The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,367

to be. Tell my friends to come. But Ellie’s stark uncomfortable service had been nothing like this, with her bone-thin, suntanned friends, embarrassed by death, sitting resentfully on the edge of their folding chairs. She didn’t really want, us to send flowers, did she? And Rowan had said, “I think it would be terrible if there were no flowers … ” Stainless steel cross, meaningless words, the man speaking them a total stranger.

Oh, and look at these flowers! Everywhere she looked she saw them, great dazzling sprays of roses, lilies, gladiolus. She did not know the names of some of these flowers. Nestled among the small curly-legged chairs, they stood, great wreaths on wire legs, and behind the chairs, and thrust five and six deep into the corners. Sprinkled with glistening droplets of water, they shivered in the chilly air, replete with white ribbons and bows, and some of the ribbons even had the name Deirdre printed on them in silver. Deirdre.

Suddenly, it was everywhere she looked. Deirdre, Deirdre, Deirdre, the ribbons soundlessly crying her mother’s name, while the ladies in the pretty dresses drank white wine from stemmed glasses, and the little girl with the hair ribbon stared at her, and a nun, even a nun in a dark blue dress and white veil and black stockings, sat bent over her cane, on the edge of a chair, with a man speaking into her ear, her head cocked, her small beak of a nose gleaming in the light, and little girls gathered around her.

They were bringing in more flowers now, little wire trees sprouting red and pink roses amid spikes of shivering fern. How beautiful. A big blond beefy man with soft jowls set down a gorgeous little bouquet very near the distant coffin.

And such an aroma rose from all these many bouquets. Ellie used to say the flowers in California had no scent. A lovely sweet perfume hung in this room. Now Rowan understood. It was sweet the way the warm air outside had been warm, and the moist breeze moist. It seemed that all the colors around her were becoming increasingly vivid.

But she felt sick again, and the strong perfume was making it worse. The coffin was far away. The crowd completely obscured it now. She thought about the house again, the high dark house on the “riverside downtown corner,” as the clerk at the hotel had described it. It had to be the house that Michael kept seeing. Unless there were a thousand like it, a thousand with a rose pattern in the cast iron, and a great dark cascade of bougainvillea pouring down the faded gray wall. Oh, such a beautiful house.

My mother’s house. My house? Where was Michael? There was a sudden opening in the crowd, and once again she saw the long flank of the coffin. Was she seeing a woman’s profile against the satin pillow from where she stood? Ellie’s coffin had been closed. Graham had had no funeral. His friends had gathered at a downtown bar.

You are going to have go up to that coffin. You are going to have to look into it and see her. This is why you came, why you broke with Ellie and the paper in the safe, to see with your own eyes your mother’s face. But are these things actually taking place, or am I dreaming? Look at the young girl with her arm around the old woman’s shoulder. The young girl’s white dress has a sash! She is wearing white stockings.

If only Michael were here. This was Michael’s world. If only Michael could take off his glove and lay his hand on the dead woman’s hand. But what would he see? An undertaker shooting embalming fluid into her veins? Or the blood being drained into the gutter of the white embalming table? Deirdre. Deirdre was written in silver letters on the white ribbon that hung from the nearby wreath of chrysanthemums. Deirdre on the ribbon across the great bouquet of pink roses …

Well, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you move? She moved back, against the door frame, watching an old woman with pale yellow hair open her arms to three small children. One after another they kissed the old woman’s wobbling cheeks. She nodded her head. Are all these people my mother’s family?

She envisioned the house again, stripped of detail, dark and fantastically large. She understood why Michael loved that house, loved this place. And Michael didn’t know that that was