said, but Miss Nancy had taken Deirdre to Gus Mayer to buy her a nice pretty dress for the city hall wedding. Deirdre was a beautiful girl now, beautiful as Antha and Stella had been. Beautiful they said as Miss Mary Beth.
Father Mattingly remembered only that frightened, white-faced child. Flowers crushed under foot.
The marriage was never to take place.
When Deirdre was in her fifth month, the father was killed on his way to New Orleans. Car crash on the river road. The tie rod had broken on his old ’52 Ford, the car had gone out of control and hit an oak, exploding instantly.
Then wandering through the crowds of the church bazaar on a hot July evening, Father Mattingly was to hear the strangest story of the Mayfairs yet, one that would haunt him in years to come as did the confession.
Lights were strung across the asphalt yard. Parishioners in shirtsleeves and cotton dresses strolled from one wooden booth to another, playing the games of chance. Win a chocolate cake on a nickel bet when the wheel spins. Win a teddy bear. The asphalt was soft in the heat. The beer flowed at the makeshift bar of boards set upon barrels. And it seemed that everywhere Father Mattingly turned he caught some whisper of the goings-on at the Mayfair house.
Gray-headed Red Lonigan, the senior member of the undertaker family, was listening to Dave Collins tell him that they had Deirdre locked up in her room. Father Lafferty sat there staring sullenly over his beer at Dave. Dave said he’d known the Mayfairs longer than anybody, even longer than Red.
Father Mattingly got a cold bottle of Jax from the bar and took his place on the bench at the end.
Dave Collins was now in his glory with two priests in the audience.
“I was born in 1901, Father!” he declared, though Father Mattingly did not even look up. “Same year as Stella Mayfair, and I remember when they kicked Stella out of the Ursuline Academy uptown and Miss Mary Beth sent her to school down here.”
“Too much gossip about that family,” Red said gloomily.
“Stella was a voodoo queen, all right,” Dave said. “Everybody knew it. But you can forget about the penny- ante charms and spells. They wasn’t for Stella. Stella had a purse of gold coins that was never empty.”
Red laughed sadly under his breath. “All she ever had in the end was bad luck.”
“Well, she crammed in a lot of living before Lionel shot her,” Dave said, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward on his right arm, his left hand locked to the beer bottle. “And no sooner was she dead and gone than that purse turned up right beside Antha’s bed and no matter where they hid it, it always came back again.”
“In a pig’s eye,” said Red.
“There was coins from all over the world in that purse-Italian coins and French coins and Spanish coins.”
“And how would you know?” Red asked.
“Father Lafferty’s seen it, ain’t you, Father? You’ve seen them coins. Miss Mary Beth used to throw them in the collection basket every Sunday, you know she done it. And you knew what she always said. ‘Spend them fast, Father, get them out of your hands before sundown, because they always come back.’ ”
“What are you talking about!” Red scoffed.
Father Lafferty said nothing. His small black eyes moved from Dave to Red. Then he glanced at Father Mattingly, who sat opposite him.
“What do you mean, they came back?” Father Mattingly asked.
“Back to her purse is what she meant!” Dave said arching his eyebrows. He took a long pull off his bottle. Nothing but foam left. “She could give them away forever, and they always came back.” He laughed hoarsely. There was the sound of phlegm in his voice. “She said the same thing to my mother fifty years ago when she paid her for doing the washing, that’s right, the washing-my mother did the washing in a lot of them big houses, and she was never ashamed of it neither, and Miss Mary Beth always paid her in them coins.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Red said.
“And I’ll tell you something else too,” Dave said, leaning forward on his elbow, his eyes narrow as he peered at Red Lonigan. “The house, the jewels, the purse, it’s all connected. Same with the name Mayfair and the way they always keep it, no matter who they marry. Always Mayfair in the end. And you want to know the reason? They’re witches, those women! Every one.”
Red shook his head. He pushed his full beer bottle towards Dave and watched as Dave wrapped his fingers around it.
“It’s the God’s truth, I’m telling you. It come down to them through the generations, the power of witchcraft, and back in them days there was plenty talk of it. Miss Mary Beth, she was more powerful than Stella.” He took a big swallow of Red’s beer. “And smart enough to keep her mouth shut which Stella was not.”
“Then how did you hear about it?” Red asked.
Dave took out his little white sack of Bull Durham tobacco and pressed it flat between fingers and thumb.
“You wouldn’t have a ready-made, would you, Father?” he asked Father Mattingly.
Red sneered. Father Mattingly gave Dave his pack of Pall Malls.
“Thank you, Father. And now to your question, Red, which I wasn’t avoiding. I know because my mother told me the things that Miss Mary Beth told her, back in 1921 when Miss Carlotta had graduated from Loyola and everybody was singing her praises, such a smart woman, being a lawyer and all that. ‘She’s not the chosen one,’ Miss Mary Beth said to my mother, ‘It’s Stella. Stella’s got the gift and she’ll get everything when I die.’ ‘And what’s the gift, Miss Mary Beth?’ my mother asked her. ‘Why, Stella’s seen
Father Mattingly felt a chill run down his back. It had now been eleven years since he had heard that child’s unfinished confession, but he had never forgotten a word of it.
But Father Lafferty was glowering at Dave.
“Seen the man?” Father Lafferty asked coldly. “Now what in heaven’s name could such gibberish mean?”
“Well now, Father I should think a good Irishman like yourself would know the answer to that one. Ain’t it a fact that witches call the devil the man? Ain’t it fact they call him that when he comes in the middle of the night to tempt them to unspeakable evil!” He gave another of his deep cracking unhealthy laughs, and pulled a filthy snotrag from his pocket to wipe his nose. “Witches, and you know it, Father. That’s what they were and that’s what they are. It’s a legacy of witchcraft. And old Mr. Julien Mayfair, you remember him? I remember him. He knew all about it, that’s what my mother told me. You know it’s the truth, Father.”
“It’s a legacy all right,” Father Lafferty said angrily. He rose to his feet. “It’s a legacy of ignorance and jealousy and mental sickness! Ever hear of those things, Dave Collins? Ever heard of hatred between sisters, and envy, and ruthless ambition!” He turned and walked off through the milling crowd without waiting for the answer.
Father Mattingly felt stunned by Father Lafferty’s anger. He wished that Father Lafferty had merely laughed, as Dave Collins was doing.
Dave Collins swallowed the last of Red’s beer. “Couldn’t spare two bits, now, could you, Red?” he asked, his eyes darting from him to Father Mattingly.
Red sat listless staring at the empty beer bottle. Like a man in a dream he fished a crumpled dollar out of his pants pocket.
On the edge of sleep that night Father Mattingly remembered the books he’d read in the seminary. The tall man, the dark man, the comely man, the incubus who comes by night … the giant man who leads the Sabbat! He remembered dim pictures in a book, finely drawn, gruesome. Witches, he said the word as he passed into sleep.
He awoke some time before dawn, hearing Father Lafferty’s angry voice.
