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"Michael Curry, in New Orleans, I have to reach him there. He'll pay you. He'll pay you plenty. I will pay you. Call him. Look--We'll stop at a phone, later, when we're out of town, but look--"
And now from her purse she brought out the money, lots and lots of money, and the man stared at Mother with his round human eyes, very amazed but wanting to make her not sick, wanting to help her, wanting to do as she said, thinking she was soft and young and pretty.
"Are we headed south?" Mother asked, sick again, almost unable to speak. The pain wrapped around her, and wrapped around Emaleth too. OOOOOh...this was the worst Emaleth had ever felt. She kicked at the world. But she did not mean to kick at Mother.
Father's voice had long ago died out in the rumble of cars, in the glare of lights. The world was huge all around them.
"We are going south now, lady," he said. "We're going south, now, all right, but I wish you'd let me take you to a hospital."
Mother closed her eyes. The light went out of her mind. Her head fell to the side. She slept; she dreamed. The money lay on her lap, on the floor of the truck, all over the pedals. The man reached down and picked up one bill at a time, trying not to take his eyes off the cars that zoomed along the road in front of him. Cars, road, signs, freeway; New Orleans, south.
"Michael," Mother said. "Michael Curry. New Orleans. But you know, you know when I think about it, I think the phone is listed under Mayfair. Mayfair and Mayfair. Call Mayfair and Mayfair."
Sixteen
THEY FIGURED THAT Alicia CeeCee Mayfair had miscarried at about four p.m. She'd been dead for over three hours when Mona came to see her. They had checked on her, of course. They had shone the light on her, and the nurse said that she hadn't wanted to wake her up. And Anne Marie had been in and out, both before and after the time of death.
Nobody had seen anyone else go to that room. It was strictly private.
Leslie Ann Mayfair was making calls to all the women in the family. Ryan was making calls from downtown. His secretary, Carla, was making calls.
Mona, when she finally got free of their hugs and kisses, bolted the door of her room against them. Then she tore off the white dress and the ribbon in a fury.
Of course she couldn't call Michael and tell him, ask him to come. The phone was all tied up, naturally.
In her slip and bra, she pyrooted through the closet for better clothes. There were none. She unlocked the door, and crossed the hall to Mom's room. No one even noticed her. All the conversation came up the stairwell like a roar. Car doors were slamming outside. Ancient Evelyn was crying somewhere loudly and terribly.
CeeCee's closet. CeeCee had been only five foot one, and Mona was almost that now. She pyrooted through the dresses and coats and suits until she found a little skirt, too short, Mom had said, Well, that's just fine, and then one of those frilly blouses CeeCee wore between about nine and eleven each morning before drinking lunch and putting on her nightgown to watch the afternoon soaps in the living room.
Well, CeeCee wasn't going to do that anymore, was she? Mona's head was spinning. These clothes smelled like Mother. She thought of that smell in the hospital. No, it wasn't here, nowhere here. Or she would have caught it.
She looked in the mirror. She looked like a little woman now, well, sort of. She picked up CeeCee's brush and caught up her hair in back, the way CeeCee used to do, and put a barrette in it.
And just for an instant, no more than that, like the blink of an eye, she thought she saw Mother. She groaned. She wanted so badly for it to be true. But there was no one in the mirror but Mona, with her hair clipped back, looking very grown-up. There was CeeCee's lipstick, the soft pink kind, 'cause she wasn't sober enough anymore to do anything fancy with bright red unless she wanted to look like a clown, she said.
Mona put it on.
OK, now back across the hall, slam the door, and boot the computer.
The WordStar Directory came up, big and bright and green and full of the classic menu. Mona punched R for Run a Program and commanded the program to make subdirectory WSMONAHELP.
At once she changed to that new directory and hit D to make a file named Help, and then she was in it.
"This is Mona Mayfair, writing on March 3rd. And this is for those who come after me and may never understand what happened. Something is preying upon the women in our family. They are being warned, but they think it is a disease. It is not, it is something worse, something that will deceive everyone.
"I am going to help warn the women."
She hit the KD for save. And the file vanished into the machine, silently. She was left in the dark room before the computer as before the glow of a fire, and the noise from the Avenue slowly overcame the stolid silence. A traffic jam outside. Someone knocking on her door.
She went to the door and slid back the bolt. Paint flaked off, settling on her fingers. She opened the door.
"I was looking for Mona. Oh, Mona! I didn't recognize you." It was Aunt Bea. "Good God, child, you found your mother?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," said Mona. "But you have to call everyone."
"We're doing that, darling, come down with me. Let me hold you."
"No one can be alone, not even the way I was just alone, no one."
Mona walked past her, down the hall to the head of the stairs. "No one can be alone!" Mona cried.
Mayfairs packed the long lower hall, cigarette smoke rose in layers below the light. Crying, sobbing, the smell of coffee.
"Mona, honey, are there any cookies I can put out?"
"Mona, did you find her?"
"It's Mona, Mona, honey!"
"Well, they were almost like twins, CeeCee and Gifford."
"No, I tell you, it wasn't like that."
"It's not an illness," Mona said.
Bea was puzzled and sad, holding Mona's shoulder.
"Well, I know, that's what Aaron said. They are even calling the women in New York and California."
"Yes, everywhere."
"Oh, God," said Bea. "Carlotta was right. We should have burnt that house. We should have. It came out of that house, didn't it?"
"It ain't over yet, Beatrice dear," said Mona. She went down the stairs.
When she got into the lower bathroom alone, and once again locked a door against the world, she began to cry.
"Goddamnit, Mom, goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit."
But this didn't last long. There wasn't time. There had been another death. She could hear it--the pitch of the voices rising, a door slamming. Someone actually gave
a little scream. Had to be another death.
Ryan had come and was calling Mona's name. She could hear their muffled voices through the heavy cypress door. Lindsay Mayfair had been found dead in Houston, Texas, at noon today. The family had only just contacted them.
Mona came out into the hallway. Someone put a glass of water in her hand, and for a moment she merely stared at it, not even knowing what it could be. Then she drank it.
"Thank you," she said.
Pierce was there, red-eyed and staring at her.
"You heard about Lindsay."
"Listen to me," she said. "It's not a disease. It's just a person. A person who killed them all. This is what they must do. In every city they must all gather in one house, and keep company and stay together. No one must leave that house. And this will not last long, because we will stop it. We are very strong, all of us..."
She stopped; the relatives had fallen silent around her. The silence was spreading through the hall.
"It's just a lone thing," she said quietly.
Only Aunt Evelyn still cried, softly, and far away. "My darlings, my darlings, my darlings..."
And then Bea began to cry. And so did Mona. And Pierce said, "Get a hold of yourself. I need you."
And the others went on crying but Mona quietly stopped.
Seventeen
JULIEN'S STORY CONTINUES
THE DAYS AFTER Mary Beth's birth were the darkest of my life. If I ever possessed a moral vision it was in those moments. The cause of it precisely I am not certain, and as it isn't the subject of the narrative I shall try to pass over it quickly.
Let me just say that as a precocious child I had become accustomed to murder, to witchcraft, to evil in general before I had time to evaluate it. The war, the loss of my sister, her subsequent rape--all these had further illuminated for me what I'd already come to suspect, that I required something deep and of value to make me happy. Wealth wasn't enough; the flesh wasn't enough. If my family could not prosper I could not draw breath! And I wanted to draw breath. I was no more ready to let go of life--of health, of pleasure, of prosperity--than a newborn baby screaming as loudly as Mary Beth had screamed.
Also I wanted to know and love my daughter. Above all else I wanted this, and I knew for the first time why so many legends and so many fairy tales have at their core the simple treasure--a child, an heir, a little infant in one's arm, made up of oneself and another.
