Ah, she wished he was here now.
The night last year that Deirdre Mayfair had died, Gifford had wakened with a scream, and Ryan had taken hold of her. “Somebody’s dead,” she’d cried, and he’d held her. Only the phone ringing had taken him away. “Deirdre. It’s Deirdre.”
Would she have such a feeling when something finally happened to Rowan? Or was Rowan too far away from the fold? Had she died already in some horrid and shabby way, perhaps only hours after her departure? No, there had been letters and messages from her in the beginning. All the codes are correct, Ryan had said. And then Rowan had actually called that doctor in California long distance on the phone.
Ah, tomorrow we’ll know something from this doctor, and round her thoughts came again to the same place, and she turned her back on the sea, and walked towards the dark dune and the soft seam of light above it.
Low houses to one side and the other, seemingly forever, and then the great threatening mass of a high-rise, studded with tiny lights to warn the low-flying planes, and far far away, in the curve of the land, the lights of the town, and out to sea the clouds curling in the moonlight.
Time to lock up and sleep, yes. But by the fire. Time to sleep that thin vigilant sleep she always enjoyed when she was alone and the fire was still burning. She’d hear the coffeepot click on at five-thirty; she’d hear the first boat that came near the shore.
Ash Wednesday. A lovely consolation came over her; something like piety and faith combined. Ashes to ashes. Stop for the ashes. And when the time comes cut the blessed palm for Palm Sunday. And take Mona with you and Pierce and Clancy and Jenn to church on Good Friday, “to kiss the cross” like in the old days. Maybe make the nine churches like they used to do. She and Ancient Evelyn and Alicia walking to nine churches, all of them uptown in those days, when the city was dense with Catholics, true believing Catholics-Holy Name, Holy Ghost, St. Stephen’s, St. Henry’s, Our Lady of Good Counsel, Mother of Perpetual Help Chapel, St. Mary’s, St. Alphonsus, St. Teresa’s. Wasn’t that nine?
They hadn’t always bothered to go as far as St. Patrick’s or stop into the church of the colored on Louisiana Avenue, though they certainly would have, segregation not existing really in Catholic churches, and Holy Ghost being a fine church. The saddest part was Ancient Evelyn always remembering St. Michael’s and how they had torn it down. Cousin Marianne had been a Sister of Mercy at St. Michael’s, and it was sad when a church was torn down, and a convent, sad when all those memories were sold to the salvage company. And to think Marianne too had been Julien’s spawn, or so it had been said.
How many of those churches were left? thought Gifford. Well, this year on Good Friday, she’d drive up to Amelia and St. Charles and challenge Mona to find them with her. Mona loved walking in dangerous neighborhoods. That’s how Gifford would lure her out. “Come on, I want to find Grandmother’s nine churches. I think they’re all still there!” What if they could get Ancient Evelyn herself to come? Hercules could drive her along as they walked. She certainly couldn’t walk now, she was far too old. That would have been foolish.
Mona would go for it, only Mona would start asking about that Victrola again. She had it in her head that now that First Street was refurbished, somebody would find that Victrola in the attic and give it to her. She didn’t know that the Victrola really wasn’t in the attic at all, but once again hidden with the pearls where no one-
The thought left Gifford. It went right out of her mind. She had just reached the top of the boardwalk and was looking down into her own house, into the warm rectangle of the living room, with its steady flickering fire, and the sprawling cream-colored leather couches on the caramel-colored tile floor.
There was someone in Gifford’s house. There was someone standing right by the couch where Gifford had napped all evening, standing right by the fire. Indeed, the man had his foot on the hearth, just the way Gifford liked to put hers, especially when her feet were bare, to feel the inevitable cold that lingered in the stone.
This man was not barefoot or in any form of casual attire. This man looked dapper to her in the firelight, very tall, and “imperially thin” like Richard Cory in the old Edwin Arlington Robinson poem.
She moved a little slowly along the boardwalk, and then stepped down out of the wind into the relative quiet and warmth of the rear yard. Through the glass doors, her house looked like a picture. Only this man was wrong. And the truly wrong part of him was not his dark tweed jacket, or wool sweater; it was his hair; his long, shining black hair.
It hung over his shoulders, rather Christlike she thought. Indeed as he turned and looked at her, it was a dime-store Christ that came to mind-one of those blinding color pictures of Jesus with eyes that open and close when you tilt it, full of lurid color and immediately accessible prettiness-Jesus of soft curls and soft garments, and a tender smile with no mystery and no pain. The man even had the mustache and neatly groomed beard of the familiar Christ. They made his face seem grand and saintly.
Yes, he looked like that, sort of-this man. Who the hell was this man? Some neighbor who had wandered in the front door to beg a twenty-five-amp fuse or a flashlight? Dressed in Harris tweed?
He stood in her living room, looking down at the fire, with the long flowing profile of Jesus, and gradually he turned and looked at her, as if he had heard her all along, moving through the windy dark, and knew that she had come into earshot and stood now silently questioning him with her hand on the steel frame of the door.
Full face. It was suddenly a bright redeeming beauty that impressed her; something that bore the weight of the extravagant hair and the precious clothes; and another element struck her, other than the seductiveness of his face. It was a fragrance, almost a perfume.
It wasn’t sweet, however, this perfume. It wasn’t flowers, and it wasn’t candy and it wasn’t spice. No. But it was so inviting. It made her want to take a deep breath. And she’d caught this scent somewhere else, only recently. Yes, known this same strange craving before. But could not now remember it. In fact, hadn’t she remarked on it then, the strange scent…Something to do with the medal of St. Michael. Ah, the medal. Make sure the medal is in your purse. But she was thinking foolishly. There was a strange person here!
She knew she ought to be wary of him. She ought to find out who he was and what he wanted immediately, perhaps before she stepped inside. But every time in her life that something like this had frightened her, she had always come through it, half embarrassed to have made such a fuss. Nothing really bad had ever happened directly to Gifford.
Probably was a neighbor, or someone whose car had stalled. Someone who saw the light of her fire, or even the sparks flying from the chimney along this lonely stretch of sleeping beach.
It didn’t greatly concern her, not half as much as it intrigued her, that this strange being should be standing there watching her in her own house, by her own fire. There was no menace in this man’s face or manner; indeed, he seemed to be experiencing the very same curiosity and warmth of interest towards her.
He watched her come into the room. She started to close the glass door behind her, but then thought better of it.
“Yes? What can I do for you?” she asked. Once again the Gulf had fallen back into a whisper near silence. Her back was to the edge of the world, and the edge of the world was quiet.
The fragrance was suddenly overpowering. It seemed to fill the entire room. It mingled with the burning oak logs in the fireplace, and the charred smell of the bricks, and with the cold fresh air.