asking her about Deirdre’s daughter?
Rita wiped her eyes.
She had almost broken down right then and there, and imagine, people would have thought she was crying for old Miss Nancy. That was a laugh. She had turned around, trying to hide her face and then she’d seen that Englishman, that gentleman, staring at her. He had a real strange expression on his face, like he was worried about her crying, and then she did cry and she made a little wave to him to say, It’s all right. But he came over to her anyway.
He gave her his arm, the way he had before, and helped her to walk just a little ways away and there was one of those benches so she sat down on it. When she looked up, she could have sworn Miss Carl was staring at her and at the Englishman, but Miss Carl was real far away, and the sun was shining on her glasses. Probably couldn’t see them at all.
Then the Englishman had given her a little white card and said he would like to talk to her. Whatever about, she had thought, but she took the card and put it in her pocket.
It was late that night when she found it again. She had been looking for the prayer card from the funeral. And there it was, that little card from the man and there were the same names after all these years-Talamasca and Aaron Lightner.
For a minute Rita Mae thought she was going to faint dead away. Maybe she’d made a big mistake. She hunted through her prayer book for the old card or what was left of it. Sure enough, they were the same, and on this new one, the Englishman had written in ink the name of the Monteleone Hotel downtown and his room number.
Rita found Jerry sitting up late, drinking, at the kitchen table.
“Rita Mae, you can’t go talking to that man. You can’t tell him anything about that family.”
“But Jerry, I have to tell him what happened before, I have to tell him that Deirdre tried to get in touch with him.”
“That was years and years ago, Rita Mae. That baby is grown up. She’s a doctor, did you know that? She’s going to be a surgeon, that’s what I heard.”
“I don’t care, Jerry.” Then Rita Mae had broken down, but even through her tears, she was doing a strange thing. She was staring at that card and memorizing everything on it. She memorized the room number of the hotel. She memorized the phone number in London.
And just as she figured, Jerry suddenly took the card and slipped it in his shirt pocket. She didn’t say a word. She just kept crying. Jerry was the sweetest man in the world, but he never would understand.
He said, “You did a nice thing, going to the funeral, honey.”
Rita said no more about the man. She wasn’t going to go against Jerry. Well, at least at this moment her mind was not made up yet.
“But what does that girl out there in California know about her mother?” Rita said. “I mean, does she know Deirdre never wanted to give her up?”
“You have to leave it alone, honey.”
There had never been a moment in Rita’s life quite like that one years ago in the nuns’ garden-hearing Deirdre with that man, hearing two people talk of love like that. Twilight. Rita had told Jerry about it all right, but nobody understood. You had to be there, smelling the lilies and seeing the sky like blue stained glass through the tree branches.
And to think of that girl out there, maybe never knowing what her real mother was like …
Jerry shook his head. He filled his glass with bourbon and drank about half of it.
“Honey, if you knew what I knew about those people.”
Jerry was drinking too much bourbon all right. Rita saw that. Jerry was no gossip. A good mortician couldn’t be a gossip. But he started to talk now and Rita let him.
“Honey,” he said, “Deirdre never had a chance in that family. You might say she was cursed when she was born. That’s what Daddy said.”
Jerry had been just a grade-school kid when Deirdre’s mother, Antha, died, in a fall from the porch roof outside the attic window of that house. Her skull had broken open on the patio. Deirdre was a baby then and so was Rita Mae, of course. But Jerry was already working with his daddy.
“I tell you we scraped her brains up off the flagstones. It was terrible. She was only twenty years old, and pretty! She was prettier even than Deirdre got to be. And you should have seen the trees in that yard. Honey, it was like a hurricane was happening just over that house, the way those trees were blowing. Even those stiff magnolia trees were bending and twisting.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them like that,” Rita said, but she was quiet so he would go on talking.
“The worst part was when we got back here and Daddy had a good look at Antha. He said right away, ‘See these scratches around her eyes. Now that never happened in the fall. There were no trees under that window.’ And then Daddy found out one of the eyes was torn right out of the socket. Now Daddy knew what to do in those situations.
“He got right on the phone to Dr. Fitzroy. He said he thought there ought to be an autopsy. And he stood his ground when Dr. Fitzroy argued with him. Finally Dr. Fitzroy came clean that Antha Mayfair had gone out of her mind and tried to scratch her own eyes out. Miss Carl tried to stop her and that’s when Antha had run up to the attic. She fell, all right, but she was clean out of her head when it happened. And Miss Carl had seen the whole thing. And there was no reason in the world for people to be talking about it, for it to get into the newspapers. Hadn’t that family had enough pain, what with Stella? Dr. Fitzroy said for Daddy to call over to the priest house at St. Alphonsus and talk to the pastor if he still wasn’t sure about it.
“ ‘Sure doesn’t look self-inflicted to me,’ Daddy said, ‘but if you’re willing to sign the death certificate on this one, well, I guess I’ve done what I can.’ And there never was any autopsy. But Daddy knew what he was talking about.
“ ’Course he made me swear I’d never tell a living soul about it. I was real close to Daddy then, already a big help to him. He knew he could trust me. And I’m trusting you now, Rita Mae.”
“Oh, what an awful thing,” Rita whispered, “to scratch her own eyes out.” She prayed Deirdre had never known.
“Well, you haven’t heard all of it,” Jerry said, taking another drink of his bourbon. “When we went to cleaning her up, we found the emerald necklace on her-the same one Deirdre wears now-the famous Mayfair emerald. The chain was twisted around her neck, and the thing was caught in her hair in back. It was covered with blood and God knows what else was on it. Well, even Daddy was shocked, with all he’d seen in this world, picking the hair and the splinters of bone out of that thing. He said, ‘And this is not the first time I’ve had to clean the blood off this necklace.’ The time before that, he’d found it around the neck of Stella Mayfair, Antha’s mother.”
Rita remembered the long-ago day at St. Ro’s, the necklace in Deirdre’s hand. And many years later, Mr. Lonigan showing her Stella’s name on the gravestone.
“And Stella was the one shot by her own brother.”
“Yes, and that was a terrible thing, to hear Daddy tell it. Stella was the wild one of that generation. Even before her mother died, she filled that old house with lights, with parties going on night after night, with the bootleg booze flowing and the musicians playing. Lord only knows what Miss Carl and Miss Millie and Miss Belle thought of all that. But when she started bringing her men home, that’s when Lionel took matters into his own hands and shot her. Jealous of her is what he was. Right in front of everybody in the parlor, he said, ‘I’ll kill you before I let
“Now what are you telling me,” Rita said. “It was brother and sister going to bed together?”
“Could have been, honey,” Jerry said. “Could have been. Nobody ever knew the name of Antha’s father. Could have been Lionel for all anybody knew. They even said … But Stella didn’t care what anybody thought. They said when she was carrying Antha, she invited all her lady friends to come up there for a big party. Never bothered Stella that she had that baby out of wedlock.”
