The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,389

frightened of Carlotta, a quick flash of an uncomfortable smile illuminating his face. Ryan was staring at the old woman.

But the coffin was now being brought forward, the pallbearers actually supporting it on their shoulders, their faces red from the exertion, sweat dripping from their foreheads as they set down the heavy weight upon its wheeled stand.

It was time for the last prayers. The priest was here again with his acolyte. The heat seemed motionless and impossible suddenly. Beatrice was blotting her flushed cheeks with a folded handkerchief. The elderly, save for Carlotta, were sitting down where they could on the ledges surrounding the smaller graves.

Rowan let her eyes drift to the top of the tomb, to the ornamented peristyle with the words “Mayfair” in it, and above the name, in bas-relief, a long open door. Or was it a large open keyhole? She wasn’t sure.

When a faint, damp breeze came, stirring the stiff leaves of the trees along the pathway, it seemed a miracle. Far away, by the front gates, the traffic moving in sudden vivid flashes behind him, Aaron Lightner stood with Rita Mae Lonigan, who had cried herself out and looked merely bereft like those who have waited on hospital wards with the dying all through a long night.

Even the final note struck Rowan as a bit of picturesque madness. For as they drifted back out the main entrance, it became clear that a small party of them would now move into the elegant restaurant directly across the street!

Mr. Lightner whispered his farewell to her, promising that Michael would come. She wanted to press him, but the old woman was staring at him coldly, angrily, and he had seen this, obviously, and was eager to withdraw. Bewildered Rowan waved good-bye, the heat once again making her sick. Rita Mae Lonigan murmured a sad farewell to her. Hundreds said their goodbyes as they passed quickly; hundreds came to embrace the old woman; it seemed to go on forever, the heat bearing down and then lifting, the giant trees giving a dappled shade. “We’ll talk to you again, Rowan.” “Are you staying, Rowan?” “Goodbye, Aunt Carl. You took care of her.” “We’ll see you soon, Aunt Carl. You have to come out to Metairie.” “Aunt Carl, I’ll telephone you next week.” “Aunt Carl, are you all right?”

At last the street stood empty except for the steady stream of bright noisy indifferent traffic and a few well-dressed people wandering out of the obviously fancy restaurant and squinting in the sudden bright light.

“I don’t want to go in,” said the old woman. She gazed coldly at the blue and white awnings.

“Oh, come on, Aunt Carl, please, just for a little while,” said Beatrice Mayfair. Another slender young man, Gerald was his name, held the old woman’s arm. “Why don’t we go for a few minutes?” he said to Carlotta. “Then I’ll take you home.”

“I want to be alone now,” said the old woman. “I want to walk home alone.” Her eyes fixed on Rowan. Unearthly their ageless intelligence flashing out of the worn and sunken face. “Stay with them as long as you wish,” she said as if it were an order, “and then come to me. I’ll be waiting. At the First Street house.”

“When would you like for me to come?” Rowan asked carefully.

A cold, ironic smile touched the lips of the old woman, ageless like the eyes and the voice. “When you want to come. That will be soon enough. I have things to say to you. I’ll be there.”

“Go with her, Gerald.”

“I’m taking her, Aunt Bea.”

“You may drive along beside me, if you wish,” Carlotta said as she bowed her head and placed her cane before her, “but I am walking alone.”

Once the glass doors of the restaurant called Commander’s Palace had shut behind them, and Rowan had realized they were now in a faintly familiar world of uniformed waiters and white tablecloths, she glanced back through the glass at the whitewashed wall of the graveyard, and at the little peaked roofs of the tombs visible over the top of the wall.

The dead are so close they can hear us, she thought.

“Ah, but you see,” said the tall white-haired Ryan, as if he’d read her mind, “in New Orleans, we never really leave them out.”

Twenty-seven

AN ASHEN TWILIGHT was deepening over Oak Haven. The sky was scarcely visible anymore. The oaks had become black and dense, the shadows beneath them broadening to eat the last of the warm summer