“The simpler thing.”
“Yes, what you did to Lasher. The simpler thing.”
Michael didn’t answer.
“There is so much to be done,” said Aaron. “The family doesn’t realize that it is safe, but it soon will. There will be many subtle changes as people come to realize that it’s finished. That the blinds are really open and the sun can really come in.”
“Yes.”
“We will get doctors for Rowan. We will get the best. Ah, I meant to bring a tape with me, the Canon by Pachelbel. Bea said Rowan loved it, that one day they had played it when Rowan was at Bea’s. Bea’s. I’m speaking of my own home.”
“Did you believe all he said-about the Taltos, about the legends and the little people?”
“Yes. And no.”
Aaron thought for a long moment, then he added:
“I want no more mysteries or puzzles.” He seemed amazed at his own calm. “I want only to be with my family. I want for Deirdre Mayfair to forgive me for not helping her; for Rowan Mayfair to forgive me for letting this happen to her. I want you to forgive me for letting you be hurt, for letting the burden of the killing fall upon you. And then I want, as they say, to forget.”
“The family won,” said Michael. “Julien won.”
“You won,” said Aaron. “And Mona has just begun her victories,” he said with a little smile. “Quite a daughter you have in Mona. I think I’ll walk uptown to see Mona. She says she is so in love with Yuri that if he doesn’t call by midnight, she may go mad! Mad as Ophelia went mad. I have to see Vivian and visit with Ancient Evelyn. Would you like to come? It’s a beautiful walk up the Avenue, just the right length, about ten blocks.”
“Not now. A little later perhaps. You go on.” There was a pause.
“They want you up at Amelia Street,” said Aaron. “Mona is hoping you will guide the restorations. The place hasn’t been tampered with in many a year.”
“It’s beautiful. I’ve seen it.”
“It needs you.”
“Sounds like something I can handle. You go on.”
The rain came again the next morning. Michael was sitting under the oak outside, near the freshly turned earth, merely looking at it, looking at the torn-up grass.
Ryan came out to talk to him, staying carefully to the path not to get mud on his shoes. Michael could see it was nothing urgent. Ryan looked rested. It was as if Ryan could sense that things were over. Ryan ought to know.
Ryan didn’t even glance at the big patch of earth above the grave. It all looked like the moist and sparse earth around the roots of a big tree where grass would not grow.
“I have to tell you something,” said Michael.
He saw Ryan stop-a sudden revelation of weariness and fear-then catch up with himself and very slowly nod.
“There’s no danger anymore,” Michael said. “From anyone now. You can pull off the guards. One nurse in the evenings. That is all we require. Get rid of Henri too, if you would. Pension him off or something. Or send him up to Mona’s place.”
Ryan said nothing, then he nodded again.
“I leave it to you, how you tell the others,” said Michael. “But they should know. The danger’s past. No more women will suffer. No more doctors will die. Not in connection with this. You may hear again from the Talamasca. If you do, you can send them to me. I don’t want the women to go on being frightened. Nothing will happen. They are safe. As for those doctors who died, I know nothing that would help. Absolutely nothing at all.”
Ryan seemed about to ask a question, but then he thought better of it, obviously, and he nodded again.
“I’ll take care of it,” Ryan said. “You needn’t worry about any of those things. I’ll take care of the question of the doctors. And that is a very good suggestion, regarding Henri. I will send him uptown. Patrick will just have to put up with it. He’s in no condition to argue, I suppose. I came out to see how you were. Now I know that you are all right.”
It was Michael’s turn to nod. He gave a little smile.
After lunch, he sat again by Rowan’s bed. He had sent the nurse away. He couldn’t stand her presence any longer. He wanted to be here alone. And she had hinted heavily that she needed to visit her own sick mother at Touro Infirmary, and he said, “Things are just fine around here. You go on. Come back at six o’clock.”
She’d been so grateful. He stood by the window watching her walk away. She lit a cigarette before she reached the corner, then hurried off to catch the car.
There was a tall young woman standing out there, gazing at the house, her hands on the fence. Reddish-golden hair, very long, kind of pretty. But she was like so many women now, bone-thin. Maybe one of the cousins, come to pay her respects. He hoped not. He moved away from the window. If she rang the bell, he wouldn’t answer. It felt too good to be alone at last.
He went back to the chair and sat down.
The gun lay on the marble-top table, big and sort of ugly or beautiful, depending on how one feels about guns. They were no enemy to him. But he didn’t like it there, because he had a vision of taking it and shooting himself with it, and then he stared at Rowan, and thought: “No, not as long as you need me, honey, I won’t. Not before something happens…” He stopped.
He wondered if she could sense anything, anything at all.
The doctor had said this morning she was stronger; but the vegetative state was unchanged.
They had given her the lipids. They had worked her arms and legs. They had put the lipstick on her. Yes, look at it, very pink, and they had brushed her hair.
And then there’s Mona, he thought. “Yuri or no Yuri, she needs me too. Oh, it’s not really that she does,” he said aloud to the silence. “It’s that anything more would hurt her. It would hurt them all. I have to be here on St. Patrick’s Day, don’t I? To greet them at the door. To shake their hands. I am the keeper of the house until such time as…”
He lay back against the chair thinking of Mona, whose kisses had been so chaste since Rowan came home. Beautiful little Mona. And that dark, clever Yuri. In love.
Maybe Mona was already working out the scheme for Mayfair Medical. Maybe she and Pierce were working on it now uptown.
“Now, we are not handing the family fortune over to this juvenile delinquent!” Randall had said in a booming voice last night, when arguing with Bea outside Rowan’s door.
“Oh, do be quiet,” Bea had answered. “That’s ridiculous. It’s like royalty, you old idiot. She is a symbol. That’s all.”
He sat back, legs outstretched under the bedskirt, hands clasped on his chest, staring at the gun-staring at its silver-gray trigger, so inviting, and its fat gray cylinder full of cartridges, and the sheath of black synthetic closed over the barrel, oddly like a hangman’s noose.
No, sometime later, perhaps, he thought. Although he didn’t think he would ever do it that way. Maybe just drink something strong, something that crept through you and poisoned you slowly, and then crawl in bed beside her and hold onto her, and go to sleep with her in his arms.
When she dies, he thought. Yes. That’s exactly what I’ll do.
He had to remember to take the gun away and put it someplace safe. With all the children, you never knew what would happen. They had brought children to see Rowan this morning-and St. Patrick’s Day would draw the children, as well. Big parade on Magazine Street only two blocks away. Floats. People throwing potatoes and cabbages-all the makings of an Irish stew. The family loved it; they’d told him. He would love it too.