They went down the rear stairs, into the warmer air, and the misty white layers of cigarette smoke. Around a breakfast table, near a bright fire, sat several people crying and laughing simultaneously. And one solemn man who merely stared morosely into the flames. Yuri could not actually see the fire. He stood behind the chimney, but he saw the flicker and he heard the crackle and he felt the warmth.
He was distracted suddenly by a wraith of a female creature in a small back room, looking out the rear window into the night. She was very old, fragile; she wore gabardine and withered lace, and a heavy golden pin that was a hand with diamonds for nails. Her fine-spun white hair was soft around her face, nested in the old-fashioned way, with pins against the back of her head. Another woman, younger yet still impossibly old, held the hand of this very old one as if she would protect her from something, though how, one could not tell.
“Come on, Ancient Evelyn, come with us,” said Beatrice. “Come on, darling Viv. Let’s go near the fire.”
The very old woman, Ancient Evelyn, whispered something softly under her breath. She pointed to the window, her finger dropping as if she hadn’t strength to keep it aloft. Again she pointed; again the finger dropped.
“Come on, now, dear, you’re doing it again,” said the woman addressed as Darling Viv. She was kind. “I can’t hear you. Now, Ancient Evelyn, you can talk.” She sounded as if she were coaxing a baby. “You know you can. You were talking words all day yesterday. Talk, dear, talk so I can hear.”
The ancient one murmured again indistinctly. She continued to point. All Yuri saw was the dark street, the neighboring houses, the lights, the dark heavy soaring trees.
Aaron took his arm.
A young woman with jet-black hair and beautiful gold earrings approached them. She wore a red wool dress, and a fancy belt. She stood near to the fire for a moment, warming her hands; then she drew closer, gathering the attention of Aaron and Beatrice, and even Darling Viv. There was a cool authority to her.
“Everyone’s together,” she said to Aaron meaningfully. “Everyone is all right. They are patrolling this block and the one across the street, and two blocks uptown and two blocks down.”
“It will be peaceful for a while, I think,” said Aaron. “He blundered, like a child. He could have caused more death, more suffering…”
“Oh, darlings, please,” said Beatrice. “Must we speak of this? Polly Mayfair, sweetheart, go back downtown to the office. They need you there.”
Polly Mayfair, Sweetheart, ignored Beatrice completely.
“We’re ready for him,” said Aaron. “We are many and he is one. He’ll come.”
“Come?” Polly Mayfair, Sweetheart, was puzzled. “Why do you say he’ll come? Why would he come? Shouldn’t he be running away as fast as he can?”
“What if he’s dead?” said Beatrice, “assuming there is such a personage! What if he wandered from that building in Houston and simply…you know…expired on the street?” She shuddered.
“That would be too much to hope for,” said Aaron. “But if it’s happened, they’ll find him and then we’ll know.”
“Oh, God, I hope so,” said Polly Mayfair, Sweetheart. “I hope she killed him when she hit him. I hope he staggered out and died.”
“I don’t,” said Aaron. “I don’t want him to hurt anyone else. That must not happen. He must not harm anyone. That he brought harm is unspeakable. But I want to see him; I want to talk to him; I want to hear what he has to say. I should have confronted him a long time ago. I was a fool, a fool for others, as they say. But I cannot miss this opportunity now. I want to talk to him. Ask him what he thinks, where the hell he comes from, what he truly wants?”
“Aaron, let’s not go into the ghost stories,” pleaded Beatrice. “Come, all of you-”
“You think it will be like that? He’ll speak?” asked Polly Mayfair, Sweetheart. “I never thought of it. I thought we’d find him and we’d, you know…take care of this…destroy him. We would put an end to something that should never have been allowed to begin. No one would ever know. I never thought of speaking to him.”
Aaron gave a little shrug. He looked at Yuri as he spoke.
“I’m only undecided on one point,” Aaron said. “Will he go to First Street? Will he go to Mayfair and Mayfair? Will he go out to Metairie to those gathered at Ryan’s house? Or will he come here? Whom will he seek out-to speak with, to trust, to lure to his side of it? I haven’t figured it all out.”
“But you believe he will do that!”
“Darling, he has to,” said Aaron. “This is his family. They are all under lock and key. What else can he do? Where else can he go?”
Twenty-eight
THE MUSIC CAME from electric mouths high up on the white walls. The people danced in the center of the room, awkwardly, rocking back and forth, but right with the music, as though they too loved it. The musicians were many, and they had crude instruments, nothing as beautiful as the bagpipes or the clarsach. It was as if she could hear that old music in this music, but the two were twined, and she could not think again. Just music. She saw the glen. She saw all the brothers and sisters dancing, and singing. And then someone pointed. The soldiers had come!
The band stopped. The silence clattered in on her. When the door opened, she jumped. People laughing inside, someone staring at her, a woman in a baggy sad dress.
She ought to go on to New Orleans. She had miles and miles to walk. She was hungry. She wanted some milk. They had food there but they didn’t have milk. She would have smelled it if they had it. But there were cows in the fields. She’d seen them, and she knew how to take the milk. She should have done it before now. How long had she been here listening to this music? It had all started so long ago, and she couldn’t remember, but this was just the first real day of her life.
When the sun had risen, she had opened the door of a small kitchen, and taken the milk from the refrigerator and drunk the whole container. That had been morning, the delicious taste of cold milk, and the warm yellow sun coming down in long slender dusty rays through the thin, dead-looking trees, and over the grass. Someone from the house had found her. She had said thank you for the milk. She was sorry it was all gone, but she had to have it.
In the long run, these things weren’t important. These people wouldn’t hurt her. They didn’t know what she was. In the old days, if you had stolen milk like that they would have run after you, chasing you deep deep into the mountains, maybe even…
“But all that is no longer important,” said Father. “This is our time to rule.”
Go now, to New Orleans. Find Michael for Mother. Yes, that is what Mother wanted with all her heart. Stop in the field where the cows stand in sleep, waiting for you. Drink the warm milk from the udder. Drink and drink and drink.
She turned, but the band started. Once more, the music. Warming it up with three or four notes and then pounding up through her shoes, and through her throat, as if she were breathing it in through the mouth. She closed her eyes, just loving it. Oh, the world is wondrous. She began to rock.
Someone touched her, and she turned and looked at a man who was almost as tall as she. Wrinkled and tan and smelling of smoke all over, an old being, in a dark blue shirt and pants stained with grease. He spoke to her but she could only hear the music, beating and beating. She rocked her head back and forth. This was lovely.
He leant over and said right in her ear:
“You been watching a long time, honey. Why don’t you come in and dance?”