THE FILE ON THE MAYFAIR WITCHES 5 page

“Julien said so many strange things. Of course by the time I came along, Katherine was a burnt-out, crazy old woman. Just crazy, I tell you, the stubborn repetitious kind of crazy that gets on people’s nerves.

“She would sit on a bench in the back garden talking to her dead husband, Darcy. It disgusted Julien. So did her religion. And I think she had some influence on Carlotta, little as she was. Though I was never sure of it. Carlotta used to go to Mass at the Cathedral with Katherine.

“I recall once later on Carlotta had a terrible fight with Julien, but I never knew what it was about. Julien was such an ingratiating man; he was so easy to like. But that child couldn’t stand him. She couldn’t stand to be near him. And then they were shouting at each other behind closed doors in the library. They were shouting in French, and I couldn’t understand a word. Finally Julien came out and went upstairs. There were tears in his eyes. And there was a cut on his face, and he was holding his handkerchief to it. I think that little beast actually struck him. That’s the only time I ever saw him cry.

“And that awful Carlotta, she was such a cold mean little person. She just stood there watching him go upstairs, and then she said she was going out on the front steps to wait for her daddy to come home.

“Mary Beth was there, and she said, ‘Well you are going to be waiting a very long time, because your father is drunk right now at the club, and they won’t load him into a carriage till about ten o’clock. So you had better wear a coat when you go outside.’

“This wasn’t said in a mean way, really, just matter-of-fact, the way she said everything, but you should have seen the way that girl looked at her mother. I think she blamed her mother for her father’s drinking, and if she did what a little fool of a child she was. A man like Daniel McIntyre would have been a drunk if he had married the Virgin Mary or the Whore of Babylon. Didn’t matter a particle at all. He told me himself how his father had died of drink, and his father before him. And both of them at the age of forty-eight, no less. And he was afraid he’d die at forty-eight. I don’t know whether he made it past forty-eight or not. And you know his family had money. Plenty of money. You ask me, Mary Beth kept Judge McIntyre up and running a bit longer than anyone else might have been able to do.

“But Carlotta never understood. Never for a moment. I think Lionel understood, and Stella too. They loved both their parents, at least it always seemed that way to me. Maybe Lionel was a little embarrassed by the Judge from time to time, but he was a good boy, a devoted boy. And Stella, why, Stella adored her mother and father.

“Ah, that Julien. I can remember that last year, he did the damnedest thing. He took Lionel and Stella both with him down to the French Quarter to see the unseemly sights, so to speak, when they were no more than ten and eleven years old, I kid you not! And you know, I don’t think it was the first time either. I think it was just the first time that he couldn’t keep it from me, the mischief he was up to. And you know he had Stella dressed as a little sailor boy and did she ever look cute. And they had driven around all evening down there, with him pointing out the fancy clubs to them, though of course he didn’t take them in, not even Julien could have pulled that off, I suppose, but they’d been drinking, I can tell you.

“I was awake when they came home. Lionel was quiet, he was always quiet. But Stella was all fired up with everything she’d seen down there in those cribs, you know, with the women right on the street. And we sat on the steps together, Stella and I, talking about it in whispers long after Lionel had helped Julien up to the third floor and put him to bed.

“Stella and I went out and opened up a bottle of champagne in the kitchen. She said she was old enough to have a few drinks, and of course she didn’t listen to me, and who was I to stop her. And she and Lionel and I ended up dancing out on the back patio as the sun came up. Stella was doing some ragtime dance she’d seen down there. She said Julien was going to take them to Europe, and to see the whole world, but of course that never happened. I don’t think they really knew how old Julien was, any more than I did. When I saw the year 1828 written on that stone, I was shocked, I tell you. But then so much about Julien made sense to me. No wonder he had such a peculiar perspective. He had seen an entire century pass, he really had.

“Stella should have lived so long, really she should have. I remember she said something to me I never forgot. It was long after Julien died. We had lunch down here together at the Court of Two Sisters. She had already had Antha by then, and of course she hadn’t bothered to marry or even identify the father. Now, that’s a story, let me tell you. She just about turned society on its ear with that one. But what am I trying to say? We had lunch, and she told me she was going to live to be as old as Julien. She said Julien had looked into her palm and told her so. A long life, she would have.

“And think of it, shot dead like that by Lionel when she wasn’t even thirty years old. Good God! But you know it was Carlotta all along, don’t you?”

Llewellyn was by this time almost incoherent. I pressed on the matter of Carlotta and the shooting, but he would say no more about it. The whole subject began to frighten him. He returned to the subject of Julien’s “autobiography” and how much he wanted it. And what he wouldn’t give to get into that house some day and lay hands on those pages if they were still in that upstairs room. But then so long as Carlotta was there, he didn’t have a chance of it.

“You know there were storage rooms up there, right along the front of the house under the roof. You can’t see the roof slope from the street, but they’re there. Julien had trunks in there. I’ll bet that’s where she put the autobiography. She didn’t bother to burn it. Not Mary Beth. She just didn’t want it to fall into my hands. But then that beast Carlotta, who knows what she’s done with all those things?”

Not wanting to miss an opportunity, I pressed as to whether there was ever anything strange in the house, anything supernatural. (That is, other than Julien’s power to cause apparitions.) This was of course the kind of leading question that I try not to ask, but I had been with him for hours and he had volunteered nothing on this score other than his strange experiences with Julien. I was searching for something more.

His reaction to my question about a ghost was very strong. “Oh, that,” he said. “That was awful, just awful. I can’t tell anyone about that. Besides, it must have been my imagination.” He all but passed out.

I helped him back to his flat above the bookstore on Chartres Street. Over and over, he mentioned that Julien had left him the money for the building, and for the opening of a shop. Julien knew Llewellyn loved poetry and music and really despised his work as a clerk. Julien sought to set him free, and he had done it. But the one book he wished he had was Julien’s life story.

I was never able to obtain another interview of similar depth and length.

When I tried to talk to Llewellyn again a few days later, he was very polite but cautious. He apologized for having gotten so drunk and talked so much, though he said he had enjoyed it. And I could never persuade him to lunch with me again or to speak again at any length about Julien Mayfair.

Several times after that, I stopped in his shop. I asked him many questions about the family and its various members. But I could never regain his trust. Once I asked again if that house on First Street was haunted as people said. There were so many stories.

The very same expression came over him that I had seen the first night I spoke with him. He looked away, his eyes wide, and he shuddered. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might have been what you call a ghost. I don’t like to think about those things. I always thought it was my … guilt, you know, that I was imagining it.”

When I found myself pressing, perhaps a little too much, he said to me that the Mayfair family was a hard and strange family. “You don’t want to run afoul of those people. That Carlotta Mayfair, she’s a monster. A real monster.” He looked very uncomfortable.

I asked if she had ever given him trouble, to which he replied dismissively that she gave everyone trouble. He seemed distracted, troubled. Then he said a most curious thing, which I wrote down as soon as I returned to my hotel room. He said that he had never believed in life after death, but when he thought of Julien, he was convinced that Julien was still in existence somewhere.

“I know you think I’m out of mind to say something like that,” he said, “but I could swear it’s true. The night after we first met, I could swear I dreamed of Julien and Julien told me a lot of things. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember the dream clearly, but I felt that Julien didn’t want us to talk again. I don’t even like talking about it now except that … well, I feel I have to tell you.”

I said I believed him. He went on to say that Julien in the dream wasn’t the Julien he remembered. Something was definitely changed. “He seemed wiser, kinder, just the way you hope someone would be who has crossed over. And he didn’t look old. Yet he wasn’t exactly young either. I shall never forget that dream. It was … absolutely real. I could swear he was standing at the foot of my bed. And I do remember one thing he said. He said that certain things were destined but that they could be averted.”

“What sort of things?” I asked.

He shook his head. He would say nothing more after that, no matter how I pressed. He did admit that he could recall no censure from Julien on account of our conversation. But the sense of Julien’s being there again had made him feel disloyal. I could not even get him to repeat the story when next I asked him about it.

The last time I saw him was in late August 1959. He had obviously been ill. He had a bad tremor affecting both his mouth and his left hand, and his speech was no longer entirely distinct. I could understand him, but it was difficult. I told him frankly that what he had told me of Julien meant a great deal to me, that I was still interested in the Mayfair history.

At first I thought he did not remember me or the incident in question, so vague did he seem. Then he appeared to recognize me. He became excited.

“Come in the back with me,” he said, and as he struggled to rise from the desk I lent him a hand. He was unsteady on his feet. We passed through a dusty curtained doorway into a small storage room, and there he stopped just as if he were staring at something, but I could see nothing.

He gave a strange little laugh and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Then he took out a box, and with trembling hands, he removed a packet of photographs. These were all of Julien. He gave them to me. It seemed he wanted to say something but he couldn’t find the words.

“I cannot tell you what this means to me,” I said.

“I know,” he answered. “That is why I want you to have them. You are the only person who has ever understood about Julien.”

I felt sad then, dreadfully sad. Had I understood? I suppose I had. He had caused the figure of Julien Mayfair to come to life for me, and I had found it a seductive figure.

“My life might have been different,” he said, “had I not met Julien. No one ever after seemed to measure up, you see. And then the store, well, I fell back on the store, and didn’t really accomplish very much in the long run.”

Then he appeared to shrug it all off, and he smiled.

I put several questions to him but he only shrugged them off too. Finally one caught his attention.

“Did Julien suffer when he died?” I asked.

He became absorbed, then he shook his head. “No, not really. He didn’t much care for being paralyzed, of course. Who would? But he loved books. I read to him all the time. He died in the early morning. I know because I was with him till two o’clock, and then I blew out the lamp and went downstairs.

“Well, around six o’clock a storm waked me. It was raining so hard it was coming in at the windowsills. And the limbs of the maple tree outside were making quite a racket. I ran up at once to see to Julien. His bed was right by the window.

“And what do you think? He had somehow managed to sit up, and open the window; and there he was, dead, across the windowsill, his eyes closed, looking quite peaceful, as if he’d wanted a breath of fresh air, and when he had had it he gave up, just like that, falling dead as if he were falling asleep, with his head to one side. Would have been a very peaceful scene if it hadn’t been for the storm, for the rain pouring in on him and even the leaves blowing into the room.

“They said later it was a massive stroke. They couldn’t figure how he had ever managed to open the window. I never said anything, but you know it occurred to me … ”

“Yes?” I prodded him.

He gave a little shrug and then went on, his speech extremely slurred. “Mary Beth went mad when I called her. She pulled him off the windowsill and back onto the pillow. She even slapped him. ‘Wake up, Julien,’ she said. ‘Julien, don’t leave me yet!’ I had a hell of a time closing that window. Then one of the panes blew out. It was dreadful.

“And that horrible Carlotta came up. All the others were coming to kiss him, you know, and to pay their respects, and Millie Dear, Rémy’s daughter, you know, was helping us with the bedcovers. But that dreadful Carlotta wouldn’t go near him, wouldn’t even help us. She stood there on the landing, with her hands clasped, like a little nun, just staring at the door.

“And Belle, precious Belle. Belle, the angel. She came in with her doll, and she started crying. Then Stella climbed in the bed and lay beside him, with her hand over his chest.

“Belle said, ‘Wake up, Oncle Julien.’ I guess she had heard her mama say it. And Julien, poor sweet Julien. He was such a peaceful picture, finally, with his head on the pillow, and his eyes closed.”

Llewellyn smiled and shook his head, then he began to laugh softly under his breath as though remembering something that aroused tenderness in him. He said something but it wasn’t clear. Then he cleared his throat with difficulty. “That Stella,” he said. “Everybody loved Stella. Except Carlotta. Carlotta never did … ” His voice trailed off.

I pressed him further, once more asking the sort of leading questions I made it a rule to avoid. I broached the subject of a ghost. So many people said the house was haunted.

“I should think if it was, you would have known,” I said.

I could not tell if he understood me. He made his way back to his desk and sat down, and just when I was quite certain he’d forgotten me altogether, he said that there was something in the house, but he didn’t know how to explain it.

“There were things,” he said, and that look of revulsion came over him again. “And I could have sworn they all knew about it. Sometimes it was just a sense … a sense of somebody always watching.”

“Was there more to it than that?” I pressed, being young and ruthless and full of curiosity, and not knowing yet what it means to be old.

“I told Julien about it,” he said, “I said it was there in the room with us, you know, that we weren’t alone, and that it was … watching us. But he would just laugh it off, the way he laughed at everything. He would tell me not to be so self-conscious. But I could swear it was there! It came when, you know, Julien and I were … together.”

“Was it something you saw?”

“Only at the end,” he said. He said something else but I couldn’t understand it. When I pressed, he shook his head, and pressed his lips together for emphasis as he did it. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Must have imagined it. But I could swear in those last days when Julien was so sick, that the thing was there, definitely there. It was in Julien’s room, it was in the bed with him.”

He looked up at me to gauge my reaction. His mouth turned down at the ends and he was scowling, his eyes glaring up at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“Awful, awful thing,” he whispered, shaking his head. He shivered. “Did you see it?”

He looked away. I asked him several more questions, but I knew I had lost him. When he answered again, I caught something about the others knowing about that thing, knowing and pretending they didn’t.

Then he looked up at me again and he said, “They didn’t want me to know that they knew. They all knew. I told Julien, ‘There’s somebody else in this house, and you know it, and you know what it likes, and what it wants, and you won’t tell me you know,’ and he said, ‘Come now, Richard,’ and he’d use all his … persuasion, so to speak, to you know, make me forget about it. And then that last week, that awful last week, it was there, in that bed. I know it was. I woke up in the chair and I saw it. I did. I saw it. It was the ghost of a man, and it was making love to Julien. Oh, God, what a sight. Because you see, I knew it wasn’t real. Wasn’t real at all. Couldn’t be. And yet I could see it.”

He looked away, the tremor in his mouth worsening. He tried to take out his pocket handkerchief but was merely fumbling with it. I did not know whether or not I should help him.

I asked more questions as gently as I could. He either didn’t hear me or didn’t care to answer. He sat slumped in the chair, looking as if he might die of old age at any moment.

Then he shook his head and said he couldn’t talk anymore. He did seem quite exhausted. He said he didn’t stay in the shop all day anymore and he would soon be going upstairs. I thanked him profusely for the pictures, and he murmured that yes, he was glad I’d come, he’d been waiting for me to give me those pictures.

I never saw Richard Llewellyn again. He died about five months after our last interview, in early 1959. He was buried in the Lafayette Cemetery not far from Julien.

There are many other stories which could be included here about Julien. There is much more that might be discovered.

It is sufficient for the purposes of this narrative to add nothing more at this point except that Julien had one other male companion of whom we know, a man to whom he was very strongly attached, and this was the man already described in this narrative as Judge Daniel McIntyre, who later married Mary Beth Mayfair.

But we can discuss Daniel McIntyre in connection with Mary Beth. Therefore it is appropriate to move on now to Mary Beth herself, the last great nineteenth-century Mayfair Witch, and the only female Mayfair Witch of the nineteenth century to rival her eighteenth-century forebears in power.

It was ten minutes past two. Michael stopped only because he had to stop. His eyes were closing, and there was nothing to do but give in and sleep for a while.

He sat still for a long moment, staring at the folder, which he had just closed. He was startled by the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Aaron entered quietly. He was dressed in his pajamas and a quilted silk robe, sashed at the waist. “You look tired,” he said. “You should go to bed now.”

“I have to,” Michael said. “When I was young, I could just keep swilling the coffee. But it’s not like that anymore. My eyes are shutting down on me.” He sat back in the leather chair, fished in his pocket for a cigarette, and lighted it. The need to sleep was suddenly so heavy, he closed his eyes and almost let the cigarette slip from his fingers. Mary Beth, he thought, have to get on to Mary Beth. So many questions …

Aaron settled into the wing chair in the corner. “Rowan canceled her midnight flight,” he said. “She’ll have a layover tomorrow, and won’t reach New Orleans before afternoon.”

“How do you find out things like that?” Michael asked sleepily. But that was the least of the questions on his mind. He took another lazy drag off the cigarette and stared at the plate of uneaten sandwiches before him. A sculpture now. He had not wanted any supper. “That’s good,” he said. “If I wake up at six, and read right on through, I’ll make it by evening.”

“And then we should talk,” Aaron said. “We should talk a great deal before you go to see her.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. Aaron, why the hell am I involved in this? Why? Why have I been seeing that man since I was a kid?” He took another drag off the cigarette. “Are you afraid of that spirit thing?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Aaron answered without the slightest hesitation.

Michael was surprised. “You believe all this then? And you yourself have seen him?”

Aaron nodded. “I have,” he said.

“Thank God. Every word of this story has a different meaning for us than it would for someone else who hasn’t seen! Someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to see an apparition like that.”

“I believed before I saw,” Aaron said. “My colleagues have seen him. They have reported what they’ve seen. And as a seasoned member of the Talamasca, I accepted the testimony.”

“Then you accept that this thing can kill people.”

Aaron reflected for a moment. “Look, I might as well tell you this now. And try to remember it. This thing can do harm, but it has a devil of a time doing it.” He smiled. “No pun intended there,” he said. “What I’m trying to say is, Lasher kills largely through trickery. He can certainly cause physical effects—move objects, cause tree limbs to fall, rocks to fly—that sort of thing. But he wields this power awkwardly and often sluggishly. Trickery and illusion are his strongest weapons.”

“He forced Petyr van Abel into a tomb,” Michael said.

“No, Petyr was found trapped in a tomb. What likely happened was that he went into it himself in a state of madness in which he could no longer distinguish illusion from reality.”

“But why would Petyr do that when he was terrified of … ”

“Oh, come now, Michael, men are often irresistibly drawn to the very thing they fear.”

Michael didn’t say anything. He drew on the cigarette again, seeing in his mind’s eye the surf crashing on the rocks off Ocean Beach. And remembering the moment of standing there, his scarf blowing in the wind, his fingers frozen.

“To put it bluntly,” Aaron said, “never overestimate this spirit. It’s weak. If it wasn’t it wouldn’t need the Mayfair family.”

Michael looked up. “Say that again.”

“If it wasn’t weak, it wouldn’t need the Mayfair family,” Aaron said. “It needs their energy. And when it attacks, it uses the victim’s energy.”

“You just reminded me of something I said to Rowan. When she asked whether or not these spirits I saw had caused me to fall from the rock into the ocean, I told her they couldn’t do something like that. They weren’t that strong. If they were strong enough to knock a man into the sea and cause him to drown, they wouldn’t need to come to people in visions. They wouldn’t need to give me a crucial mission.”

Aaron didn’t reply.

“You see my point?” Michael asked.

“Yes, I do. But I see the point of her question also.”

“She asked me why I assumed that they were good, these spirits. I was shocked by that. But she thought it was a logical question.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Oh, but I know they are good.” Michael stubbed out the cigarette. “I know. I know that it was Deborah I saw. And that she wants me to oppose that spirit, Lasher. I know that as surely as I know … who I am. Remember what Llewellyn told you? I just finished reading it. Llewellyn told you that when Julien came to him in a dream Julien was different. Julien was wiser than he had been when he was alive. Well, that’s how it was with Deborah in my vision. Deborah wants to stop this thing that she and Suzanne brought into the world and into this family!”

“Then comes the question. Why has Lasher shown himself to you?”

“Yes. We’re going in a circle.”

Aaron switched off the light in the corner, and then the lamp on the desk. This left only the lamp on the bedside table. “I’ll have them call you at eight. I think you can finish the entire file by late afternoon, perhaps a little sooner. Then we can talk, and you can come to some sort of … well … decision.”

“Have them call me at seven. That’s one good thing about being this age. I get sleepy but I sleep less. I’ll be fine if they ring me at seven. And Aaron … ”

“Yes?”

“You never really answered me about last night. Did you see that thing when he was standing right in front of me on the other side of the fence! Did you or didn’t you?”

Aaron opened the door. He seemed reluctant to speak. Then he said, “Yes, Michael. I saw him. I saw him very clearly and distinctly. More clearly and distinctly than ever before. And he was smiling at you. It even seemed he was … reaching out for you. I would say from what I saw that he was welcoming you. Now, I must go, and you must go to sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Lights out, Michael.”

The phone woke him up. The sunlight was pouring through the windows on either side of the head of the bed. For one moment he was completely disoriented. Rowan had just been talking to him, saying something about how she wanted him to be there before they closed the lid. What lid. He saw a dead white hand lying against black silk.

Then he sat up, and he saw the desk, and the briefcase, and the folders heaped there, and he whispered: “The lid of her mother’s coffin.”

Drowsily he stared at the ringing phone. Then he picked up the receiver. It was Aaron.

“Come down for breakfast, Michael.”

“Is she on the plane yet, Aaron?”

“She’s just left the hospital. As I believe I told you last night, she’ll have a layover. I doubt she’ll reach the hotel before two o’clock. The funeral begins at three. Look, if you won’t come down we’ll send something up, but you must eat.”

“Yes, send it up,” he said. “And Aaron. Where is this funeral?”

“Michael, don’t bolt on me after you’ve finished. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone.”

“No, I’m not going to do that, Aaron. Believe me. But I just want to know. Where is the funeral?”

“Lonigan and Sons. Magazine Street.”

“Oh, yeah, do I ever know that place.” Grandmother, grandfather, and his father, too, all buried from Lonigan and Sons. “Don’t worry, Aaron, I’ll be right here. Come up and keep me company if you want. But I’ve got to get started.”

He took a quick shower, put on fresh clothes, and came out of the bathroom to find his breakfast waiting for him under a series of high polished silver domes on a lace-covered tray. The old sandwiches were gone. And the bed was made. There were fresh flowers by the window. He smiled and shook his head. He had a flash of Petyr van Abel in some fine little chamber in the seventeenth-century Motherhouse in Amsterdam. Was Michael a member now? Would they enfold him with all these trappings of security and legitimacy and safety? And what would Rowan think of that? There was so much he had to explain to Aaron about Rowan …

Drinking his first cup of coffee absently, he opened the next folder, and began to read.

Eighteen

IT WAS FIVE thirty in the morning as Rowan finally headed to the airport, Slattery driving the Jaguar for her, her eyes glassy and red as she instinctively and anxiously watched the traffic, uncomfortable to have given over the control of the car to anyone else. But Slattery had agreed to keep the Jag in her absence, and he ought to get used to it, she figured. And besides, all she wanted now was to be in New Orleans. The hell with the rest.

Her last evening at the hospital had gone almost as planned. She had spent hours making the rounds with Slattery, introducing him to patients, nurses, interns, and residents, doing what she could to make the transition less painful for everyone involved. It had not been easy. Slattery was an insecure and envious man. He made random deprecating remarks under his breath continuously, ridiculing patients, nurses, and other doctors in a manner that suggested Rowan was in complete sympathy with him when she was not. There was a deep unkindness in him towards those he believed to be inferior. But he was far too ambitious to be a bad doctor. He was careful, and smart.

And much as Rowan disliked turning it all over to him, she was glad he was there. The feeling was growing ever stronger in her that she wasn’t coming back here. She tried to remind herself that there was no reason for such a feeling. Yet she couldn’t shake it. The special sense told her to prepare Slattery to take over for her indefinitely, and that was what she had done.

Then at eleven P.M., when she was scheduled to leave for the airport, one of her patients—an aneurysm case—began to complain of violent headaches and sudden blindness. This could only mean the man was hemorrhaging again. The operation which had been scheduled for the following Tuesday—to be performed by Lark—had to be performed by Rowan and Slattery right then.

Rowan had never gone into surgery more distracted; even as they were tying on her sterile gown, she had been worried about her delayed flight to New Orleans, worried about the funeral, worried that somehow she’d be trapped for hours during the layover in Dallas, until after her mother had been lowered into the ground.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 539