protective and full of shame that she would encourage her niece in that sort of thing. And without preamble, or any sort of forethought, Gifford said:
“The man came through on Christmas Day. That thing, that spirit—I’m not going to say its name, you know its name—it got into the world and it did something to Rowan. That’s what happened. The man’s no longer at First Street. All of us know it. All of us who ever saw him know he’s not there. The house is empty. The thing got into the world. It—” Her speech, rapid, high-pitched, faintly hysterical, broke off as abruptly as it had begun. She thought: Lasher. But she could not say it. Years and years ago Aunt Carlotta had shaken her and said, “Never, never, never say that name, do you hear me?”
And even now, in this quiet safe place, she could not speak the name. Something stopped her, rather like a hand on her throat. Maybe it had to do with the peculiar blend of cruelty and protectiveness which Carlotta had always shown for her. The Talamasca history had said that Antha was pushed through the attic window, that the eye was torn from her head. Dear God! Carlotta couldn’t have done such a thing.
She wasn’t surprised that her husband hesitated before responding to her. In the silence she was full of surprise herself. It all loomed before her, and she also knew in these moments the terrible loneliness of her marriage.
“You really believe that, Gifford. In your heart of hearts, you, my beloved Gifford, believe that.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She felt too defeated. They had been arguing all of their lives, it seemed. Would it storm, would it shine? Would a stranger rape Mona on St. Charles Avenue as she walked alone at night? Would income taxes go up again? Would Castro be overthrown? Were there ghosts? Were the Mayfairs witches? Could anyone really speak with the dead? Why did the dead behave so strangely? What the hell did the dead want? Butter is not unhealthy, and neither is red meat. Drink your milk. One cannot metabolize milk as an adult, and so forth and so on, forever.
“Yes, Ryan,” she said sadly and almost offhandedly. “I believe it. But you see, Ryan, seeing is believing. And I always saw him. You never could.”
She had used the wrong word. Could. Real mistake, that. She could hear the little soft sighs with which he drew away from her, away from the possibility of belief or trust, into his well-constructed universe where ghosts did not exist, and Mayfair witchcraft was a family joke, as much fun as all the old houses, and quaint trust funds, and jewelry and gold coins in the vaults. As much fun as Clancy Mayfair marrying Pierce Mayfair, which really, really, really shouldn’t happen, since both were—like Alicia and Patrick—descended from Julien, but what was the use of telling him? What was the use? There was no reason, there was no exchange of ideas, there was no genuine trust.
But there’s love, she thought. There is love and there is a form of respect. She didn’t depend on anyone in the world the way she did on Ryan. So she said what she always said at such times:
“I love you, my darling,” and it was wonderful to say an Ingrid Bergman line like that with so much heart and mean it so completely. “I really do.” Lucky Gifford.
“Gifford…” Silence on the other end of the line. A lawyer thinking quietly, the man with the silver-white hair and blue eyes, who did the practical worrying with her for the whole family. Why should he believe in ghosts? Ghosts don’t try to break wills, they don’t sue you, they don’t threaten you with Internal Revenue investigations, they don’t bill you for the two-martini lunch.
“What is it, darling?” she asked softly.
“If you believe that,” he said. “If you really believe what you just said to me…if this ghost got through…and the house is empty…then why wouldn’t you go there, Gifford? Why wouldn’t you come today?”
“The thing took Rowan away,” she said angrily. “This isn’t finished, Ryan!” Suddenly she was sitting up. Every bit of goodwill she felt for her husband had done its usual evaporation act. He was the same tiresome and impossible man who had wrecked her life. That was true. It was true that she loved him. It was true that the ghost had come through. “Ryan, don’t you feel things in that house? Don’t