Taltos

perfume in the air-ah, it was the sweet olive trees!

“Honey, let’s eat now,” said Mary Jane.

“Very well, very well!” Mona sighed, threw up her arms and said farewell to the night, and then went inside.

She drifted into the kitchen, as if in a delicious trance, and sat down at the lavish table that Mary Jane had set for them. She’d taken out the Royal Antoinette china, the most delicate pattern of all, with fluted and gilded edges to the plates and saucers. Clever girl, such a wonderful clever girl. How unboring of her to have found the very best china by instinct. This cousin opened up a whole vista of possibilities, but how adventuresome was she, really? And how naive of Ryan to have dropped her off here, and left the two of them alone!

“I never saw china like that,” Mary Jane was saying, bubbling away. “It’s just like it’s made of stiff starch cloth. How do they do it?” Mary Jane had just come back with a carton of milk and a box of powdered chocolate.

“Don’t put that poison in the milk, please,” said Mona, as she snatched the carton, tore it open, and filled her glass.

“I mean, how can they make china that’s not flat, I don’t get it, unless the china’s soft like dough before they bake it, but even then-”

“Haven’t the faintest idea,” said Mona, “but I have always adored this pattern. Doesn’t look good in the dining room. It’s overshadowed by the murals. But looks absolutely splendid on this kitchen table, and how smart of you to have found the Battenburg lace table mats. I’m starving again, and we just had lunch. This is glorious, let’s pig out now.”

“We didn’t just have lunch, and you didn’t eat a thing,” said Mary Jane. “I was scared to death you might mind me touching these things, but then I thought, ‘If Mona Mayfair minds, I’ll just slap-bang put them all away, like I found them.’ ”

“My darling, the house is ours for now,” said Mona triumphantly.

God, the milk was good. She’d splashed it on the table, but it was so good, so good, so good.

Drink more of it.

“I am, I’m drinking it,” she said.

“You’re telling me,” said Mary Jane, sitting down beside her. All the serving bowls were full of delectable and scrumptious things.

Mona heaped the steaming rice on her plate. Forget the gravy. This was wonderful. She began to eat it, not waiting for Mary Jane to serve herself, who was too busy dropping spoon after spoon of dirty chocolate powder into her own milk.

“Hope you don’t mind. I just love chocolate. I can’t live for too long without chocolate. There was a time when I made chocolate sandwiches, you know???? You know how to do that? You slap a couple Hershey bars between white bread, and you put sliced bananas and sugar too, and I’m telling you, that’s delicious.”

“Oh, I understand, might feel the same way if I wasn’t pregnant. I once devoured an entire box of chocolate-covered cherries.” Mona ate one big forkful of the rice after another. No chocolate could equal this. The chocolate-covered cherries had faded to an idea. And now the funniest thing. The white bread. It looked good too. “You know, I think I need complex carbohydrates,” she said. “That’s what my baby is telling me.”

Laughing, or was it singing?

No problem; this was all so simple, so natural; she felt in harmony with the whole world, and it wouldn’t be difficult to bring Michael and Rowan in harmony also. She sat back. A vision had taken hold of her, a vision of the sky speckled with all the visible stars. The sky was arched overhead, black and pure and cold, and people were singing, and the stars were magnificent, simply magnificent.

“What’s that song you’re humming?” asked Mary Jane.

“Shhh, hear that?”

Ryan had just come in. She could hear his voice in the dining room. He was talking to Eugenia. How marvelous to see Ryan. But he sure as hell wasn’t taking Mary Jane out of here.

As soon as he stepped in the kitchen, Mona felt so sorry for him with his tired expression. He was still wearing his somber funeral suit. Ought to wear seersucker, the way the other men did this time of year. She loved the men in their seersucker suits in summer, and she loved the old ones who still wore the straw hats.

“Ryan, come join us,” she said, chewing another huge mouthful of rice. “Mary Jane’s cooked a feast.”

“Just you sit right down here,” said Mary Jane, hopping to her feet, “and I’ll serve your plate, Cousin Ryan.”

“No, I can’t, dear,” he said, being punctiliously polite to Mary Jane, because she was the country cousin. “I’m rushing. But thank you.”

“Ryan is always rushing,” said Mona. “Ryan, before you go, take a little walk outside, it’s simply beautiful. Look at the sky, listen to the birds. And if you haven’t smelled the sweet olives, it’s time to do it now!”

“Mona, you’re stuffing yourself with that rice. Is this going to be that kind of pregnancy?”

She tried not to go into spasms of laughter.

“Ryan, sit down, have a glass of wine,” she said. “Where’s Eugenia? Eugenia! Don’t we have some wine?”

“I don’t care for any wine, Mona, thank you.” He made a dismissing gesture to Eugenia, who appeared for one moment in the lighted door, gnarled, angry, disapproving, and then slipped away.

Ryan looked so handsome in spite of his obvious crossness-a man who’d been polished all over with a big rag. She started to laugh again. Time for a gulp of milk, no, drink the whole glass. Rice and milk. No wonder people from Texas ate these two things together.

“Cousin Ryan, won’t take a second-” said Mary Jane. “Just you let me fill you a plate.”

“No, Mary Jane, thank you. Mona, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Right now, during dinner? Oh, well, shoot. How bad can it be?” Mona poured some more milk from the carton, slopping a bit on the glass table. “After everything that’s already happened? You know, the problem with this family is entrenched conservatism. I wonder if that is redundant. What do you think?”

“Miss Piggy,” said Ryan dourly, “I am talking to you.”

Mona went into hysterics. So did Mary Jane.

“I think I got a job as a cook,” said Mary Jane, “and all I did to that rice was throw in some butter and garlic.”

“It’s the butter!” declared Mona, pointing at Mary Jane. “Where’s the butter? That’s the secret, slop butter on everything.” She picked up a slice of ordinarily pukey white bread, and carved out a glomp of oozy warm butter slowly melting on the saucer.

Ryan was looking at his watch, the infallible signal that he would remain in this spot no more than four more minutes. And God bless us all, he had not said one word about taking Mary Jane away.

“What is it, big boy?” asked Mona. “Hit me with it. I can take it.”

“I don’t know if you can,” he said in a low voice.

That sent her into another reel of laughter. Or maybe it was the blank expression on Ryan’s face. Mary Jane couldn’t stop giggling. She stood beside Ryan, with her hand over her mouth.

“Mona, I’m off,” he said, “but there are several boxes of papers up in the master bedroom. These are things that Rowan wanted, writings that came out of her last room in Houston.” He gave a pointed look to Mary Jane, as if to say, She is not to know about all that.

“Oh yeah, writings,” said Mona. “I heard you talking about it last night. You know, I heard a funny story, Ryan, that when Daphne du Maurier, you know who she was?”

“Yes, Mona.”

“Well, when she was writing Rebecca, it began as an experiment to see how long she could go on without naming her first-person narrator. Michael told me this. It’s true. And you know by the end of the book the experiment didn’t matter. But you never do know the name of Maxim de Winter’s second wife in that novel, or in the movie. Did you see the movie?”

“What’s the point?”

“Well, you’re like that yourself, Ryan, you’re going to go to the grave without ever saying Lasher’s name.” Again, she broke into laughter.

Mary Jane laughed and laughed as though she knew everything.