"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 the man,' Miss Mary Beth said to my mother. 'And the one who can see the man when she's all alone inherits all.' "
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. They call him the man ...
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. She says he's the devil, Father. That it's a sin even to look at him.
He awoke some time before dawn, hearing Father Lafferty's angry voice. Envy, mental sickness. Was that the truth to read between the lines? It seemed a crucial piece had been fitted into the puzzle. He could almost see the full picture. A house ruled by an iron hand, a house in which beautiful and high-spirited women had met tragedy. And yet something bothered him still ... They all see him, Father. Flowers scattered under foot, big long white gladiolus and delicate fronds of fern. He saw his shoe crushing them.
Deirdre Mayfair gave up her child. It was born at the new Mercy Hospital on the seventh of November, and that very same day, she kissed it and placed it in Father Lafferty's hands and it was he who baptized it and placed it in the care of the cousins from California who were to adopt it.
But it was Deirdre who laid down the law that the child was to have the name Mayfair. Her daughter was never to be given any other last name, or Deirdre wouldn't sign the papers. Her old uncle Cortland Mayfair had stood behind her on that one, and not even Father Lafferty could make her change her mind. She demanded to see it in ink on the baptismal certificate. And poor old Cortland Mayfair--a fine gentleman--was dead by that time, having taken that awful fall down the stairs.
Father Mattingly didn't remember when he'd first heard the word "incurable." She'd gone mad even before she left the hospital. They said she kept talking out loud to nobody at all, saying, "You did it, you killed him." The nurses were afraid to go into her room. She wandered into the chapel in her hospital gown, laughing and talking out loud in the middle of Mass, accusing the empty air of killing her lover, separating her from her child, leaving her alone among "enemies." When the nuns tried to restrain her, she'd gone wild. The orderlies had come and taken her away as she kicked and screamed.
By the time Father Lafferty died in the spring, they had locked her up far away. Nobody even knew where. Rita Lonigan asked her father-in-law, Red, because she wanted so badly to write. But Miss Carl said it would not be good. No letters for Deirdre.
Only prayers for Deirdre. And the years slipped by.
Father Mattingly left the parish. He worked in the foreign missions. He worked in New York. He went so far away that New Orleans was no longer in his thought, except now and then the sudden remembrance and shame: Deirdre Mayfair--the one he had not helped, his lost Deirdre.
Then one afternoon in 1976, when Father Mattingly had come down for a brief stay at the old rectory, he had passed the house and seen a thin, pale young woman sitting in a rocker on the side porch, behind a veil of rusted screen. She seemed no more than a wraith in a white nightgown, but he'd known at once it was Deirdre. He'd recognized those black curls hanging around her shoulders. And as he opened the rusted gate and came up the flagstone walk, he saw that even the expression on the face was the same--yes, it was Deirdre whom he'd brought home to this house almost thirty years ago.
Expressionless she was, behind the screen, which sagged on its light wooden framing. No answer when he whispered: "Deirdre."
Around her neck on a chain was an emerald--a beautiful stone, and on her finger a ruby ring. Were these the jewels he'd heard tell of? How incongruous they looked on this silent woman in her limp white nightgown. She gave no sign that she either heard or saw him.
His visit with Miss Millie and Miss Nancy had been brief, uncomfortable. Carl was downtown at work, of course. And yes, that was Deirdre on the side porch and she was home to stay, but there was no need to whisper.
"The mind's gone," Nancy said with a bitter smile. "The electric shock wiped out her memory first. Then everything. She couldn't get up to save herself if the place was burning down. Every now and then she wrings her hands, tries to speak, but she can't--"
"Don't!" Millie had whispered, with a little shake of the head and twist of her mouth as though it wasn't in good taste to discuss this. She was old now, Miss Millie, old and beautifully gray, dainty as Miss Belle had been, Miss Belle who was now long gone. "Have some more coffee, Father?"
But it was a pretty woman sitting in the chair on the porch. The shock treatments had not grayed her hair. And her eyes were still a deep blue, though they were utterly empty. Like a statue in church she was. Father, help me. The emerald caught the light, exploded like a tiny star.
Father Mattingly did not come south very often after that, and in the following years when he rang the bell, he was not welcome. Miss Nancy's excuses became more abrupt. Sometimes nobody even answered. If Carl was there, the visit was rushed, artificial. No more coffee in the garden room, just a few quick words in that vast dusty parlor. Didn't they ever turn on the lights anymore? The chandeliers were filthy.
Of course the women were getting quite old. Millie died in 1979. The funeral had been enormous, with cousins coming from all over the country.
Then last year Nancy had gone. Father Mattingly had gotten a letter from Red Lonigan. The priest had been in Baton Rouge at the time and he had driven down just for the funeral.
Miss Carl, in her late eighties, was bone thin, hawk-nosed, with white hair and thick glasses that magnified her eyes unpleasantly. Her ankles were swollen over the tops of her black string shoes. She had to sit down on a gravestone during the final words at the cemetery.
The house itself was going down pitifully. Father Mattingly had seen that for himself when he drove past.
Deirdre too had changed, inevitably. He could see that her fragile hothouse beauty had at last been lost. And in spite of the nurses who walked her back and forth, she had grown stooped, and her hands bent down and out at the wrists, like those of an arthritic patie
nt. They said that her head had now fallen permanently to one side, and her mouth was always open.
It was a sad sight to behold even from a distance. And the jewels only made it more sinister. Diamond earrings on a senseless invalid. An emerald big as a thumbnail! And Father Mattingly, who believed above all in the sanctity of human life, thought Deirdre's death would have been a blessing.
The afternoon following Nancy's funeral, as he had paid a silent visit to the old place, he had met an Englishman stopped at the far end of the fence--a very personable man, who introduced himself to the priest as Aaron Lightner.
"Do you know anything about that poor woman?" Lightner had asked quite frankly. "For over ten years I've seen her on that porch. You know, I worry about her."
"I worry myself," Father Mattingly had confessed. "But they say there's nothing anyone can do for her."
"Such a strange family," said the Englishman sympathetically. "It's so very hot. I wonder does she feel the heat? You'd think they'd fix the overhead fan. Do you see? It seems to be broken."
Father Mattingly had taken an immediate liking to the Englishman. Such a forceful, yet polite man. And he was dressed so well in a fine three-piece linen suit. Even carried a walking stick. Made Father Mattingly think of the gentlemen who used to stroll in the evening on St. Charles Avenue. You used to see them on the front porches, wearing their straw hats, watching the traffic pass. Ah, another era.
Father Mattingly found himself chatting easily with the Englishman in a hushed voice under the low-hanging oaks, about all the "known" things with which the man seemed quite familiar--the shock treatments, the sanitariums, the baby daughter long ago adopted out in California. But Father Mattingly would not have dreamed of mentioning old Dave Collins's gossip of Stella or "the man." To repeat such nonsense would be flat-out wrong. And besides, it came too near to those painful secrets Deirdre had confided in him.