even when I’m all alone, or even at Mass with everybody there, I know he’s right beside me. I can feel him. I can hear him crying and it makes me cry, too.”
“Child, now think carefully before you answer. Did your Aunt Carl actually
“Oh, yes, Father.” So weary! Didn’t he believe her? That’s what she was begging him to do.
“I’m trying to understand, darling. I want so to understand, but you must help me. Are you certain that your Aunt Carl said she saw him with her own eyes?”
“Father, she saw him when I was a baby and didn’t even know I could make him come. She saw him the day my mother died. He was rocking my cradle. And when my grandmother Stella was a little girl, he’d come behind her to the supper table. Father, I’ll tell you a terrible secret thing. There’s a picture in our house of my mother, and he’s in the picture, standing beside her. I know about the picture because he got it and gave it to me, though they had it hidden away. He opened the dresser drawer without even touching it, and then he put the picture in my hand. He does things like that when he’s really strong, when I’ve been with him a long time and been thinking about him all day. That’s when everybody knows he’s in the house, and Aunt Nancy meets Aunt Carl at the door and whispers, ‘The man is here. I just saw him.’ And then Aunt Carl gets so mad. It’s all my fault, Father! And I’m scared I can’t stop him. And they’re all so upset!”
Her sobs had gotten louder, echoing against the wooden walls of the little cell. Surely they could hear her outside in the church itself.
And what was he to say to her? His temper was boiling. What craziness went on with these women? Was there no one with a particle of sense in the whole family who could get a psychiatrist to help this girl?
“Darling, listen to me. I want your permission to speak of these things outside the confessional to your Aunt Carl. Will you give me that permission?”
“Oh, no Father, please, you mustn’t!”
“Child, I won’t, not without your permission. But I tell you, I need to speak to your Aunt Carl about these things. Deirdre, she and I can drive away this thing together.”
“Father, she’ll never forgive me for telling. Never. It’s a mortal sin to ever tell. Aunt Nancy would never forgive me. Even Aunt Millie would be angry. Father, you can’t tell her I told you about him!” She was becoming hysterical.
“I can wipe that mortal sin away, child,” he’d explained, “I can give you absolution. From that moment on, your soul is as white as snow, Deirdre. Trust in me, Deirdre. Give me permission to talk to her.”
For a tense moment the crying was his only answer. Then, even before he heard her turn the knob of the little wooden door, he knew he’d lost her. Within seconds, he heard her steps running fast down the aisle away from him.
He had said the wrong thing, made the wrong judgment! And now there was nothing he could do, bound as he was by the seal of the confessional. And this secret had come to him from a troubled child who was not even old enough to commit a mortal sin, or benefit from the sacrament she’d been seeking.
He never forgot that moment, sitting helpless, hearing those steps echoing in the vestibule of the church, the closeness and the heat of the confessional suffocating him.
But the torture had only begun for Father Mattingly.
For weeks after, he’d been truly obsessed-those women, that house …
But he could not act upon what he had heard any more than he could repeat it. The confessional bound him to secrecy in deed and word.
He did not dare even question Sister Bridget Marie, though she volunteered enough information when he happened to see her on the playground. He felt guilty for listening, but he could not bring himself to move away.
“Sure, they’ve put Deirdre in the Sacred Heart, they have. But do you think she’ll stay there? They expelled her mother, Antha, when she was but eight years old. And from the Ursulines too she was expelled. They found a private school for her finally, one of those crazy places where they let the children stand on their heads. And what an unhappy thing she was as a young girl, always writing poetry and stories and talking to herself and asking questions about how her mother had died. And you know it was murder, don’t you, Father, that Stella Mayfair was shot dead by her brother Lionel? And at a fancy dress ball in that house, he did it. Caused a regular stampede. Mirrors, clocks, windows, everything broken by the time the panic was over, and Stella lying dead on the floor.”
Father Mattingly only shook his head at the pity of it.
“No wonder Antha went wild after, and not ten years later took up with a painter, no less, who never bothered to marry her, leaving her in a four-story walk-up in Greenwich Village in the middle of winter with no money and little Deirdre to take care of, so that she had to come home in shame. And then to jump from that attic window, poor thing, but what a hellish life it was with her aunts picking on her and watching her every move and locking her up at night, and her running down to the French Quarter and drinking, mind you, at her age, with the poets and the writers and trying to get them to pay attention to her work. I’ll tell you a strange secret, Father. For months after she died, letters came for her, and manuscripts of hers came back from the New York people to whom she’d sent them. And what an agony for Miss Carlotta, the postman bringing her a reminder of such pain and suffering when he rang the bell at the gate.”
Father Mattingly said his silent prayer for Deirdre. Let the shadow of evil not touch her.
“There was one of Antha’s stories in a magazine, they told me, published in Paris, they said, but it was all in English, and that come too to Miss Carlotta and she took one look at it and locked it away. ’Twas one of the Mayfair cousins told me that part of it, and how they offered to take the baby off her hands-little Deirdre-but she said no, she’d keep it, she owed that to Stella, and to Antha, and to her mother, and to the child itself.”
Father Mattingly stopped in the church on his way back to the rectory. He stood for a long time in the silent chamber of the sacristy looking through the door at the main altar.
For a sordid history he could forgive the Mayfairs easily enough. They were born ignorant into this world like the rest of us. But for warping a little girl with lies of the devil who drove a mother to suicide? But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, Father Mattingly could do but pray for Deirdre as he was praying now.
Deirdre was expelled from St. Margaret’s Private Academy near Christmastime and her aunts packed her off to a private school up north.
Some time after that he’d heard she was home again, sickly, studying with a governess, and once after that he did glimpse her at a crowded ten o’clock Mass. She had not come to Communion. But he had seen her seated in the pew with her aunts.
More and more of the Mayfair story came to him in bits and pieces. Seems everybody in the parish knew he’d been to that house. Over a kitchen table, Grandma Lucy O’Hara took his hand. “So I hear Deirdre Mayfair’s been sent away, and you’ve been to that house on her account, is that not so, Father?” What on earth could he say? And so he listened.
“Now I know that family. Mary Beth, she was the grande dame, she could tell you all about how it had been on the old plantation, born there right after the Civil War, didn’t come to New Orleans until the 1880s, though, when her uncle Julien brought her. And such an old southern gentleman he was. I can still remember Mr. Julien riding his horse up St. Charles Avenue; he was the handsomest old man I ever saw. And that was a real grand plantation house at Riverbend, they said, used to be pictures of it in the books even when it was all falling down. Mr. Julien and Miss Mary Beth did everything they could to save it. But you can’t stop the river when the river has a mind to take a house.
“Now, she was a real beauty, Mary Beth, dark and wild-looking, not delicate like Stella-or plain like Miss Carlotta-and they said Antha was a beauty though I never did get to see her, or that poor baby Deirdre. But Stella was a real true voodoo queen. Yes, I mean Stella, Father. Stella knew the powders, the potions, the ceremonies. She could read your fortune in the cards. She did it to my grandson, Sean, frightened him half out of his wits with the things she told him. That was at one of those wild parties up there on First Street when they were swilling the bootleg liquor and had a dance band right there in the parlor. That was Stella.
“She liked my Billy, she did.” Sudden gesture to the faded photograph on the bureau top. “The one who died in the War. I told him, ‘Billy, you listen to me. Don’t you go near the Mayfair women.’ She liked all the handsome young men. That’s how come her brother killed her. On a clear day she could make the sky above you cloud over.
