The Witching Hour (151 page)

The night before, she’d come here to church to pray alone. Michael had been surprised. Was she really praying to someone?

“I don’t know,” she said. She wanted to sit in the dark church, which was readied for the wedding with the white ribbons and bows and the red carpet down the aisle, and talk to Ellie, to try to explain to Ellie why she had broken her vow, why she was doing this, and how it was all going to work out.

She explained about the white wedding dress and how the family had wanted it, and so she had given in happily to the yards and yards of white silk lace and the full shimmering veil. And she explained about the bridesmaids—Mayfairs all, of course—and Beatrice, the matron of honor, and how Aaron was going to give her away.

She explained and she explained. She even explained about the emerald. “Be with me, Ellie,” she said. “Extend to me your forgiveness. I want this so much.”

Then she had talked to her mother. She had talked simply and without words, feeling close to her mother. And she had tried to blot all memory of the old woman out of her mind.

She had thought of her old friends from California, whom she had called in the last few weeks, and with whom she had had wonderful conversations. They were so happy for her, though they did not fully grasp how rich and vital this old-fashioned world here really was. Barbara wanted to come but the term had already begun at Princeton, and Janie was leaving for Europe, and Mattie was going to have a baby any day. They had sent
such exquisite presents though of course she had forbidden it. And she had the feeling they would see each other in the future, at least before her real work on the dream of the Mayfair Medical Center began.

Finally, she had ended her prayers in a strange way. She had lighted candles for her two mothers. And a candle for Antha. And even one for Stella. It was such a soothing ritual, to see the little wicks ignite, to see the fire dance before the statue of the Virgin. No wonder they did such things, these wise old Catholics. You could almost believe that the graceful flame was a living prayer.

Then she’d gone out to find Michael, who was having a wonderful time in the sacristy reminiscing about the parish with the kindly old priest.

Now at one o’clock, the wedding was at last beginning.

Stiff and still in her white raiment, she stood waiting, dreaming. The emerald lay against the lace that covered her breast, its burning glint of green the only color touching her. Even her ashen hair and gray eyes had looked pale in the mirror. And the jewel had reminded her, strangely, of the Catholic statues of Jesus and Mary with the exposed hearts, like the one she’d smashed so angrily in her mother’s bedroom.

But all those ugly thoughts were very far away from her now. The huge nave of St. Mary’s Assumption was packed. Mayfairs from New York and Los Angeles and Atlanta and Dallas had come. There were over two thousand of them. And one by one to the heavy strains of the organ, the bridesmaids—Clancy, Cecilia, Marianne, Polly, and Regina Mayfair—were moving up the aisle. Beatrice looked more splendid even than the younger ones. And the ushers, all Mayfairs too of course, and what a comely crew they were, stood ready to take the arms of the maids, one by one. But now had come the moment—

It seemed to her that she would forget how to put one foot before the other. But she didn’t. Quickly she adjusted the long full white veil. She smiled at Mona, her little flower girl, lovely as always with the usual ribbon in her red hair. She took Aaron’s arm, and together they followed Mona, in time with the stately music, Rowan’s eyes moving dimly over the hundreds of faces on either side of her, and dazzled, through the haze of whiteness, by the tiers of lights and candles at the altar ahead.

Would she remember this always? The bouquet of white flowers in her hand, Aaron’s soft radiant smile as he looked at her, and her own feeling of being beautiful the way brides must always be beautiful?

When at last she saw Michael, so perfectly adorable in his
gray cutaway and ascot, she felt the tears rise to her eyes. How truly splendid he was, her lover, her angel, beaming at her from his place beside the altar, his hands—without the awful gloves—clasped before him, his head bowed slightly as if he had to shelter his soul from the bright light that shone on him, though his own blue eyes were the most brilliant light of all to her.

He stepped up beside her. A lovely calm descended on her as she turned towards Aaron, and he lifted her veil and gracefully threw it back over her shoulders, bringing it softly down behind her arms. A shiver ran through her. Her life had never included any such time-honored gesture. And it was not the veil of her virginity or her modesty, but the veil of her loneliness that had been lifted away. He took her hand; he placed it in Michael’s.

“Be good to her always, Michael,” he whispered. She closed her eyes, wanting this pure sensation to endure forever, and then slowly looked up at the resplendent altar with its row after row of exquisite wooden saints.

As the priest began the traditional words, she saw that Michael’s eyes were glazed with tears also. She could feel him trembling, as his grip tightened on her hand.

She feared that her voice might fail her. She had been faintly sick that morning, perhaps with worry, and she experienced a touch of dizziness again.

But what struck her in a moment of quiet and detachment was that this ceremony itself conveyed immense power, that it wrapped about them some invisible protective force. How her old friends had scoffed at such things, how she herself had once found them unimaginable. And now, in the very center of it, she savored it and opened her heart to receive all the grace that it could give.

Finally the language of the old Mayfair legacy, imposed upon the ceremony and reshaping it, was now being recited:

“ … now and forever, in public and in private, before your family and all others, without exception, and in all capacities, to be known only by the name of Rowan Mayfair, daughter of Deirdre Mayfair, daughter of Antha Mayfair, though your lawful husband shall be called by his own name … ”

“I do.”

“Nevertheless, and with a pure heart, do you take this man, Michael James Timothy Curry … ”

“I do ….”

At last it was done. The final utterances had echoed under the high arched ceiling. Michael turned and took her in his arms as he’d done a thousand times in the secret darkness of their hotel bedroom; yet how exquisite now was this public and ceremonial
kiss. She yielded to it completely, her eyes lowered, the church dissolved into silence. And then she heard him whisper:

“I love you, Rowan Mayfair.”

She answered, “I love you, Michael Curry, my archangel.” And pressing close to him, in all his stiff finery, she kissed him again.

The first notes of the wedding march sounded, loud and sharp and full of triumph. A great rustling noise swept through the church. She turned, facing the enormous assembly and the sun pouring through the stained-glass windows, and taking Michael’s arm she commenced the long quick walk down the aisle.

On either side she saw their smiles, their nods, the irresistible expressions of the same excitement, as if the entire church were infused with the simple and overwhelming happiness she felt.

Only as they climbed into the waiting limousine, the Mayfairs showering them with rice in an exuberant chorus of cheers, did she think of the funeral in this church, did she remember that other cavalcade of shining black cars.

And now through these same streets, she thought, nestled with the white silk all around her and Michael kissing her again, kissing her eyes and her cheeks. He was murmuring all those silly wonderful things to her that husbands ought to murmur to brides, that she was beautiful, that he adored her, that he’d never been happier, that if this wasn’t the most perfect day of his life, he couldn’t imagine what it possibly was. And the greatest part was not what he said, but how happy he was himself.

She sank back and against his shoulder, smiling, her eyes closed, thinking quietly and deliberately of all the landmark moments, her graduation from Berkeley, the first day she’d entered the wards as an intern, the first day she’d walked into an Operating Room, the first time she’d heard the words at the end of the operation, Well done, Dr. Mayfair, you can close.

“Yes, the happiest day,” she whispered. “And it’s only just begun.”

Hundreds milled over the grass, under the great white tents which had been erected to cover the garden, the pool, and the back lawn before the
garçonnière.
The outdoor buffet tables, draped in white linen, sagged beneath their weight of sumptuous southern dishes—crawfish étouffée, shrimp Creole, pasta jambalaya, baked oysters, blackened fish, and even the humble and beloved red beans and rice. Liveried waiters poured the champagne into the tulip glasses; bartenders fixed cocktails to order at the well-stocked bars in the parlor, the dining room, and beside the pool. Fancily dressed children of all sizes played tag
among the adults, hiding behind the potted palms which had been stationed through the ground floor, or rushed in gangs up and down the stairway shrieking—to the utter mortification of various parents—that they had just seen “the ghost!”

The Dixieland band played furiously and joyously under its white canopy before the front fence, the music swallowed from time to time by the noisy animated conversation.

For hours Michael and Rowan, their backs to the long mirror at the First Street end of the parlor, received one visiting Mayfair after another, shaking hands, extending thanks, listening patiently to lineages and the tracing of connections and interconnections.

Many of Michael’s old high-school chums had come, thanks to the diligent efforts of Rita Mae Lonigan, and they formed their own noisy and cheerful constituency, telling old football stories, very nearby. Rita had even located a couple of long-lost cousins, a nice old woman named Amanda Curry whom Michael remembered fondly, and a Franklin Curry who had gone to school with Michael’s father.

If there was anyone here enjoying all this more than Rowan, it was Michael, and he was far less reserved than she. Beatrice came to hug him exuberantly at least twice in every half hour, always wringing a few embarrassed tears from him, and he was clearly touched by the affection with which Lily and Gifford took Aunt Vivian under their wing.

But it was a time of high emotions for all. Mayfairs from various other cities embraced cousins they hadn’t seen in years, vowing to return to New Orleans more often. Some made arrangements to stay over a week or two with this or that branch of the family. Flashbulbs went off continuously; big black hulking video cameras slowly poked their way through the glittering press.

At last the receiving was over; and Rowan was free to roam from one little group to another, and to feel the success of the gathering, and approve the performance of the caterers and the band, as she felt bound to do.

The day’s heat had lifted completely, thanks to a gentle breeze. Some guests were, taking an early leave; the pool was full of half-naked little creatures, screaming and splashing each other, some swimming in underpants only, and a few drunken adults who had jumped in fully clothed.

More food was being heaped into the heated carafes. More cases of champagne were opened. The hard-core five hundred or so Mayfairs, whom Rowan had already come to know personally, were milling about quite at home, sitting on the staircase
to talk, or wandering around in the bedrooms admiring the marvelous changes, or hovering about the huge and gaudy display of expensive gifts.

Everywhere people admired the restoration: the soft peach color of the parlor walls, and the beige silk draperies; the dark somber green of the library, and the glowing white woodwork throughout. They gazed at the old portraits, cleaned and reframed and carefully hung throughout the hallway and the lower rooms. They gathered to worship at the picture of Deborah, hanging now above the library fireplace. It was Lily and Beatrice who assisted Fielding on the entire tour, taking him upstairs in the old elevator, so that he might see each and every room.

Peter and Randall settled in the library with their pipes, arguing about the various portraits and their approximate dates, and which had been done by whom. And what would the cost be, if Ryan were to try to acquire this “alleged” Rembrandt?

With the first gust of rain, the band moved indoors to the back end of the parlor, and the Chinese carpets were rolled back as the young couples, some kicking off their shoes in the mayhem, began to dance.

It was the Charleston. And the very mirrors rattled with the stormy din of the trumpets and the constant thunder of stomping feet.

Surrounded again and again by groups of eager and enthusiastic faces, Rowan lost track of Michael. There was a moment when she fled to the small powder room off the library with a passing wave to Peter, who now remained alone, and seeming half asleep.

She stood there silent, the door locked, her heart pounding, merely staring at herself in the glass.

She seemed faded now, crushed, rather like the bouquet which she would have to toss later from the railing of the stairs. Her lipstick was gone, her cheeks looked pallid, but her eyes were shining like file emerald. Tentatively she touched it, adjusted it against the lace. She closed her eyes and thought of the picture of Deborah. Yes, it was right to have worn it. Right to have done everything the way they wanted. She stared at herself again, clinging to the moment, trying forever to save it, like a precious snapshot tucked in the pages of a diary.
This day, among them, everyone here.

It did not mar her happiness to come on Rita Mae Lonigan crying softly next to Peter when she opened the library door. She was more than content to press Rita’s hand and say, “Yes, I have thought of Deirdre often today, myself.” Because that was true. And she had liked thinking of Deirdre and Ellie, and
even Antha, and extracting them from the tragedies that ensnared them, and holding them to her heart.

Perhaps in some cold reasoning part of her mind, she understood why people had fled family and tradition to seek the brittle, chic world of California in which she had grown up. But she felt sorry for them, sorry for anyone who had never known this strange intimacy with so many of the same name and clan. Surely Ellie would understand.