Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(13)
Author: Anne Rice

“You could be killed, fiddling with electricity,” declared Celia.

“Earned every penny of it on the way home, and that took a year, and don’t ask me how I did it. I had a couple of things going for me, I did. But that’s a story, now, really.”

“You could be electrocuted,” said Celia. “Hooking up your own wires.”

“Darling, you are not in the witness box,” said Bea anxiously.

“Look, Mary Jane,” said Michael, “if you need anything like that, I’ll come down there and hook it up for you. I mean it. You just tell me when, I’ll be there.”

Twenty-five thousand dollars?

Mona’s eyes had drifted to Rowan. Rowan was frowning just a little at the flowers, as if the flowers were talking to her in a quiet and secret tongue.

There followed a colorful description from Mary Jane of climbing swamp cypresses, of knowing just what electric wires to touch and not to touch, of purloined work gloves and boots. Maybe this girl was some kind of genius.

“What other stocks do you own?” asked Mona.

“What do you care at your age about the stock market?” asked Mary Jane with blithering ignorance.

“Good heavens, Mary Jane,” Mona had said, trying to sound as much as she could like Beatrice, “I’ve always had a great obsession with the stock market. Business to me is an art. Everyone knows that about me. I plan someday to run my own mutual fund. I assume you know the term, mutual fund?”

“Well, sure I do,” said Mary Jane, laughing at herself in an utterly agreeable and forgiving manner.

“I have, in the last few weeks, already completely designed my own portfolio,” Mona said, and then she’d broken off, feeling dumb for having been baited like that by someone who probably was not even listening to her. Derision from the firm of Mayfair and Mayfair was one thing—and it would not last long—but from this girl it was another.

But the girl had really looked at her, and stopped just using her for a sounding board, while taking little peeping glances in between her own hasty words.

“Is that so?” asked Mary Jane. “Well, let me ask you something now. What about this Shopper’s Channel on TV? I think this is going to go over like crazy? You know? I’ve put ten grand in the Shopper’s Channel. You know what happened?”

“The stock’s nearly doubled in the last four months,” said Mona.

“You got it, that’s right, now how did you know that? Well, you’re some strange kid, aren’t you now? And I thought you were one of those uptown girls, with that ribbon in your hair, you know, that you always wore, and going to Sacred Heart, you know? And I figured you wouldn’t even talk to me.”

A little pain had flared in Mona at that moment, pain and pity for this girl, for anybody who felt that cast out, that snubbed. Mona had never in her life suffered that lack of confidence. And this girl was interesting, putting it all together on her own, with far less nuts and bolts than Mona had.

“Hold it, please, darlings, let’s not talk Wall Street,” said Beatrice. “Mary Jane, how is Granny? You haven’t told us a word. And it’s four o’clock, and you have to leave soon if you’re going to drive all the way back—”

“Oh, Granny’s fine, Aunt Beatrice,” said Mary Jane, but she had been looking straight at Mona. “Now, you know what happened to Granny after Mama came and got me and took me away to Los Angeles? I was six years old then, you know. Did you hear this story?”

“Yeah,” said Mona.

Everybody had. Beatrice was still embarrassed about it. Celia stared at the girl as though she were a giant mosquito. Only Michael seemed uninformed.

What had happened was this: Mary Jane’s grandmother, Dolly Jean Mayfair, had been slapped in the parish home after her daughter left with six-year-old Mary Jane. Dolly Jean was supposed to have died last year and been buried in the family tomb. And the funeral had been a big affair, only because when somebody called New Orleans, all the Mayfairs drove out there to Napoleonville, and beat their chests in grief and regret that they had let this old woman, poor Dolly Jean, die in a parish home. Most of them had never heard of her.

Indeed, none of them had really known Dolly Jean. Or at least they had not known her as an old lady. Lauren and Celia had seen her many times when they were all little girls, of course.

Ancient Evelyn had known Dolly Jean, but Ancient Evelyn had never left Amelia Street to ride to a country funeral, and no one had even thought of asking her about it.

Well, when Mary Jane hit town a year ago, and heard the story of her grandmother dying and being buried, she’d scoffed at it, even laughing in Bea’s face.

“Hell, she’s not dead,” Mary Jane had said. “She came to me in a dream and said, ‘Mary Jane, come get me. I want to go home.’ Now I’m going back to Napoleonville, and you have to tell me where that parish home is.”

For Michael’s benefit, she had now repeated the entire tale, and the look of astonishment on Michael’s face was becoming unintentionally comic.

“How come Dolly Jean didn’t tell you in the dream where the home was?” Mona had asked.

Beatrice had shot her a disapproving look.

“Well, she didn’t, that’s a fact. And that’s a good point, too. I have a whole theory about apparitions and why they, you know, get so mixed up.”

“We all do,” said Mona.

“Mona, tone it down,” said Michael.

Just as if I’m his daughter now, thought Mona indignantly. And he still hasn’t taken his eyes off Mary Jane. But it had been said affectionately.

“Honey, what happened?” Michael had pushed.

“Well, an old lady like that,” Mary Jane had resumed, “she doesn’t always know where she is, even in a dream, but she knew where she was from! This is exactly what happened. I walked into the door of that old folks’ home, and there, slap-bang in the middle of the recreation room, or whatever they called it, was my grandmother and she looked up at me, right at me, and after all those years she said, ‘Where you been, Mary Jane? Take me home, chère, I’m tired of waiting.’ ”

They had buried the wrong person from the old folks’ home.

The real Granny Dolly Jean Mayfair had been alive, receiving but never laying eyes upon a welfare check every month with somebody else’s name on it. A royal inquisition had taken place to prove it, and then Granny Mayfair and Mary Jane Mayfair had gone back to live in the ruins of the plantation house, and a team of Mayfairs had provided them with the basic necessities, and Mary Jane had stood outside, shooting her pistol at soft-drink bottles and saying that they’d be just fine, they could take care of themselves. She had some bucks she’d made on the road, she was kind of a nut about doing things her own way, no thank you kindly.