Merrick - Anne Rice [55]
To see this composed little girl now near hysterics wrenched my heart.
They all but carried her to the funeral service limousine. The coffin came behind her, accompanied by solemn pallbearers to the hearse, and then off to the cemetery we rode, Aaron and I in the Talamasca car, uncomfortably separated from Merrick but resigned that it was for the best.
The sorrowful theatricality was not diminished as the rain came steadily down upon us, and the body of Great Nananne was carried through the wildly overgrown path of St. Louis No. 1 amid high marble tombs with pointed roofs, to be placed in an oven-like vault of a three-story grave.
The mosquitoes were almost unbearable. The weeds seemed alive with invisible insects, and Merrick, at the sight of the coffin being put in its place, screamed again.
Once more the genteel women rubbed her arms and wiped her head, and kissed her cheeks.
Then Merrick let out a terrible cry in French.
“Where are you, Cold Sandra, where are you, Honey in the Sunshine? Why didn’t you come home!”
There were rosary beads aplenty, and people praying aloud, as Merrick leant against the grave, with her right hand on the exposed coffin.
Finally, having spent herself for the moment, she grew quiet and turned and moved decisively, with the help of the women, towards Aaron and me. As the women patted her, she threw her arms around Aaron and buried her head in his neck.
I could see nothing of the young woman in her now. I felt utter compassion for her. I felt the Talamasca must embrace her with every conceivable element of fantasy that she should ever desire.
The priest meanwhile insisted the cemetery attendants bolt the stone into place NOW, which caused some argument, but eventually this did happen, the stone thereby sealing up the little grave slot and the coffin now officially removed from touch or view.
I remember taking out my handkerchief and wiping my eyes.
Aaron stroked Merrick’s long brown hair and told her in French that Great Nananne had lived a marvelous and long life, and that her one deathbed wish—that Merrick be safe—had been fulfilled.
Merrick lifted her head and uttered only one sentence. “Cold Sandra should have come.” I remember it because when she said it several of the onlookers shook their heads and exchanged condemnatory glances with one another.
I felt rather helpless. I studied the faces of the men and women around me. I saw some of the blackest people of African blood I have ever beheld in America, and some of the lightest as well. I saw people of extraordinary beauty and others who were merely simple. Almost no one was ordinary, as we understand that word. It seemed quite impossible to guess the lineage or racial history of anyone I saw.
But none of these people were close to Merrick. Except for Aaron and for me, she was basically alone. The well-dressed genteel women had done their duty, but they really did not know her. That was plain. And they were happy for her that she had two rich uncles who were there to take her away.
As for the “white Mayfairs” whom Aaron had spotted yesterday, none had appeared. This was “great luck,” according to Aaron. If they had known a Mayfair child was friendless in the wide world, they would have insisted upon filling the need. Indeed, I realize now, they had not been at the wake, either. They had done their duty, Merrick had told them something satisfactory, and they had gone their way.
Now it was back towards the old house.
A truck from Oak Haven was already waiting for the transport of Merrick’s possessions. Merrick had no intention of leaving her aunt’s dwelling without everything that was hers.
Sometime or other before we reached the house, Merrick