Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [92]
I walked up to her, picked her up, with her utter soft silky willingness, and carried her inside. She lay her head against my chest.
The front room was full of people.
“The car’s turning into the drive,” I said, “what’s wrong?”
We sat down on the living room couch, me with her in my lap. I patted her. She was really drained and miserable.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she cried, “we’ve been so alone out here.”
Little Tommy Blackwood, aged thirteen, Quinn’s uncle by blood, sat in one of the chairs opposite and watched me in a really formal sort of way, his fingers on one arm of the chair. He was a truly marvelous young man, much as Quinn had described, and from his travels with Aunt Queen and the all too human Quinn in Europe, he had imbibed an entire attitude towards life which would stand him in good stead always.
Cool to see him again.
Nash Penfield, his tutor, was there also, attired in an impeccable herringbone suit, a man who seemed born to have a calming effect on others, though why he could not calm Jasmine I wasn’t certain. He seemed puzzled as he stood near to Tommy’s chair, eying Jasmine with profound concern, and nodding to me respectfully.
Big Ramona, Jasmine’s grandmother, sat glowering near the couch, in a somber wine-colored gabardine dress with an ornate diamond pin just below her right shoulder. Big Ramona’s hair was brushed back artfully to a twist on the back of her head, and she was wearing stockings and fancy black shoes.
“Oh hush up, girl,” Big Ramona said at once to Jasmine, “you’re just drawing attention to yourself. Sit up straight! Stop talking like a fool!”
Two of the Shed Men, still in their work clothes, were standing awkwardly behind her. One of them was cheerful Allen, with the round face and white hair. I didn’t know the name of the other one. Correct. Yes I did. Joel.
And nobody said anything after Big Ramona bawled out Jasmine.
Before I could begin a mind search, Quinn came into the room, and Mona, the sequined harpy, went on back the hall like a streak of silver light, and into Aunt Queen’s bedroom. Aunt Queen’s bedroom was the only bedroom on the main floor.
A ripple of interest and wonder went through the assembly as to Mona’s presence and Mona’s appearance, but nobody had gotten a really good look at her. The insolent little monster.
It was Quinn who mattered here. He sat opposite me just inside the huge hallway door. His characteristic innocence slowly alchemized into a gentlemanly air of command as he scanned the gathering. Then he rose to his feet quickly as Cyndy, the Nurse, came in, looking quite lovely in her starched white uniform, also quite tearful and sad, and took a chair far away, by the piano.
Next there appeared the sheriff, a rotund and jocular human being whom I’d met the night of Aunt Queen’s death, followed by a person whom I identified at once as Grady Breen, the family lawyer, aged, portly and stuffed into a three-piece pinstriped suit, whom Quinn had described to me when he’d been telling me his life story.
“Whoa, this is quite serious,” I said under my breath.
Jasmine was shuddering against me, and clinging to me. “Don’t you let me go, Lestat,” she said. “Don’t you let me go. You don’t know what’s after me.”
“Honey bunch, nothing can get you when you’re with me,” I whispered. With loving hands I tried to distract her from the fact that my body feels like a chunk of marble.
“Jasmine, get off that man’s lap,” whispered Big Ramona, “and start behaving like the Head Housekeeper here, where you are supposed to be! I tell you, the only thing holding some people back is their own selves!”
Jasmine did not obey.
The two official gentlemen found chairs in the shadows rather close to Cyndy, the Nurse, as though they didn’t want to invade the family circle. The sheriff’s belly poured over his belt, which was laden with weapons and a crackling walkie-talkie, which he silenced with embarrassed suddenness.
Jasmine put her left arm around me and hung on as though I were trying to release her,