The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,477

him slightly from the content of what she said. She agreed the people here were incredibly friendly. They took their time about everything they did; but they were so completely without meanness it was almost hard to figure out. The accents of the family members baffled her. Beatrice and Ryan spoke with a touch of New York in their voices. Louisa had a completely different accent, and young Pierce didn’t sound like his father; and all of them sounded just a little bit like Michael sooner or later on some words.

“Don’t tell them that, honey,” he cautioned her. “I’m from the other side of Magazine Street and they know it. Don’t think they don’t.”

“They think you’re wonderful.” she said dismissing his comment. “Pierce says you’re an old-fashioned man.”

He laughed. “Well, hell,” Michael said, “maybe I am.”

They stayed up late, drinking beer and talking. The old suite was as large as an apartment with its den and its kitchen, as well as the living room and the bedroom. He wasn’t getting drunk at all these days, and he knew she was aware of it, but she didn’t say anything, which was just as well. They talked about the house and all the little things they meant to do.

Did she miss the hospital? Yes, she did. But that wasn’t important right now. She had a plan, a great plan for the future, which she would disclose soon enough.

“But you can’t give up medicine. You don’t mean that?”

“Of course I don’t,” she said patiently, dropping her voice a little for emphasis. “On the contrary. I’ve been thinking about medicine in an entirely different light.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s too soon to explain. I’m not sure myself. But the question of the legacy changes things, and the more I learn about the legacy the more things are going to change. I’m in a new internship with Mayfair and Mayfair. The subject is money.” She gestured to the papers on the table. “And it’s moving along pretty well.”

“You really want to do this?”

“Michael, everything we do in life, we do with certain expectations. I grew up with money. That meant I could go to medical school and proceed right through a long residency in neurosurgery. I didn’t have a husband or kids to worry about. I didn’t have anything to worry about. But now the sums of money have changed radically. With money like the Mayfair money, one could fund research projects, build whole laboratories. Conceivably one could set up a clinic, adjacent to a medical center, for work in one specialty of neurosurgery.” She shrugged. “You see what I mean.”

“Yeah, but if you become involved in that way, it will take you out of the Operating Room, won’t it? You’ll have to be an administrator.”

“Possibly,” she said, “The point is, the legacy presents a challenge. I have to use my imagination, as the cliché goes.”

He nodded. “I see what you’re saying,” he responded. “But are they going to give you trouble?”

“Ultimately, yes. But it’s not important. When I’m ready to make my moves, that won’t matter. And I’ll make the changes as smoothly and tactfully as I can.”

“What changes?”

“Again, it’s too early. I’m not ready yet to draw up a grand plan. But I’m thinking of a neurological center here in New Orleans, with the finest equipment obtainable and laboratories for independent research.”

“Good Lord, I never thought of anything like that.”

“Before now, I never had the remotest chance of inaugurating a research program and completely controlling it—you know, determining the goals, the standards, the budget.” She had a faraway look in her eye. “The important thing is to think in terms of the size of the legacy. And to think for myself.”

A vague uneasiness seized him. He didn’t know why. He felt a chill rise on the back of his neck as he heard her say:

“Wouldn’t that be the redemption, Michael? If the Mayfair legacy went into healing? Surely you see it. All the way from Suzanne and Jan van Abel, the surgeon, to a great and innovative medical center, devoted of course to the saving of lives.”

He sat there pondering and unable to answer.

She gave a little shrug and put her hands to her temples. “Oh, there’s so much to study,” she said, “so much to learn. But can’t you see the continuity?”

“Yeah, continuity,” he said under his breath.

Like the continuity he was so certain of when he woke in the hospital after he drowned—everything connected. They chose me because of who I was,