The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,444

the porch.”

At the far end of the wing, they could see a dull light burning. “That’s the stairway that leads down to the kitchen. And that old bathroom back there was Eugenia’s. In the old days southern people had the black servants use a different bathroom. You’ve heard enough about all that, I imagine.”

They turned back into the larger room. Rowan moved carefully across the faded rug, and Michael followed her to the window and gently pushed back the soft frail curtain, so that they could look down on the brick sidewalks of Chestnut Street, and the artful façade of the grand house across the way.

“See, open to the river side,” said Michael, looking at the other building. “And look at the oak trees on that property and the old carriage house is still standing. See the stucco peeling from the bricks. It, too, was made to look like stone.”

“From every window you see the oaks,” Rowan said, speaking low as if not to disturb the dust. “And the sky, such a deep blue. Even the light is different here. It’s like the soft light of Florence or Venice.”

“That it is,” Michael said.

Again, he found himself staring apprehensively at the belongings of this woman. Maybe Rowan’s uneasiness had communicated itself to him. He imagined, compulsively and painfully, having to take off his glove and lay his naked hand upon things that had been hers.

“What is it, Michael?”

“Let’s go,” he said under his breath, clasping her hand again and moving back into the main hall.

Only reluctantly did she follow Michael into Deirdre’s old room. Here her confusion and revulsion seemed to deepen. Yet he knew she was compelled to make this journey. He saw the way her eyes moved hungrily over the framed photographs, and the little Victorian cane-seated chairs. Michael hugged her close as she stared down at the vicious stain on the mattress.

“That’s awful. I’ve got to call someone,” he said, “to clean that up.”

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“No, I will. You asked downstairs if I could take over, hire the people I needed to restore the whole place. Well, I can take care of that too.”

He looked at the stain, a great oval of brown, the center of it sticky. Had the woman hemorrhaged when she was dying? Or had she lain there with her waste seeping out in the heat of this awful old room?

“I don’t know,” Rowan whispered, though he hadn’t voiced the question. She gave a ragged sigh. “I’ve already asked for the records. Ryan’s requesting everything through legal channels. I talked to him today. I called the doctor. I talked to the nurse, too, Viola. Sweet old woman. She told it like Dickens. All the doctor said was that there was no reason to take her to the hospital. The whole thing was crazy. He didn’t like my asking him questions. He suggested that I was wrong to ask him. He said it was the humane thing to let her die.”

He held her more tightly, grazing her cheek with his lips.

“What are those candles?” she asked, staring at the little bedside altar. “And that awful statue. What’s that?”

“The Blessed Mother,” he said. “When there’s a naked heart on it like that I guess you call it the Immaculate Heart of Mary. I don’t really remember. The candles are blessed candles. I saw them flickering up here, when I was outside that first night. I never dreamed she was dying. If I’d known I … I don’t know. I didn’t even know who lived here when I first came.”

“But why did they burn these blessed candles?”

“It’s to comfort the dying. The priest comes. He gives her what they call the Last Sacraments. I went with the priest a couple of times when I was an altar boy.”

“They did that for her, but they didn’t take her to the hospital.”

“Rowan, if you had known, if you had come, do you think she could have been brought around? I don’t think so, honey. I don’t think it matters now.”

“Ryan says no. She was hopeless. He says that once about ten years ago, Carlotta took her off the drugs. There was no response to any stimulus except reflex. Ryan says they did everything they could, but then Ryan is covering Ryan, isn’t he? But I’ll know when I see the records, and then I’ll feel better … or worse.”

She moved away from the bed, her eyes drifting more sluggishly over the room. She seemed to be forcing herself