CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dr. Yarrow arrives just after the movie finishes. He’s a kindly, bespectacled man who looks so small and harmless that I’d give myself even odds in a fistfight with him. I realize this is no reason for me to trust him, but I feel somewhat better knowing that the psychologist looks so unassuming.
He introduces himself to me, and after some small talk, he says, “I’ll be some time with them, Miss Wilcox. I’ll need to speak to them separately and together, probably more than once. Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to talk to you as well.”
I blink. “To me?”
“Yes. You’ve spent more time around the children than anyone recently. I’ll want your input on the current tragedy and how it’s affecting them.”
I sigh with relief. “Right. Of course.”
He gives me a smile that reminds me of Santa Claus, only much more diminutive. Then he takes the children with him.
While the children talk to him, I walk downstairs. The parlor is empty, and it hits me that I've almost never seen this family outside of the dining room or their own rooms. At least, it seems that way. It's as though the house itself is cursed, and its inhabitants scurry furtively between the only spaces they now are relatively safe.
The sheet music is still in the parlor. I stare at it, almost surprised that it doesn’t burst into flames or begin whispering to me. Instead, it looks only like a regular sheaf of old, yellowing paper with faded handwriting and notation. The piano only looks like a quite beautiful and well-crafted musical instrument.
Philippa has begged me to destroy this piece. She says I’m the only one who can. I see the demon, the woman she mentioned by name as my sister.
How could she know my sister? Forget all the nonsense about voodoo and spirits. Maybe she heard me mention Annie’s name, but after all, I’m here to learn about my sister’s past. I should at least talk to Philippa to determine if she knows something.
I head to the kitchen, hoping to find her there. I do, with Etienne. He’s on his knees in front of her, both hands on her hips, his head pressed against her waist. I’m quite ashamed to admit that my first thought is a very salacious one, and I gasp and turn to leave.
Then I hear him speak, “Please reconsider. We have no one else. My mother is…”
“Your mother is insane,” Philippa says.
Her voice is curt and accusatory. I turn around and see in her eyes that whatever attraction she felt for Etienne is gone. She stares at him, hard-eyed and unpitying. “I’m done, Etienne. I’m done with your family and done with your bullshit. All of you. Your mother, your son, your governess…”
She sees me, and her face pales briefly. Then it hardens again. “Yeah, that’s right,” she says to me. “I’m done with your bullshit too. You know what you have to do, but you’re not gonna do it because not so deep down, you’re just enjoying the show. Well, I’m not, and I’m leaving.”
She pushes Etienne off of her and I step aside before she can shove me out of the way too. As she passes me, she shoots me a hateful glare, and I have to resist an unexplainable urge to hiss at her. I don’t like that urge. It makes me feel that I might have already lost control of my faculties.
Etienne sighs and straightens. He gives me a tense smile and says, “Well, that’s one of you down. We’ll see how much longer you last.”
“What was that about?” I ask. “I’ve never seen her like that.”
“Neither have I. I suppose it didn’t help that I turned into a fool.” He shakes his head. “Begging a woman to stay on my knees… Julia would have loved to see that.”
“Julia was your wife?” I ask.
“She was. She died when the children were young. She had a wonderful sense of humor, and I have a feeling she would have gotten a kick out of everything that’s happening to us.” Seeing my expression, he clarifies, “That was a joke. Frankly, if she were alive, we’d probably be staying in a motel somewhere in Wyoming while she worked a bartending job to support us.” He laughs, a disturbing and sickly titter. “Maybe that’s what I should do. Could you imagine that? The scion of the Lacroix family pouring whiskey for ranchers and getting my ass slapped by middle-aged women too deep in their cups?”
I don’t quite know that such a career would turn out the way he thinks it would, but I don’t want to do anything to trigger the breakdown he’s close to reaching. I don’t think I can deal with yet another nervous collapse in this house.
He takes a deep breath and asks, “Dr. Yarrow is with the children?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Good. Maybe he can help them make some sense out of everything.” He looks past me into the parlor and pales a shade. “I need to get them out of this house.”
He’s leaping from subject to subject. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask. “Or some tea?”
“You’re English, right? Let’s try tea. I’m sure you can make it better than us poor Americans can.” He laughs at his joke, then says, “Will you join me? I’ve been going insane keeping all of my thoughts to myself, and since you’re the last composed person in this house, maybe it will help to talk to you.”
I am far from composed, but I would appreciate his perspective on the situation. “Of course. Do you take your tea with cream or sugar?”
"I defer to the expert," he replies. "However, you think I should drink it."
I make breakfast tea and serve it with cream and sugar on the side. Etienne waits for me in the dining room, and when I arrive with the tea, I find him tapping his finger rapidly on the desk, staring once more at the parlor. From where he sits, the piano is visible, the cursed sheet music on the stand above the keys.
I hand him his tea and lift mine to my lips. Just before I sip, he asks, “Do you believe in curses, Mary?”
I have no idea anymore . “Not in the spiritual sense, no. But I believe that actions have consequences, and those consequences affect people long after the memory of the action fades. If those effects are sufficiently strong and sufficiently negative, and if they affect enough people, then it can seem to be almost supernatural and could properly be called a curse.”
He nods. “Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s just Dad’s insanity spreading until it consumes us all.” He taps the table again, then looks at me. “Dad was famous in the world of jazz.”
“Yes. I’ve heard he was very well respected.”
“He was revered. The general public never knew who he was, but a lot of people the general public would know owe a lot of their success to him. He was a brilliant composer. Too brilliant. He was… Shall we say, tortured by success.”
“All too common a story with creative people,” I reply.
“Yes, but he wasn’t… Well… How should I put this?” He cocks his head, and a moment later, he says, “Dad was a perfectionist.”
“Another common failing,” I say with a wry smile.
“Yes, but perfection wasn’t even good enough for him. He wanted to create a melody that was beyond anything anyone had ever composed before, something that could tap into the fabric of nature itself.”
He meets my eyes and says, “Do you believe in the supernatural, Mary?”
“I believe that some things are difficult to understand and describe,” I say carefully.
He nods. “Well, my father’s skill was supernatural. I can think of no other way to describe the power his talent held over people. It compelled them. He knew this, too. But he wanted more. He wanted to be able to shape their lives, to shape the world. It drove him mad in the end. You’ve heard that his death was a heart attack, yes?”
I nod. “Yes. During a performance at the Midnight Melody.”
“Well, I don’t believe it was a heart attack.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No. I think he succeeded.”
“At creating a melody that could shape the world?”
“Yes. I think this piece, this Vie Apres a la Mort , broke through the barrier that separates the physical and spiritual world. I know you’ll think me insane for talking like this, but for people here, the spiritual world is an integral part of who we are.”
“I won’t pretend that I believe everything you’re saying,” I reply. Although I’m starting to seriously consider it. “But I do understand how important spirituality is to the people of New Orleans, and there’s no doubt that this piece is a very powerful piece.”
“It is,” Etienne insists. “But it’s come at a terrible cost.” He shivers and sips his tea. “I think my father opened a door he wasn’t prepared to open. I think that he viewed his talent as being able to manipulate the spiritual realm or even create a separate realm for his own spirituality. But all he did was open a door. And I think something came through that door.”
He hesitates a moment. The look in his eyes reminds me uncomfortably of Amelia’s expression earlier when she tells me almost the same story he’s telling me. “The night he died, I was managing the theater. Claude had the night off due to some family emergency, so I was overseeing things. I’ll never forget that night. He collapsed on the stage, Mother and I rushed to his side, and…” He shivers again. “And I swear on the life of my children, Mary, when I reached him, he was still alive. And he was laughing. I looked into his eyes while he chuckled with glee, but it wasn’t my father looking back at me. I think…” He looks toward the parlor again. “I think something came through that door and took him back where it came from. I think that piece opens the door, and each time it does, something comes through. It tried to take my son last night. And it won’t be the last night.”
“Why don’t you destroy the composition?” I ask. “Burn it or tear it up?”
He smiles thinly. “What makes you think I haven’t?”
I look back at the piece and recall that a moment ago, I was prepared to destroy it myself. I could do it now. I could stand, walk to the parlor and tear the sheets to pages.
I could do that, but I don’t. I sit right where I am, looking stupidly at it like some sort of Neanderthal.
“Exactly,” he says after a moment. “It won’t let itself get destroyed. It finds a part of you that’s weak enough to let it through, and it works its way into your head. That’s how it protects itself. That’s also how it spreads.”
A knock on the kitchen door causes us both to jump. A moment later, Dr. Yarrow pokes his head around the corner and smiles at me. “Are you ready, Miss Wilcox?”
I look at Etienne, but he’s already standing. “She’s all yours, Doctor.” He turns to me and says, “Thank you for talking to me.”
Then he leaves me alone to wonder anew what mess I’ve gotten myself into and how much danger I’ll face trying to climb out it.