.
"For the Man Who Loves Books" is what he would write on the card to Michael. He saw Michael smiling at him, hands in his pockets, just the way Samuel shoved his hands in his pockets. Michael asleep on the floor, and Samuel standing over him, saying drunkenly, "Why didn't God make me into this?" It had been too sad for laughing. And that strange statement Michael had made, as they stood near the fence in Washington Square, all of them so cold, why do people do these things, stand outdoors in snow, and Michael had said, "I always believed in the normal. I thought being poor was abnormal. I thought when you could choose what you wanted, that was normal." Snow, traffic, the night prowlers of the village, Michael's eyes when he looked at Rowan. And she remote, quiet, the words for her so much harder than for him.
This isn't a dream. This is worry, this is going back over it, and making it come to life again, and holding tight. What's it like when they lie together? Is her face a sculpture of ice? Is he the satyr of the wood? Witch touching witch; witch upon witch ...
Will the Bru see these things from a marble mantel?
"Something about the way you held it." That's all he would write on the card to Rowan. And there would be the blue-eyed Bru staring up from the tissue, make the tissue the color of her eyes, remember to tell Leslie.
And it would be Rowan's decision, and Michael's decision, whether or not to keep those cherished gifts close, as he had done, decade after decade, like idols with which one prays, or to pass them on to Michael and Mona's baby. And maybe the big paperweight eyes of the gorgeous Bru Jne 14 would gaze upon that little child, and would they see the witches' blood as he might if ever, if ever he dared to journey there, some time after the baby had come into this world, as they say--if he dared, just to spy upon them all--The Family of Witch Kind--from the fabled garden where once the ghost of Lasher walked, and his remains were committed to the earth--from that garden which could hide another phantom, could it not, peering through a small, unnoticed winter window.
Thirty-three
PIERCE HAD COLLECTED them from the airport, far too polite to inquire about the owner of the plane, or where they had been, and only too eager to take them to the site of the new medical center.
It was so warm as to be stifling, Michael thought. My kind of town. So glad to be back, and yet so utterly uncertain of anything--whether grass will continue to grow, whether Rowan will become warm and trusting again in his arms, whether he could stay away from the tall man in New York with whom he had known the most extraordinary friendship.
And the past; the past was not fun anymore and never would be, but something inherited with its burdens, its curses, its secrets.
Take your eyes off the bodies of the dead; forget the old man crumpling to the floor; and Aaron, Where has Aaron gone? Did his spirit rise into the light, were all things clear finally, and forgiven? To forgive is such a gift to us.
They got out at the edge of the huge rectangle of chu
rned earth. Signs read MAYFAIR MEDICAL with a dozen names and dates. And something too small for his aging eyes to read. He wondered if they'd stop being so blue when they couldn't really see anymore. Did that happen? Or would he have that last claim to fame even when he couldn't see the girls giving him a second look, or Rowan melting slightly, lips curled at the edges.
He tried to focus on the construction site, to realize what his mind told him, that the progress had been amazing, that some hundred men were working out here in these four blocks, that Mayfair Medical had truly begun.
Were those tears in Rowan's eyes? Yes, the smooth lady with the bobbed hair and the slim tailored suit of supple cloth was crying silently. He moved closer, what the hell was all this distance about, all this respecting of one another's privacy, feelings? He hugged her tight and, finding the softest part of her neck, placed his kisses there, until he felt her rustling against him, bending slightly, and a nice quiver running through her hands as she clasped his head, and said:
"You went on with it, all of you. I could never have expected such a thing." Her eyes moved to Pierce, shy Pierce, who was blushing now under these compliments.
"It's a dream you gave to us, Rowan. And now it's our dream too, and since all our dreams are coming true--since you're here and with us again--well, this one also will be realized."
"Now that's a lawyerly speech, with pacing and just enough force," Michael said. Was he jealous of this young kid? Women did tend to dote when their eyes fell upon Pierce Mayfair. If only Mona could see it, see perhaps that he was the one for her, especially now that in the wake of Gifford's death, her son had drifted away from his fiancee, Clancy. More and more Pierce came to sit some distance from Mona and stare. Yeah, maybe a little interest in Mona was brewing....
Michael reached for Rowan's cheek. "Kiss me."
"This is a vulgar display," she purred, "and you know it. All those workmen are staring at us."
"I hope so," he said.
"Let's go home," she whispered.
"Pierce, how's Mona, you've got an update?" Michael asked. They climbed into the car. He had forgotten what it meant to ride in normal automobiles, live in normal houses, have normal dreams. Ash's voice sang to him in his sleep. He heard the musical whisper in his ear even now. And would they ever truly see Ash again? Or would Ash vanish behind all those bronze doors, shutting them out, insulated by his company, his billions, remembering them only perhaps with occasional notes, though they might call, come to New York, press his bell in the very dead of night. "I need you!"
"Ah, Mona, yes," said Pierce. "Well, she's acting strange. When Dad talks to her, she sounds like she's high as a kite. But she's okay. She's hanging around with Mary Jane. And yesterday a team started work on Fontevrault."
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that," Michael said. "So they're going to save that place."
"Well, it had to be done, obviously, since neither Mary Jane nor Dolly Jean will stand to see it demolished. Oh, I think Dolly Jean is with them too. Now Dolly Jean looks like a withered apple, but they say she is very quick."
"I'm glad she's there," he said. "I like old people." Rowan laughed softly, resting her head on his shoulder. "Maybe we'll ask Aunt Viv to come over," he said. "And how is Bea? What is happening with Bea?"
"Well, now," said Pierce with a little tilt of his head. "Ancient Evelyn has worked the miracle there, simply by coming home from the hospital and needing care, and guess who has dashed up to Amelia to feed her soft-boiled eggs and make her talk, and make her grip tight with both hands? Dad says it's the perfect antidote for grief. I wonder if Mother's spirit isn't there."
"All the news is good news now," Rowan said with a wan smile, her voice deep as always. "And the girls will be in the house, and the silence will have to wait, and the spirits recede into the walls."
"You think they're still there?" Pierce asked with touching innocence.
God bless the Mayfairs who have never seen, and don't really believe.
"No, son," Michael said. "It's just a big beautiful house, and it's waiting for us, and for ... new generations to come."
"For Mayfairs yet unborn," whispered Rowan.
They had just turned onto St. Charles Avenue, the heavenly corridor of green, oaks in blinding spring leaf, sun mellow, traffic slow, flash of one lovely house after another. My town, home, everything all right, Rowan's hand in mine.
"Ah, and Amelia Street, look," he said.
How dapper the Mayfair house looked in the San Francisco style, with its fresh coat of peach with white trim and green shutters. And all the weeds gone. He almost wanted to stop, to see Evelyn and Bea, but he knew he had to see Mona first, he had to see the mother and child rolled into one. And he had to be with his wife, talking quietly in the big bedroom upstairs, about all that had happened, the tales they'd heard, the strange things they'd seen and might never tell anyone ... except Mona.
And tomorrow he would go out to the mausoleum where Aaron was buried, and he'd do the Irish trick of just talking to Aaron, out loud, as if Aaron were answering, and if anybody didn't like it, well, they could just get out of there, couldn't they? All his family had always done that, his father going out to St. Joseph's Cemetery and talking to his grandmother and grandfather any time he felt like it. And Uncle Shamus when he was so sick, saying to his wife, "You can still talk to me after I'm gone. The only difference is I won't be answering you."
Once again the light changed, darkening, and the trees expanded, crowding out the sky and breaking it into tiny glowing fragments. The Garden District. First Street. And wonder of wonders, the house on the comer of Chestnut, amid its spring banana trees and ferns, and azaleas in bloom, waiting for them.
"Pierce, you must come in."
"No, they're waiting for me downtown. You rest. Call us when you need us." He had already slipped out to lend a manly hand as Rowan climbed from the car. And then his key was in the gate, and he was waving goodbye to them.
A uniformed guard walked along the side fence, disappearing discreetly around the end of the house.
The silence was healed, the car slipping off in light and shadow, noiseless, removed, the dying afternoon burnished and warm and without the slightest resistance. The scent of the sweet olive hung over the whole yard. And tonight he'd smell the jasmine again.
Ash had said that fragrance was the sharpest trigger of memory, a transport into forgotten worlds. And he had been so right, and what did it do to you, to be taken away from all the fragrances you needed to breathe?
He opened the front door for his wife, and felt a sudden impulse to carry her over the threshold. Hell, why not!
She gave a little unrestrained cry of delight, clutching his neck as he scooped her up.
The thing about gestures like this was not to drop the lady in question.
"And now, my dear, we are home," he growled against her soft neck again, forcing her head back as he kissed her beneath her chin, "and the smell of the sweet olive gives way to Eugenia's ever-present wax, and the scent of the old wood, and something musty and expensive and delicious to breathe."
"Amen," she said.
As he went to put her down, she clung to him for a moment. Ah, that was nice! And his aging, battered heart had not begun to pound. She would hear it, wouldn't she, with a doctor's ear? No, he stood hale and quiet, holding her against him, smelling her clean soft hair, and gazing down the polished hall, past the great soaring white doorway, at the distant murals of the dining room, touched still by the afternoon sun. Home. Here. Now, as it has never, never been for either of us.
At last she slipped from him, landing on her feet. The tiniest frown came to her forehead. "Oh, it's nothing," she said. "Only certain memories will die hard, you know. But then I think of Ash, and that is something to contemplate rather than all the sad things."
He wanted to answer, he wanted to say something about his own love for Ash, and something else, something else that was almost torturing him. It would be better to leave it alone, that's wha
t others would advise, if ever he asked them. But he couldn't. He looked into her eyes, opening his own very wide, perhaps wide enough to look angry when he didn't mean to at all.
"Rowan, my love," he said. "I know you could have stayed with him. I know you made a choice."
"You're my man," she said with a soft explosion of breath, "my man, Michael."
Nice to carry her up the stairs, but he'd never make it, not all twenty-nine steps, and where were the young ladies, and Granny, the resurrected one? No, they could not shut themselves away now, unless by some luck the entire tribe had gone out for an early dinner.
Closing his eyes, he kissed her again. Nobody could stop him from doing that at least a dozen times. Kiss. And when he looked up again, he saw the red-haired beauty at the end of the hall, two in fact, one very, very tall, and that mischievous Mary Jane, blond braids on top of her head again, three of the most gorgeous necks in the universe, young girls like that are swans. But who was this new beauty who stood incredibly tall, and looked, why, she looked exactly like Mona!
Rowan turned, staring back down the hall.
The Three Graces, they were, against the dining room door, and Mona's face seemed to occupy two different places. This wasn't resemblance, it was duplication, and why did they stand so still, all of them in their cotton dresses, merely staring as if from a painting?
He heard Rowan gasp. He saw Mona break into a run, and then rush towards him across the polished floor.
"No, you can't do anything. You can't. You have to listen."
"Dear God," Rowan said, her weight falling heavily against him, her body shaking.
"She's my child," Mona said. "My child and Michael's, and you won't hurt her."
Suddenly it struck him, as things often do, in a rush of different stages, all clattering together to take his breath away. The baby is this young woman. The giant helix produced this. This is a Taltos as surely as Ash is a Taltos, as surely as those two under the tree are Taltos. Rowan is going to faint, she is going to go down, and the pain in my chest is killing me.
He clutched for the newel post.