The Witching Hour (149 page)

He dismissed her with a raised eyebrow, and took another sip of his drink.

Fielding sneered, muttering something under his breath.

“I’ve gone up there to First Street,” said Pierce, “and hung around that iron fence for hours on end trying to see him. If only I’d ever caught one glimpse.”

“Oh, for the love of heaven!” declared Anne Marie. “As if you didn’t have anything better to do.”

“Don’t let your mother hear that,” Isaac murmured.

“You all believe in him,” Rowan said. “Surely some of you have seen him.”

“What would make you think that!” Felice laughed.

“My father says it’s a fantasy, an old tale,” said Pierce.

“Pierce, the best thing you could do,” said Lily, “is stop taking every word that falls from your father’s lips as if it were gospel because it is not.”

“Have you seen him, Aunt Lily?” Pierce asked.

“Indeed, I have, Pierce,” Lily said in a low voice. “Indeed I have.”

The others registered undisguised surprise, except for the three elder men, who exchanged glances. Fielding’s left hand fluttered, as if he wanted to gesture, speak, but he didn’t.

“He’s real,” said Peter gravely. “He’s as real as lightning; as real as wind is real.” He turned and glared at young Pierce and then back at Rowan, as if demanding their undivided attention and belief in him. Then his eyes settled on Michael. “I’ve seen him. I saw him that night when Stella brought us together. I’ve seen him since. Lily’s seen him. So has Lauren. You, too, Felice, I know you have. And ask Carmen. Why don’t you speak up, Felice? And you, Fielding. You saw him the night Mary Beth died at First Street. You know you did. Who here hasn’t seen him? Only the younger ones.” He looked at Rowan. “Ask, they’ll all tell you.”

A loud murmuring ran through the outer edges of the gathering because many of the younger ones—Polly and Clancy and Tim and others Rowan did not know—hadn’t seen the ghost, and didn’t know whether to believe what they were hearing. Little Mona with the ribbon in her hair suddenly pushed to the front of the circle, with the taller Jennifer right behind her.

“Tell me what you saw,” said Rowan, looking directly at Peter. “You’re not saying that he came through the door the night that Stella gathered you together.”

Peter took his time. He looked around him, eyes lingering on Margaret Ann, and then for a moment on Michael, and then on Rowan. He lifted his drink. He drained the glass, and then spoke:

“He was there—a blazing shimmering presence, and for those few moments, I could have sworn he was as solid as any man of flesh and blood I’ve ever seen. I saw him materialize. I felt the heat when he did it. And I heard his steps. Yes, I heard his feet strike the floor of that front hallway as he walked towards us. He stood there, just as real as you or me, and he looked at each and every one of us.” Again, he lifted his glass, took a swallow and lowered, it, his eyes running over the little assembly. He sighed. “And then he vanished, just as he always had. The heat again. The smell of smoke, and the breeze rushing through the house, tearing the very curtains off the windows. But he was
gone. He couldn’t hold it. And we weren’t strong enough to help him hold it. Thirteen of us, yes, the thirteen witches, as Stella called us. And Lauren four years old! Little Lauren. But we weren’t of the ilk of Julien or Mary Beth, or old Grandmère Marguerite at Riverbend. And we couldn’t do it. And Carlotta, Carlotta who was stronger than Stella—and you mark my words, it was true—Carlotta wouldn’t help. She lay on her bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling, and she was saying her rosary aloud, and after every Hail Mary, she said, Send him back to hell, send him back to hell!—and then went on to the next Hail Mary.”

He pursed his lips and scowled down into the empty glass, shaking it soundlessly so that the ice cubes revolved. Then again, his eyes ran over the circle, taking in everyone, even little red-haired Mona.

“For the record, Peter Mayfair saw him,” Peter declared, pulling himself up, eyebrow raised again. “Lauren and Lily can speak for themselves. So can Randall. But for the record, I saw him, and
that
you may tell to your grandchildren.”

A pause again. The darkness was growing dense; and from far away came the grinding cry of the cicadas. No breeze touched the yard. The house was now full of yellow light, in all its many small neat windows.

“Yes,” said Lily with a sigh. “You might as well know it, my dear.” Her eyes fixed on Rowan as she smiled. “He is there. And we’ve all seen him many a time since, though not perhaps the way we saw him that night, or for so long, or so clearly.”

“You were there, too?” Rowan asked.

“I was,” said Lily. “But it wasn’t only then, Rowan. We’ve seen him on that old screen porch with Deirdre.” She looked up at Lauren. “We’ve seen him when we’ve passed the house. We’ve seen him sometimes when we didn’t want to.”

“Don’t be frightened of him, Rowan,” said Lauren contemptuously.

“Oh, now you tell her that,” declared Beatrice. “You superstitious monsters!”

“Don’t let them drive you out of the house,” said Magdalene quickly.

“No, don’t let us do that,” said Felice. “And you want my advice, forget the legends. Forget the old foolishness about the thirteen witches and the doorway. And forget about him! He’s just a ghost, and nothing more, and you may think that sounds strange, but truly it isn’t.”

“He can’t do anything to you,” said Lauren, with a sneer.

“No, he can’t,” said Felice. “He’s like the breeze.”

“He’s a ghost,” said Lily. “That’s all he is and all he’ll ever be.”

“And who knows?” asked Cecilia. “Maybe he’s no longer even there.”

They all stared at her.

“Well, nobody’s seen him since Deirdre died.”

A door slammed. There was a tinkling sound, of glass falling, and a commotion on the edge of the circle. People shifted, stepped aside. Gifford pushed her way to the center, her face wet and stained, her hands shaking.

“Can’t do anything! Can’t hurt anyone! Is that what you’re telling her! Can’t do anything! He killed Cortland, that’s what he did! After Cortland raped your mother! Did you know that, Rowan!”

“Hush, Gifford!” Fielding roared.

“Cortland was your father,” Gifford screamed. “The hell he can’t do anything! Drive him out, Rowan! Turn your strength on him and drive him out! Exorcise the house! Burn it down if you have to … Burn it down!”

A roar of protest came from all directions, and vague expressions of scorn or outrage. Ryan had appeared and was trying once more to restrain Gifford. She turned and slapped his face. Gasps came from all around. Pierce was obviously mortified and helpless.

Lily rose and left the group, and so did Felice, who almost fell in her haste. Anne Marie struggled to her feet, and helped Felice to get away. But the others stood firm, including Ryan, who simply wiped his face with his handkerchief, as if to regain his composure while Gifford stood with her fists clenched, lips trembling. Beatrice was clearly desperate to help but didn’t know what to do.

Rowan rose and went towards Gifford.

“Gifford, listen to me,” said Rowan. “Don’t be afraid. It’s the future we care about, not the past.” She took Gifford by both arms, and reluctantly Gifford looked up into her face. “I will do what’s good,” said Rowan, “and what’s right, and what’s good and right for the family. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Gifford broke into sobs, her head bent again as if her neck were too weak to hold it. Her hair fell down into her eyes. “Only evil people can be happy in that house,” she said. “And they were evil—Cortland was evil!” Both Pierce and Ryan had their arms around her. Ryan was becoming angry. But Rowan hadn’t let her go.

“Too much to drink,” said Cecilia. Someone had thrown on the yard lights.

Gifford appeared to collapse suddenly, but still Rowan held her.

“No, listen to me, please, Gifford,” Rowan said, but she was really speaking to the others. She saw Lily standing only a short distance away, and Felice beside her. She saw Beatrice’s eyes fixed on her. And Michael was standing, watching her, as he stood behind Fielding’s chair.

“I’ve been listening to you all,” said Rowan, “and learning from you. But I have something to say. The way to survive this strange spirit and his machinations is to see him in a large perspective. Now, the family, and life itself, are part of that perspective. And he must never be allowed to shrink the family or shrink the possibilities of life. If he exists as you say he does, then he belongs in the shadows.”

Randall and Peter were watching her intently. So was Lauren. Aaron stood very near to Michael, and he too was listening. Only Fielding seemed cold, and sneering, and did not look at Rowan. Gifford was staring at her in a daze.

“I think Mary Beth and Julien knew that,” said Rowan. “I mean to follow their example. If something appears to me out of the shadows at First Street, no matter how mysterious it might be, it won’t eclipse the greater scheme, the greater light. Surely you follow my meaning.”

Gifford seemed almost spellbound. And very slowly Rowan realized how peculiar this moment had become. She realized how strange her words seemed; and how strange she must have appeared to all of them, making this unusual speech while she held this frail, hysterical woman by both arms.

Indeed they were all staring at her as if they too had been spellbound.

Gently she let Gifford go. Gifford stepped backwards, and into Ryan’s embrace, but her eyes remained large, empty, and fixed on Rowan.

“I’m frightening you, aren’t I?” asked Rowan.

“No, no everything is all right now,” said Ryan.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” said Pierce.

But Gifford was silent. They were all confused. When Rowan looked at Michael she saw the same dazed expression, and behind it the old dark turbulent distress.

Beatrice murmured some little apology for all that had happened; she stepped up and led Gifford away. Ryan went with them. And Pierce remained, motionless, struck dumb.

Lily looked around, apparently confused for a moment, and then called to Hercules to please find her coat.

Randall, Fielding, and Peter remained in the stillness. Others lingered in the shadows. The little girl with the ribbon stared from a distance, her round sweet young face like a flame in the dark. The taller child, Jenn, appeared to be crying.

Suddenly Peter clasped Rowan’s hand.

“You’re wise in what you said. You’d waste your life if you got caught up in it.”

“That’s correct,” said Randall. “That’s what happened to Stella. Same thing with Carlotta. She wasted her life! Same thing.” But he was anxious, and only too ready to withdraw. He turned and slipped off without a farewell.

“Come on, young man, help me up,” said Fielding to Michael. “The party’s over, and by the way, my congratulations on the marriage. Maybe I’ll live long enough to see the wedding. And please, don’t invite the ghost.”

Michael looked disoriented. He glanced at Rowan, and then down at the old man, and then very gently he helped the old man to his feet. Then he looked at Rowan again. The confusion and dread were there as before.

Several of the young ones approached, to tell Rowan not to be discouraged by all this Mayfair madness. Anne Marie begged her to go on with her plans. A light breeze came at last with just a touch of coolness to it.

“Everybody will be heartbroken if you don’t move into the house,” said Margaret Ann.

“You’re not giving it up?” demanded Clancy.

“Of course not,” said Rowan with a smile. “What an absurd idea.”

Aaron stood watching Rowan impassively. And Beatrice came back now with a flood of apologies on behalf of Gifford, begging Rowan not to be upset.

The others were coming back; they had their raincoats, purses, whatever they had gone to gather. It was full dark now; and the air was cool, deliciously cool. And the party was over.

For thirty minutes, the cousins said their good-byes, all issuing the same warnings. Stay, don’t go. Restore the house. Forget all the old talk.

And Ryan apologized for Gifford and for the awful things she’d said. Surely Rowan must not take Gifford’s words as truth. Rowan waved it away.

“Thank you, thank you very much for everything,” said
Rowan. “And don’t worry. I wanted to know the old stories. I wanted to know what the family was saying. And now I do.”

“There’s no ghost up there,” said Ryan, looking her directly in the eye.

Rowan didn’t bother to answer.

“You’re going to be happy at First Street,” said Ryan. “You’ll change the image.” As Michael appeared at her side, he shook Michael’s hand.

Turning to take her leave, Rowan saw that Aaron was at the front gate, talking with Gifford of all people, and Beatrice. Gifford seemed entirely comforted.

Ryan waited, patiently, a silhouette in the front door.

“Not to worry about anything at all,” Aaron was saying to Gifford, in his seductive British accent.

Gifford flung her arms around him suddenly. Graciously he returned her embrace and kissed her hand as he withdrew. Beatrice was only slightly less effusive. Then they both stood back, Gifford white-faced and weary-looking, as Aaron’s black limousine lumbered to the curb.

“Don’t worry about anything, Rowan,” said Beatrice cheerily. “Lunch tomorrow, don’t forget. And this shall be the most beautiful wedding!”

Rowan smiled. “Don’t worry, Bea.”

Rowan and Michael slipped into the long backseat, while Aaron took his favorite place, with his back to the driver. And the car slowly pulled away.

The flood of ice-cold air was a blessing to Rowan. The lingering humidity and the atmosphere of the twilight garden were clinging to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.

When she looked up again, she saw that they were on Metairie Road, speeding past the newer cemeteries of the city which looked grim and without romance through the dark tinted glass. The world always looked so ghastly through the tinted windows of a limousine, she thought. The worst shade of darkness imaginable. Suddenly it pierced her nerves.

She turned to Michael, and seeing that awful expression on his face again, she felt impatient. She had only been excited by what she had found out. Her resolves were the same. In fact, she had found the whole experience fascinating.