Unformatted text preview: !" Ancient Evelyn stared in bafflement at the florist blossoms crowd- ing against the glass, like flowers in prison, wondering where to send the flowers for Gifford. Gifford was the one who had died. Oh, my darling . . . She knew what flowers she wanted to send. She knew what flowers Gifford liked. They wouldn't bring her home for the wake. Of course not. Not the Metairie Mayfairs. They would never never do such a thing. Why, her body was probably already being painted in some refrigerated funeral home. "Don't try to put me on ice in such a place," Evelyn had said after Deirdre's funeral last year, when Mona stood describing the whole thing, how Rowan Mayfair had come from California to lean over the coffin and kiss her dead mother. How Carlotta had keeled over dead that very night into Deirdre's rocker, like she wanted to be dead with Deirdre, leaving that poor Rowan Mayfair from California all alone in that spooky house. "Oh, life, oh, time!" Mona had said, stretching out her thin pale arms, and swinging her long...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10