by Anne Rice
"So I notice," said Mona. "We little girls are just all obsessed with them, aren't we?"
Mary Jane positively howled with laughter.
"This is better than I expected," said Mona. "The girls at school appreciate my humor, but almost no one in the family laughs at my jokes."
"Your jokes are real funny," said Mary Jane. "That's because you're a genius. I figure there are two kinds, ones with a sense of humor and those without it."
"But what about all the b words, cut out, and rolled into balls?"
"Well, I put them in a hat, you know??? Just like names for a raffle."
"Yeah."
"And then I pick them out one at a time. If it's some word nobody ever uses, you know, like batrachian?? I just throw it away. But if it's a good word like beatitude--'a state of utmost bliss'???? Well, I memorize it right on the spot."
"Hmmm, that sounds like a fairly good method. Guess you're more likely to remember words that you like."
"Oh yeah, but really, I remember almost everything, you know?? Being as smart as I am?" Mary Jane popped the bread ball into her mouth and started pulverizing the frame of crust.
"Even the meaning of batrachian?" asked Mona.
" 'A tailless leaping amphibian,' " Mary Jane answered. She nibbled on the crust ball.
"Hey, listen, Mary Jane," said Mona, "there's plenty of bread in this house. You can have all you want. There's a loaf right over there on the counter. I'll get it for you."
"Sit down! You're pregnant, I'll git it!" Mary Jane declared. She jumped up, reached for the bread, caught it by its plastic wrapping, and brought it down on the table.
"How about butter? You want some butter? It's right here."
"No, I've conditioned myself to eat it without butter, to save money, and I don't want to go back to butter, because then I'll miss the butter and the bread won't taste so good." She tore a slice out of the plastic, and scrunched up the middle of it.
"The thing is," said Mary Jane, "I will forget batrachian if I don't use it, but beatitude I will use, and not forget."
"Gotcha. Why were you looking at me in that way?"
Mary Jane didn't answer. She licked her lips, tore loose some fragments of soft bread, and ate them. "All this time, you remembered that we were talking about that, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"What do you think about your baby?" asked Mary Jane, and this time she looked worried and protective, sort of, or at least sensitive to what Mona felt.
"Something might be wrong with it."
"Yeah." Mary Jane nodded. "That's what I figure."
"It's not going to be some giant," said Mona quickly, though with each word, she found it more difficult to continue. "It's not some monster or whatever. But maybe there's just something wrong with it, the genes make some combination and ... something could be wrong."
She took a deep breath. This might be the worst mental pain she'd ever felt. All her life she'd worried about things--her mother, her father, Ancient Evelyn, people she loved. And she'd known grief aplenty, especially of late. But this worrying about the baby was wholly different; it aroused a fear so deep in her that it was agony. She found she'd put her hand on her belly again. "Morrigan," she whispered.
Something stirred inside her, and she looked down by moving her eyes instead of her head.
"What's wrong?" asked Mary Jane.
"I'm worrying too much. Isn't it normal to think that something's wrong with your baby?"
"Yeah, it's normal," said Mary Jane. "But this family has got lots of people with the giant helix, and they haven't had horrible deformed little babies, have they? I mean, you know, what's the track record of all this giant-helix breeding?"
Mona hadn't answered. She was thinking, What difference does it make? If this baby's not right, if this baby's ... She realized she was looking off through the greenery outside. It was still early afternoon. She thought of Aaron in the drawerlike crypt at the mausoleum, lying one shelf up from Gifford. Wax dummies of people, pumped with fluid. Not Aaron, not Gifford. Why would Gifford be digging a hole in a dream?
A wild thought came to her, dangerous and sacrilegious, but not really so surprising. Michael was gone. Rowan was gone. Tonight she could go out there into the garden alone, when no one was awake on the property, and she could dig up the remains of those two that lay beneath the oak; she could see for herself what was there.
Only trouble was, she was frightened to do it. She had seen plenty of scenes in horror movies over the years in which people did that sort of thing, traipsed off to the graveyard to dig up a vampire, or went at midnight to discover just who was in what grave. She had never believed those scenes, especially if the person did it by herself or himself. It was just too frightening. To dig up a body, you had to have a lot more balls than Mona had.
She looked at Mary Jane. Mary Jane had finished her feast of bread, apparently, and she just sat there, arms folded, looking steadily at Mona in a manner that was slightly unnerving, Mary Jane's eyes having taken on that dreamy luster that eyes have when the mind has drifted, a look that wasn't vacant but deceptively seriously focused.
"Mary Jane?" she said.
She expected to see the girl startle, and wake up, so to speak, and immediately volunteer what she had been thinking. But nothing like that happened. Mary Jane just kept looking at her in exactly the same fashion, and she said:
"Yes, Mona?" without a single change in her face.
Mona stood up. She went towards Mary Jane, and stood right beside her, looking down at her, and Mary Jane continued to look at her with the same large and frightening eyes.
"Touch this baby, here, touch it, don't be shy. Tell me what you feel."
Mary Jane turned the gaze on Mona's belly, and she reached out very slowly, as if she was going to do what Mona had asked her to do, and then suddenly she jerked her hand back. She rose from the chair, moving away from Mona. She looked worried.
"I don't think we should do it. Let's not do witchcraft with this baby. You and I are young witches," she said. "You know, we really are. What if witchcraft can, you know??? Have an effect on it???"
Mona sighed. Suddenly she didn't want to talk about this anymore; the feeling of fear was too draining and too damned painful, and there had been quite enough.
The only person in the world who could answer her questions was Rowan, and she was going to have to ask them, sooner or later, because she could feel this baby now, and that was flat-out impossible, really, to feel a baby moving like this, just this tiny, tiny movement, even, when a baby was only six or even ten or even twelve weeks.
"Mary Jane, I have to be alone right how," she said. "I'm not being rude. It's just this baby has me worried. That is the simple truth."
"You sure are sweet to explain this to me. You go right ahead. I'm going upstairs if it's okay. Ryan??? He put my suitcase in Aunt Viv's room, you know??? I'm going to be in there."
"You can use my computer if you want," said Mona. She turned her back to Mary Jane and looked out again in the garden. "It's in the library, there are plenty of open programs. It boots right to WordStar, but you can go to Windows or Lotus 1-2-3 simply enough."
"Yeah, I know how to do that, you take it easy, Mona Mayfair, you call me if you need me."
"Yeah, I will. I ..." She turned around. "I really like having you here, Mary Jane," she said. "There's no telling when Rowan or Michael will come back."
What if they never came back? The fear was growing, including all things at random that came into her mind. Nonsense. They were coming back. But of course they had gone to look for people who might very well want to hurt them....
"Don't you worry now, darlin'," said Mary Jane. "Yeah," said Mona again, pushing open the door. She wandered out on the flagstones and off towards the back garden. It was still early and the sun was high and falling down on the lawn beneath the oak, as it would be, really, until late in the day. Best, warmest time in the back garden.
She walked out on the grass. This h
ad to be where they were buried. Michael had added earth to this place, and the newest, tenderest grass grew here.
She went down on her knees, and stretched out on the earth, not caring that it was getting on her beautiful white shirt. There were so many of them. That's what it meant to be rich, and she was already feeling it, having so many of everything, and not having to wear shoes with holes. She pressed her cheek to the cool mud and grass, and her billowing right sleeve was like a big white parachute fallen beside her from heaven. She closed her eyes.
Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan ... The boats came across the sea, torches lifted. But the rocks looked so dangerous. Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan ... Yeah, this was the dream! The flight from the island to the north coast. The rocks were the danger, and the monsters of the deep who lived in the lochs.
She heard the sound of someone digging. She was wide awake and staring across the grass at the distant ginger lilies, at the azaleas.
No one was digging. Imagination. You want to dig them up, you little witch, she said to herself. She had to admit it was fun playing little witches with Mary Jane Mayfair. Yeah, glad she'd come. Have some more bread.
Her eyes slid closed. A beautiful thing happened. The sun struck her eyelids, as if some big branch or cloud had just freed it, and the light made the darkness brilliant orange, and she felt the warmth creeping all over her. Inside her, in the belly that she could still sleep on, the thing stirred again. My baby.
Someone was singing the nursery rhyme again. Why, that must be the oldest nursery rhyme in the world. That was Old English, or was it Latin?
Pay attention, said Mona. I want to teach you how to use a computer before you are four years old, and I want you to realize that there's nothing stopping you from being anything you ever want to be, you're listening?
The baby laughed and laughed. She turned somersaults and stretched her tiny arms and hands and laughed and laughed. It looked like a tiny "tailless leaping amphibian." Mona couldn't stop laughing either. "That's what you are!" she said to the baby.
And then the voice of Mary Jane said--in a pure dream now, and on some level Mona knew it, yes, because Mary Jane was all dressed up like Ancient Evelyn, in old lady clothes, a gabardine dress and string shoes, this was definitely a dream--the voice of Mary Jane said, "There's more to it than that, darlin'. You better make up your mind real soon."
Fifteen
"LOOK, FORGET WHAT you did, bolting," said Tommy. They were driving back to the Motherhouse, because Tommy insisted. "We have to behave as if we are guilty of nothing. All the evidence is gone now, the route destroyed. They can't trace any phone to any other phone. But we have to go back there and we have to behave as if nothing's happened, and we have to show our concern over the death of Marcus, that's all."
"I'll tell them I was so worried about Stuart," said Marklin.
"Yes, that's exactly what you should tell them. You were worried about Stuart. Stuart was under such a terrible strain."
"Maybe they didn't even notice, I mean, maybe the older ones took no notice that I was even gone."
"And you didn't find Stuart, and now you've come back home. Got it? You have come back home."
"And then what?"
"That depends on them," said Tommy. "Regardless of what happens, we must remain there so as not to arouse suspicion. Our attitude is simply, 'What has happened? Won't anyone explain?' "
Marklin nodded. "But where is Stuart?" he asked. He chanced a glance at Tommy. Tommy was as calm as he'd been at Glastonbury, when Marklin would have fallen on his knees before Stuart and begged him to come back.
"He's gone to meet Yuri, that's all. Stuart isn't under suspicion, Mark. You're the one who may be under suspicion because of the way you bolted. Now get a grip, old man, we have to play this well."
"For how long?"
"How should I know?" asked Tommy, same calm voice. "At least until we have some natural reason to leave again. Then we go back to my place in Regent's Park and we decide. Is the game up? What do we have to lose by remaining in the Order? What do we have to gain?"
"But who was it that killed Aaron?"
Tommy shook his head. He was watching the road now, as if Marklin needed a pilot. And Marklin wasn't so sure that he didn't. If he hadn't known this route by heart, he wasn't sure he could have made it.
"I'm not sure we should go back there," said Marklin.
"That's foolish. They haven't an inkling of what really happened."
"How do you know?" asked Marklin. "My God, Yuri could have told them! Tommy, will you use your head? Perhaps it's not a healthy sign to be so calm in the face of this. Stuart went to see Yuri, and Yuri may be at the Motherhouse himself by now."
"You don't think Stuart had the sense to tell Yuri to stay away? That there was some sort of conspiracy, and that Stuart didn't know the extent of it?"
"I think you would have the sense to do that, and perhaps I would, but I don't know about Stuart."
"And so what if Yuri is there? They know about the conspiracy, they just don't know about us! Stuart wouldn't tell Yuri about us, no matter what happened. You're the one who's not thinking. What does Yuri have to tell? He'll fill them in on whatever happened in New Orleans, and if that goes into the records ... You know, I think I'm going to regret that I destroyed the intercept."
"I don't regret it!" said Marklin. He was becoming irritated by Tommy's businesslike manner, his absurd optimism.
"You're afraid you can't pull it off, aren't you?" asked Tommy. "You're afraid you'll crack like Stuart. But, Marklin, you have to realize Stuart has been in the Talamasca all his life. What is the Talamasca to you or to me?" Tommy gave a little flat laugh. "Boy, they made a mistake with us, didn't they, brother?"
"No, they didn't," said Marklin. "Stuart knew just what he was doing, that we'd have the nerve to carry out schemes that he could never realize. Stuart didn't make a mistake. The mistake was that somebody killed Anton Marcus."
"And neither of us stayed around long enough to find out about this person, this crime, this fortuitous incident. You do realize it's fortuitous, don't you?"
"Of course I do. We're rid of Marcus. That's that. But what happened at the moment of the murder? Elvera talked to the killer. The killer said things about Aaron."
"Wouldn't it be simply marvelous if the intruder was one of the Mayfair family? A top-notch witch? I tell you, I want to read that whole file on the Mayfair witches from cover to cover. I want to know everything about those people! I was thinking. There must be some way to lay claim to Aaron's papers. You know Aaron. He wrote down everything. He must have left cartons of papers. They must be in New Orleans."
"You're moving too far ahead! Tommy, Yuri may be there. Stuart may have cracked. They may know everything."
"I doubt it seriously," said Tommy, with an air of one who wants to meditate on more important things. "Marklin, the turn!"
Marklin had almost missed it, and when he swerved, it was into the path of another car, but the car gave way, and Marklin raced forward. Within seconds he was away from the highway and going down the country road. He relaxed, realizing only then that he had braced himself so hard for an accident that his jaw was aching from the clenching of his teeth.
Tommy was glaring at him.
"Look, ease up on me!" Marklin said suddenly, feeling the heat behind his eyes which always meant that he was perfectly furious, and had not completely realized it. "I'm not the problem here, Tommy. They are! Now back off. We play it naturally. We both know what to do."
Tommy turned his head slowly as they went through the front gates of the park.
"Everybody in the Order must be here. I've never seen this many cars," said Marklin.
"We'll be lucky," said Tommy, "if they haven't commandeered our quarters for some deaf and blind octogenarian from Rome or Amsterdam."
"I hope they have. It's a perfect excuse to turn everything over to the old guard and very considerately clear out."
Marklin brought the car to a halt,
several yards from the busy attendant who was directing the car in front of them to a parking spot quite far away, on the other side of the hedge. In all these years, Marklin had never seen cars packed side by side on the other side of the hedge.
He got out, and tossed the keys to the attendant. "Will you park, please, Harry?" he said. He peeled off several pound notes, a bribe sufficient to waive all objections to this breach of custom, and headed towards the front doors of the house.
"Why in the hell did you do that?" Tommy said, catching up with him. "Try to follow the rules, will you? Fade into the woodwork. Say nothing. Do nothing to attract attention, are we agreed?"
"You're too nervous yourself," said Marklin crossly.
The front doors stood open. The hall was choked with men and women, thick with cigar smoke, and positively roaring with voices. It had the air of a crowded wake or intermission at the theatre.
Marklin stopped. Every instinct in him told him not to go in. And all his life he had believed in his instincts, as surely as he believed in his intelligence.
"Come on, man," said Tommy, between his teeth. He urged Marklin forward.
"Oh, hello," said a bright-faced old gentleman who turned to greet them. "And who are you?"
"Novices," said Marklin. "Tommy Monohan and Marklin George. Are novices allowed to come in?"
"Of course, of course," said the man, stepping aside. The crowd pressed in behind him, faces turning towards him and then away indifferently. A woman was whispering to a man on the other side of the doorway, and when her eyes met Marklin's, she made a small noise of surprise and distress.
"This is all wrong," said Marklin under his breath.
"You should all be here, of course," the jolly man was saying, "all the young ones should be here. When something like this happens, everyone is called home."
"Why, I wonder," said Tommy. "Nobody liked Anton."
"Shut up," said Marklin. "It's quite remarkable, isn't it, the way that people--you and I for instance--respond to stress."
"No, unfortunately, it's not remarkable at all."
They edged their way through the press. Strange faces to the right and left. People everywhere were drinking wine and beer. He could hear French, Italian, even people speaking Dutch.
