Merrick - Anne Rice [83]
As the caretaker greeted me, and brought me up the front steps, I saw that Merrick’s long windows were well barred also, in spite of their white lace curtains and shades, and that lights were on throughout the house.
The porch was clean; the old square pillars were solid; the leaded glass sparkled within the twin windows of the polished double doors. A wave of remembrance passed over me, nevertheless.
“She won’t answer the bell, Sir,” said the caretaker, a man I scarcely noticed in my haste. “But the door’s unlocked for you. I took her some supper at five o’clock.”
“She asked for her supper?” I inquired.
“No, Sir, she never said anything. But she ate the food. I picked up the dishes at six.”
I opened the door and found myself in the comfortable air-cooled front hall. I saw at once that the old parlor and dining room to my right had been splendidly refurnished with rather bright Chinese carpets. A modern sheen covered the old furniture. The old mirrors above the white marble mantels were as dark as they had ever been.
To my left lay the front bedroom; Great Nananne’s bed was dressed with an ivory white canopy and a counterpane of heavy crocheted lace.
In a polished wooden rocking chair before the bed, facing the front windows, sat Merrick, a wobbling light easily illuminating her thoughtful face.
There was a bottle of Flor de Caña rum on the little candlestand table beside her.
She lifted the glass to her lips, drank from it, and then sat back, continuing to stare off as if she didn’t know that I was there.
I stopped at the threshold.
“Darling,” I said, “aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
Without so much as turning her head, she smiled.
“You never liked straight rum, David,” she said softly. “You’re a Scotch man like my old stepfather, Matthew. It’s in the dining room. How about some Highland Macallan? Twenty-five years old. That good enough for my beloved Superior General?”
“I should say so, gracious lady,” I replied. “But never mind that just now. May I step into your boudoir?”
She uttered a small pretty laugh. “Sure, David,” she said, “come on in.”
I was startled as soon as I looked to my left. A large marble altar had been erected between the two front windows, and I saw there the old multitude of sizable plaster saints. The Virgin Mary wore her crown and the vestments of Mount Carmel, holding the radiant Baby Jesus beneath her innocent smile.
Some elements had been added. I realized they were the Three Magi of Christian scripture and lore. The altar was no Christmas crèche, you understand. The Magi or Wise Men had merely been included in a large panoply of sacred figures, more or less on their own terms.
I spied several of the mysterious jade idols among the saints, including one very mean little idol which held its scepter quite ready for duty or attack.
Two other rather vicious little characters flanked the large statue of St. Peter. And there before them lay the green jade hummingbird perforator, or knife, one of the most beautiful artifacts in Merrick’s large cache.
The gorgeous axe of obsidian which I had seen years ago was given a place of prominence between the Virgin Mary and the Arc Angel Michael. It had a lovely luster in the dim light.
But perhaps the most surprising contents of the altar were the daguerreotypes and old photographs of Merrick’s people, ranged thickly as any display upon a parlor piano, the multitude of faces lost in the gloom.
A double row of candles burned before the entire array, and there were fresh flowers aplenty, in numerous vases. Everything appeared dusted and quite clean. That is, until I realized that the shriveled hand had its place among the offerings. It stood out against the white marble, curled and hideous, very much as it had seemed when I