The Witching Hour (17 page)

When Father Mattingly heard that Deirdre Mayfair had been sent off to school again—this time in Europe—he decided he had to call. It was spring, well over three years since the haunting confession. He had to make himself go up to that gate, if for no other reason than because he could think of nothing else.

It came as no surprise that Carlotta invited him into the long double parlor and the coffee things were brought in on the silver tray, all quite cordial. He loved that big room. He loved its mirrors facing each other. Miss Millie joined them, then Miss Nancy, though she apologized for her dirty apron, and even old Miss Belle came down by means of an elevator he had not even known was there, hidden as it was behind a great twelve-foot-high door that looked like all the others. Old Miss Belle was deaf, he caught on to that immediately.

Through the veil of small talk, he studied these women, trying to fathom what lay behind their restrained smiles. Nancy was the drudge, Millie the scatterbrain, old Miss Belle almost senile. And Carl? Carl was everything they said she was—the clever one, the business lady, the lawyer. They talked of politics, corruption in the city, of rising prices and changing times. But not on that visit or any other did she speak the names Antha, Stella,
Mary Beth, Lionel. In fact there was no talk anymore of history, and he could not bring himself to broach the subject, not even to ask a simple question about a single object in the room.

Leaving the house, he glanced at the flagstone patio overgrown with weeds.
Head split open like a watermelon.
Going down the street he looked back at the attic windows. All covered with the vines, they were now, shutters askew.

That was his last visit, he told himself. Let Father Lafferty take care of it. Let no one take care of it.

But his sense of failure deepened as the years passed.

When she was ten years old Deirdre Mayfair ran away from home and was found two days later walking along the Bayou St. John in the rain, her clothes soaking wet. Then it was another boarding school somewhere—County Cork, Ireland, and then she was home again. The sisters said she’d had nightmares, walked in her sleep, said strange things.

Then came word that Deirdre was in California. The Mayfairs had cousins out there to look after her. Maybe the change of climate would do some good.

Father Mattingly knew now that he would never get the sound of that child’s crying out of his head. Why in God’s name had he not tried another tack with her? He prayed she told some wise teacher or doctor the things she’d told him, that somebody somewhere would help her as Father Mattingly had failed to do.

He could never recall hearing when Deirdre came back from California. Only some time in ’56, he knew she was in boarding school downtown at St. Rose de Lima’s. Then came the gossip she’d been expelled and run away to New York.

Miss Kellerman told Father Lafferty everything on the church steps one afternoon. She’d heard it from her maid who knew the “colored girl” that sometimes helped in that house. Deirdre had found her mother’s short stories in a trunk in the attic, “all that nonsense about Greenwich Village.” Deirdre had run off to find her father, though nobody knew if the man was alive or dead.

It had ended with her commitment to Bellevue, and Miss Carlotta had flown to New York to bring Deirdre back.

Then one afternoon in the summer of 1959, over a kitchen table, Father Mattingly heard of the “scandal.” Deirdre Mayfair was pregnant at eighteen. She had dropped out of classes at a college in Texas. And the father? One of her own professors, would you believe, and a married man and a Protestant too. And he was getting a divorce from his wife of ten years to marry Deirdre!

It seemed the whole parish was talking about it. Miss Carlotta
had washed her hands of the whole thing, they said, but Miss Nancy had taken Deirdre to Gus Mayer to buy her a nice pretty dress for the city hall wedding. Deirdre was a beautiful girl now, beautiful as Antha and Stella had been. Beautiful they said as Miss Mary Beth.

Father Mattingly remembered only that frightened, white-faced child. Flowers crushed under foot.

The marriage was never to take place.

When Deirdre was in her fifth month, the father was killed on his way to New Orleans. Car crash on the river road. The tie rod had broken on his old ’52 Ford, the car had gone out of control and hit an oak, exploding instantly.

Then wandering through the crowds of the church bazaar on a hot July evening, Father Mattingly was to hear the strangest story of the Mayfairs yet, one that would haunt him in years to come as did the confession.

Lights were strung across the asphalt yard. Parishioners in shirtsleeves and cotton dresses strolled from one wooden booth to another, playing the games of chance. Win a chocolate cake on a nickel bet when the wheel spins. Win a teddy bear. The asphalt was soft in the heat. The beer flowed at the makeshift bar of boards set upon barrels. And it seemed that everywhere Father Mattingly turned he caught some whisper of the goings-on at the Mayfair house.

Gray-headed Red Lonigan, the senior member of the undertaker family, was listening to Dave Collins tell him that they had Deirdre locked up in her room. Father Lafferty sat there staring sullenly over his beer at Dave. Dave said he’d known the Mayfairs longer than anybody, even longer than Red.

Father Mattingly got a cold bottle of Jax from the bar and took his place on the bench at the end.

Dave Collins was now in his glory with two priests in the audience.

“I was born in 1901, Father!” he declared, though Father Mattingly did not even look up. “Same year as Stella Mayfair, and I remember when they kicked Stella out of the Ursuline Academy uptown and Miss Mary Beth sent her to school down here.”

“Too much gossip about that family,” Red said gloomily.

“Stella was a voodoo queen, all right,” Dave said. “Everybody knew it. But you can forget about the penny-ante charms and spells. They wasn’t for Stella. Stella had a purse of gold coins that was never empty.”

Red laughed sadly under his breath. “All she ever had in the end was bad luck.”

“Well, she crammed in a lot of living before Lionel shot her,” Dave said, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward on his right arm, his left hand locked to the beer bottle. “And no sooner was she dead and gone than that purse turned up right beside Antha’s bed and no matter where they hid it, it always came back again.”

“In a pig’s eye,” said Red.

“There was coins from all over the world in that purse—Italian coins and French coins and Spanish coins.”

“And how would you know?” Red asked.

“Father Lafferty’s seen it, ain’t you, Father? You’ve seen them coins. Miss Mary Beth used to throw them in the collection basket every Sunday, you know she done it. And you knew what she always said. ‘Spend them fast, Father, get them out of your hands before sundown, because they always come back.’ ”

“What are you talking about!” Red scoffed.

Father Lafferty said nothing. His small black eyes moved from Dave to Red. Then he glanced at Father Mattingly, who sat opposite him.

“What do you mean, they came back?” Father Mattingly asked.

“Back to her purse is what she meant!” Dave said arching his eyebrows. He took a long pull off his bottle. Nothing but foam left. “She could give them away forever, and they always came back.” He laughed hoarsely. There was the sound of phlegm in his voice. “She said the same thing to my mother fifty years ago when she paid her for doing the washing, that’s right, the washing—my mother did the washing in a lot of them big houses, and she was never ashamed of it neither, and Miss Mary Beth always paid her in them coins.”

“In a pig’s eye,” Red said.

“And I’ll tell you something else too,” Dave said, leaning forward on his elbow, his eyes narrow as he peered at Red Lonigan. “The house, the jewels, the purse, it’s all connected. Same with the name Mayfair and the way they always keep it, no matter who they marry. Always Mayfair in the end. And you want to know the reason? They’re witches, those women! Every one.”

Red shook his head. He pushed his full beer bottle towards Dave and watched as Dave wrapped his fingers around it.

“It’s the God’s truth, I’m telling you. It come down to them through the generations, the power of witchcraft, and back in them days there was plenty talk of it. Miss Mary Beth, she was more powerful than Stella.” He took a big swallow of Red’s
beer. “And smart enough to keep her mouth shut which Stella was not.”

“Then how did you hear about it?” Red asked.

Dave took out his little white sack of Bull Durham tobacco and pressed it flat between fingers and thumb.

“You wouldn’t have a ready-made, would you, Father?” he asked Father Mattingly.

Red sneered. Father Mattingly gave Dave his pack of Pall Malls.

“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.