"So I notice," said Mona. "We little girls are just all obsessed with them, aren't we?"
Mary Jane positively howled with laughter.
"This is better than I expected," said Mona. "The girls at school appreciate my humor, but almost no one in the family laughs at my jokes."
"Your jokes are real funny," said Mary Jane. "That's because you're a genius. I figure there are two kinds, ones with a sense of humor and those without it."
"But what about all the b words, cut out, and rolled into balls?"
"Well, I put them in a hat, you know??? Just like names for a raffle."
"Yeah."
"And then I pick them out one at a time. If it's some word nobody ever uses, you know, like batrachian?? I just throw it away. But if it's a good word like beatitude--'a state of utmost bliss'???? Well, I memorize it right on the spot."
"Hmmm, that sounds like a fairly good method. Guess you're more likely to remember words that you like."
"Oh yeah, but really, I remember almost everything, you know?? Being as smart as I am?" Mary Jane popped the bread ball into her mouth and started pulverizing the frame of crust.
"Even the meaning of batrachian?" asked Mona.
" 'A tailless leaping amphibian,' " Mary Jane answered. She nibbled on the crust ball.
"Hey, listen, Mary Jane," said Mona, "there's plenty of bread in this house. You can have all you want. There's a loaf right over there on the counter. I'll get it for you."
"Sit down! You're pregnant, I'll git it!" Mary Jane declared. She jumped up, reached for the bread, caught it by its plastic wrapping, and brought it down on the table.
"How about butter? You want some butter? It's right here."
"No, I've conditioned myself to eat it without butter, to save money, and I don't want to go back to butter, because then I'll miss the butter and the bread won't taste so good." She tore a slice out of the plastic, and scrunched up the middle of it.
"The thing is," said Mary Jane, "I will forget batrachian if I don't use it, but beatitude I will use, and not forget."
"Gotcha. Why were you looking at me in that way?"
Mary Jane didn't answer. She licked her lips, tore loose some fragments of soft bread, and ate them. "All this time, you remembered that we were talking about that, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"What do you think about your baby?" asked Mary Jane, and this time she looked worried and protective, sort of, or at least sensitive to what Mona felt.
"Something might be wrong with it."
"Yeah." Mary Jane nodded. "That's what I figure."
"It's not going to be some giant," said Mona quickly, though with each word, she found it more difficult to continue. "It's not some monster or whatever. But maybe there's just something wrong with it, the genes make some combination and ... something could be wrong."
She took a deep breath. This might be the worst mental pain she'd ever felt. All her life she'd worried about things--her mother, her father, Ancient Evelyn, people she loved. And she'd known grief aplenty, especially of late. But this worrying about the baby was wholly different; it aroused a fear so deep in her that it was agony. She found she'd put her hand on her belly again. "Morrigan," she whispered.
Something stirred inside her, and she looked down by moving her eyes instead of her head.
"What's wrong?" asked Mary Jane.
"I'm worrying too much. Isn't it normal to think that something's wrong with your baby?"
"Yeah, it's normal," said Mary Jane. "But this family has got lots of people with the giant helix, and they haven't had horrible deformed little babies, have they? I mean, you know, what's the track record of all this giant-helix breeding?"
Mona hadn't answered. She was thinking, What difference does it make? If this baby's not right, if this baby's ... She realized she was looking off through the greenery outside. It was still early afternoon. She thought of Aaron in the drawerlike crypt at the mausoleum, lying one shelf up from Gifford. Wax dummies of people, pumped with fluid. Not Aaron, not Gifford. Why would Gifford be digging a hole in a dream?
A wild thought came to her, dangerous and sacrilegious, but not really so surprising. Michael was gone. Rowan was gone. Tonight she could go out there into the garden alone, when no one was awake on the property, and she could dig up the remains of those two that lay beneath the oak; she could see for herself what was there.
Only trouble was, she was frightened to do it. She had seen plenty of scenes in horror movies over the years in which people did that sort of thing, traipsed off to the graveyard to dig up a vampire, or went at midnight to discover just who was in what grave. She had never believed those scenes, especially if the person did it by herself or himself. It was just too frightening. To dig up a body, you had to have a lot more balls than Mona had.
She looked at Mary Jane. Mary Jane had finished her feast of bread, apparently, and she just sat there, arms folded, looking steadily at Mona in a manner that was slightly unnerving, Mary Jane's eyes having taken on that dreamy luster that eyes have when the mind has drifted, a look that wasn't vacant but deceptively seriously focused.
"Mary Jane?" she said.
She expected to see the girl startle, and wake up, so to speak, and immediately volunteer what she had been thinking. But nothing like that happened. Mary Jane just kept looking at her in exactly the same fashion, and she said:
"Yes, Mona?" without a single change in her face.
Mona stood up. She went towards Mary Jane, and stood right beside her, looking down at her, and Mary Jane continued to look at her with the same large and frightening eyes.
"Touch this baby, here, touch it, don't be shy. Tell me what you feel."
Mary Jane turned the gaze on Mona's belly, and she reached out very slowly, as if she was going to do what Mona had asked her to do, and then suddenly she jerked her hand back. She rose from the chair, moving away from Mona. She looked worried.
"I don't think we should do it. Let's not do witchcraft with this baby. You and I are young witches," she said. "You know, we really are. What if witchcraft can, you know??? Have an effect on it???"
Mona sighed. Suddenly she didn't want to talk about this anymore; the feeling of fear was too draining and too damned painful, and there had been quite enough.
The only person in the world who could answer her questions was Rowan, and she was going to have to ask them, sooner or later, because she could feel this baby now, and that was flat-out impossible, really, to feel a baby moving like this, just this tiny, tiny movement, even, when a baby was only six or even ten or even twelve weeks.
"Mary Jane, I have to be alone right how," she said. "I'm not being rude. It's just this baby has me worried. That is the simple truth."
"You sure are sweet to explain this to me. You go right ahead. I'm going upstairs if it's okay. Ryan??? He put my suitcase in Aunt Viv's room, you know??? I'm going to be in there."
"You can use my computer if you want," said Mona. She turned her back to Mary Jane and looked out again in the garden. "It's in the library, there are plenty of open programs. It boots right to WordStar, but you can go to Windows or Lotus 1-2-3 simply enough."
"Yeah, I know how to do that, you take it easy, Mona Mayfair, you call me if you need me."
"Yeah, I will. I ..." She turned around. "I really like having you here, Mary Jane," she said. "There's no telling when Rowan or Michael will come back."
What if they never came back? The fear was growing, including all things at random that came into her mind. Nonsense. They were coming back. But of course they had gone to look for people who might very well want to hurt them....
"Don't you worry now, darlin'," said Mary Jane. "Yeah," said Mona again, pushing open the door. She wandered out on the flagstones and off towards the back garden. It was still early and the sun was high and falling down on the lawn beneath the oak, as it would be, really, until late in the day. Best, warmest time in the back garden.
She walked out on the grass. This h
ad to be where they were buried. Michael had added earth to this place, and the newest, tenderest grass grew here.
She went down on her knees, and stretched out on the earth, not caring that it was getting on her beautiful white shirt. There were so many of them. That's what it meant to be rich, and she was already feeling it, having so many of everything, and not having to wear shoes with holes. She pressed her cheek to the cool mud and grass, and her billowing right sleeve was like a big white parachute fallen beside her from heaven. She closed her eyes.
Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan ... The boats came across the sea, torches lifted. But the rocks looked so dangerous. Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan ... Yeah, this was the dream! The flight from the island to the north coast. The rocks were the danger, and the monsters of the deep who lived in the lochs.
She heard the sound of someone digging. She was wide awake and staring across the grass at the distant ginger lilies, at the azaleas.
No one was digging. Imagination. You want to dig them up, you little witch, she said to herself. She had to admit it was fun playing little witches with Mary Jane Mayfair. Yeah, glad she'd come. Have some more bread.
Her eyes slid closed. A beautiful thing happened. The sun struck her eyelids, as if some big branch or cloud had just freed it, and the light made the darkness brilliant orange, and she felt the warmth creeping all over her. Inside her, in the belly that she could still sleep on, the thing stirred again. My baby.
Someone was singing the nursery rhyme again. Why, that must be the oldest nursery rhyme in the world. That was Old English, or was it Latin?