great-grandmother.”
“Ah, yes, the Mayfairs of Amelia Street,” he said. “The bigpink house.” He gave a little yawn again, and forced himself into a more truly upright position. “Bea pointed out the house. Nice house. Italianate. Bea said Gifford grew up there.”
Italianate. Architectural term, late nineteenth century. “Yeah, well, it’s a New Orleans bracketed style, as we call it,” she said. “Built 1882, remodeled once by an architect named Sully. Full of all kinds of junk from a plantation called Fontevrault.”
He was intrigued. But she didn’t want to talk history and plaster. She wanted him.
“So will you please let me stay here?” she asked. “I really really have to stay here now, Uncle Michael. I mean, like, there’s not really any other possibility now, logically, I mean. I should stay.”
He sat against the pillows, struggling to keep his eyes open.
She took his wrist suddenly. He didn’t seem to know what she was doing—that she was feeling the pulse the same way a doctor would do it. His hand was heavy and slightly cold, too cold. But the heartbeat was steady. It was OK. He wasn’t nearly as sick as her own father. Her own father wasn’t going to live six months. But it wasn’t his heart, it was his liver.
If she closed her eyes she could see the chambers of Michael’s heart. She could see things so brilliant and unnameable and complex as to be like modern painting—a sprawl of daring colors and clots and lines and swelling shapes! Ah. He was OK, this man. If she did get him into bed tonight, she wouldn’t kill him.
“You know your problem right now?” she asked. “It’s those bottles of medicine. Throw them in the trash. That much medicine will make anyone sick.”
“You think so?”
“You’re talking to Mona Mayfair, a twentyfold member of the Mayfair family, who knows things that others don’t know. Oncle Julien was my great-great-grandfather three times. You know what that means?”
“Three lines of descent, from Julien?”
“Yep, and then the other tangled lines from everybody else. Without a computer, no one could even put it all together. But I have a computer and I figured it all out. I’ve got more Mayfair blood in me than just about anybody in the whole family. It’s all ’cause my father and mother were too close as cousins to get married, but my father got my mother pregnant, and that was it. And besides, we’re all so intermarried it doesn’t make much difference…”
She stopped, she was doing her chattering number. Too much talk for a man his age who was this sleepy. Play it with more craft. “You’re OK, big boy,” she said. “Throw out the drugs.”
He smiled. “You mean I’m going to live? I will climb ladders and hammer nails once again?”
“You’ll wield your hammer like Thor,” she said. “But you do have to get off all these sedatives. I don’t know why they’re drugging you like this, probably scared if they don’t that you’ll worry yourself to death about Aunt Rowan.”
He laughed softly, and took her hand now with obvious affection. But there was a dark shadow in his face, in his eyes, and for a second it was in his voice. “But you have more faith in me, right, Mona?”
“Absolutely. But then I’m in love with you.”
“Oh no!” He scoffed.
She held fast to his hand as he tried to pull away. No, there was nothing wrong with his heart how. The drugs were doing him in.
“I am in love with you but you don’t have to do anything about it, Uncle Michael. Just be worthy of it.”
“Right. Be worthy of it, just what I was thinking. A nice little Sacred Heart Academy girl like you.”
“Uncle Michael, pa…leeze!” she said. “I began my erotic adventures when I was eight. I didn’t lose my virginity. I eradicated all traces of it. I am a full-grown woman only pretending to be this little girl sitting on the side of your bed. When you are thirteen, and you cannot disprove it, because all your
“Ah, yes, the Mayfairs of Amelia Street,” he said. “The bigpink house.” He gave a little yawn again, and forced himself into a more truly upright position. “Bea pointed out the house. Nice house. Italianate. Bea said Gifford grew up there.”
Italianate. Architectural term, late nineteenth century. “Yeah, well, it’s a New Orleans bracketed style, as we call it,” she said. “Built 1882, remodeled once by an architect named Sully. Full of all kinds of junk from a plantation called Fontevrault.”
He was intrigued. But she didn’t want to talk history and plaster. She wanted him.
“So will you please let me stay here?” she asked. “I really really have to stay here now, Uncle Michael. I mean, like, there’s not really any other possibility now, logically, I mean. I should stay.”
He sat against the pillows, struggling to keep his eyes open.
She took his wrist suddenly. He didn’t seem to know what she was doing—that she was feeling the pulse the same way a doctor would do it. His hand was heavy and slightly cold, too cold. But the heartbeat was steady. It was OK. He wasn’t nearly as sick as her own father. Her own father wasn’t going to live six months. But it wasn’t his heart, it was his liver.
If she closed her eyes she could see the chambers of Michael’s heart. She could see things so brilliant and unnameable and complex as to be like modern painting—a sprawl of daring colors and clots and lines and swelling shapes! Ah. He was OK, this man. If she did get him into bed tonight, she wouldn’t kill him.
“You know your problem right now?” she asked. “It’s those bottles of medicine. Throw them in the trash. That much medicine will make anyone sick.”
“You think so?”
“You’re talking to Mona Mayfair, a twentyfold member of the Mayfair family, who knows things that others don’t know. Oncle Julien was my great-great-grandfather three times. You know what that means?”
“Three lines of descent, from Julien?”
“Yep, and then the other tangled lines from everybody else. Without a computer, no one could even put it all together. But I have a computer and I figured it all out. I’ve got more Mayfair blood in me than just about anybody in the whole family. It’s all ’cause my father and mother were too close as cousins to get married, but my father got my mother pregnant, and that was it. And besides, we’re all so intermarried it doesn’t make much difference…”
She stopped, she was doing her chattering number. Too much talk for a man his age who was this sleepy. Play it with more craft. “You’re OK, big boy,” she said. “Throw out the drugs.”
He smiled. “You mean I’m going to live? I will climb ladders and hammer nails once again?”
“You’ll wield your hammer like Thor,” she said. “But you do have to get off all these sedatives. I don’t know why they’re drugging you like this, probably scared if they don’t that you’ll worry yourself to death about Aunt Rowan.”
He laughed softly, and took her hand now with obvious affection. But there was a dark shadow in his face, in his eyes, and for a second it was in his voice. “But you have more faith in me, right, Mona?”
“Absolutely. But then I’m in love with you.”
“Oh no!” He scoffed.
She held fast to his hand as he tried to pull away. No, there was nothing wrong with his heart how. The drugs were doing him in.
“I am in love with you but you don’t have to do anything about it, Uncle Michael. Just be worthy of it.”
“Right. Be worthy of it, just what I was thinking. A nice little Sacred Heart Academy girl like you.”
“Uncle Michael, pa…leeze!” she said. “I began my erotic adventures when I was eight. I didn’t lose my virginity. I eradicated all traces of it. I am a full-grown woman only pretending to be this little girl sitting on the side of your bed. When you are thirteen, and you cannot disprove it, because all your
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