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Authors: David Stacton
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forgotten it himself.
VII
T here are so many worlds we cannot touch, and one of them was his mother’s. To that degree he had not gotten away from Santa Barbara at all. He sometimes felt he never would until she died. Perhaps she felt the same thing, for she refused to die.
*
She was seeing FatherMacCrone. FatherMacCrone was Irish and he was a priest. He was a man of sixty, with a hooked nose from which the central cartilage stuck up like a razor. He had known Antoinette Barocco in the old days, before all this sullen magnificence, and he paused on the terrace of her house before going inside. He thought her garden as horrible as those flowers she had planted in it, with their leather petals and great phallic spikes. It was a very fashionable garden.
He had known her for forty years, and yet there had always been something about her that disgusted him. There had always been that smell of death in the garden. Now ithad also invaded the house.
He went down a corridor, deeper into the shadows, and opened a door. The room he entered was filled with green light from the garden, and after the darkness of the corridor , the effect was startlingly bright.
She was sitting on a chaise-longue, propped against the pillows. He could see one hand, a yellow skeleton covered with mottled skin, gripping the arm of the chaise. She was looking out the window, and he wondered what she saw. The shadows of the bushes outside cast shadows in the room, so that he seemed to have stepped into a place alive with restless movement, reflections that ran towards him and then, angrily, because they could not reach him, hesitated and were pulled back.
For a moment he thought she was dead. He walked over to her, around the chaise-longue, afraid to look down at her. She looked up out of dying and recognized him.
“I sent away Dr. Harben,” she snapped. “That leaves you.” Her voice had that sharp edge of a desire to bargain for something. She cocked her head to one side, looking closely at him with her slightly insane eyes, and drew her mouth down over teeth still her own.
“This room isn’t good for you,” he said.
That seemed to please her. “I wouldn’t leave my plants,” she told him. No doubt she had some kind of affinity with them. “I’m not going to die, and I can’t be killed.”
He believed her. She refused to let go. But it was not because she wanted to live: it was for some other reason, that even though he did not know what it was, made him uneasy. While he watched her Angelica came into the room.
Angelica was the most subservient of her daughters.
“What was that?” The old woman had sharp ears.
Angelica looked confused. She came to the chaise-longue and whispered in the old woman’s ear. Whatever she said, it changed Antoinette. She became alert and vigilant. She waved Angelica impatiently aside.
“I’m expecting my son,” she said to MacCrone. “Apparently he’s here.”
She had four sons, but when she said “my son” she always meant Christopher. He was the only one she really enjoyed hating. With a sigh, Father MacCrone tried to move out of the room, but before he could do so, the door opened, and in came Christopher. He seemed surprised to see the priest.
Antoinette was more tense. Her small eyes were suddenly alive, her hands, like wicked claws, folding and unfolding along the arms of the chaise-longue. The resemblance between the old woman and Christopher had always shocked MacCrone. He pretended not to notice it. Nor had he ever been able to make Christopher out. He wanted to leave, but the old woman motioned him to stay.
“I suppose they said I was dying,” she said to Christopher .
“Yes.” Christopher moved slightly closer to his mother. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she said bitterly. “Nothing.” MacCrone began to edge his way to the door, and Christopher glanced at his mother.
“I’ll show you the way out,” he said.
“He knows the way,” called
VII
T here are so many worlds we cannot touch, and one of them was his mother’s. To that degree he had not gotten away from Santa Barbara at all. He sometimes felt he never would until she died. Perhaps she felt the same thing, for she refused to die.
*
She was seeing FatherMacCrone. FatherMacCrone was Irish and he was a priest. He was a man of sixty, with a hooked nose from which the central cartilage stuck up like a razor. He had known Antoinette Barocco in the old days, before all this sullen magnificence, and he paused on the terrace of her house before going inside. He thought her garden as horrible as those flowers she had planted in it, with their leather petals and great phallic spikes. It was a very fashionable garden.
He had known her for forty years, and yet there had always been something about her that disgusted him. There had always been that smell of death in the garden. Now ithad also invaded the house.
He went down a corridor, deeper into the shadows, and opened a door. The room he entered was filled with green light from the garden, and after the darkness of the corridor , the effect was startlingly bright.
She was sitting on a chaise-longue, propped against the pillows. He could see one hand, a yellow skeleton covered with mottled skin, gripping the arm of the chaise. She was looking out the window, and he wondered what she saw. The shadows of the bushes outside cast shadows in the room, so that he seemed to have stepped into a place alive with restless movement, reflections that ran towards him and then, angrily, because they could not reach him, hesitated and were pulled back.
For a moment he thought she was dead. He walked over to her, around the chaise-longue, afraid to look down at her. She looked up out of dying and recognized him.
“I sent away Dr. Harben,” she snapped. “That leaves you.” Her voice had that sharp edge of a desire to bargain for something. She cocked her head to one side, looking closely at him with her slightly insane eyes, and drew her mouth down over teeth still her own.
“This room isn’t good for you,” he said.
That seemed to please her. “I wouldn’t leave my plants,” she told him. No doubt she had some kind of affinity with them. “I’m not going to die, and I can’t be killed.”
He believed her. She refused to let go. But it was not because she wanted to live: it was for some other reason, that even though he did not know what it was, made him uneasy. While he watched her Angelica came into the room.
Angelica was the most subservient of her daughters.
“What was that?” The old woman had sharp ears.
Angelica looked confused. She came to the chaise-longue and whispered in the old woman’s ear. Whatever she said, it changed Antoinette. She became alert and vigilant. She waved Angelica impatiently aside.
“I’m expecting my son,” she said to MacCrone. “Apparently he’s here.”
She had four sons, but when she said “my son” she always meant Christopher. He was the only one she really enjoyed hating. With a sigh, Father MacCrone tried to move out of the room, but before he could do so, the door opened, and in came Christopher. He seemed surprised to see the priest.
Antoinette was more tense. Her small eyes were suddenly alive, her hands, like wicked claws, folding and unfolding along the arms of the chaise-longue. The resemblance between the old woman and Christopher had always shocked MacCrone. He pretended not to notice it. Nor had he ever been able to make Christopher out. He wanted to leave, but the old woman motioned him to stay.
“I suppose they said I was dying,” she said to Christopher .
“Yes.” Christopher moved slightly closer to his mother. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she said bitterly. “Nothing.” MacCrone began to edge his way to the door, and Christopher glanced at his mother.
“I’ll show you the way out,” he said.
“He knows the way,” called
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