paper. "Oh, this is in the Garden District. You can
take the streetcar. Follow me," he said. He showed me
where to wait.
"Thank you," I told him. Shortly afterward, the
streetcar arrived. I gave the driver my address and he
told me he would let me know when to get off. I sat
down quickly, wiped my sweaty face with my
handkerchief, and closed my eyes, hoping my
heartbeat would slow down before I stood in my
father's doorway. Otherwise, the excitement over what
had already happened, and my actually confronting
him would cause me to simply faint at his feet. When the streetcar entered what was known as
the Garden District of New Orleans, we passed under
a long canopy of spreading oaks and passed yards
filled with camellias and magnolia trees. Here there
were elegant homes with garden walls that enclosed
huge banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine.
Each corner sidewalk was embedded with old ceramic
tiles that spelled out the names of the streets. Some of
the cobblestone sidewalks had become warped by the
roots of old oak trees, but to me this made it even
more quaint and special. These streets were quieter,
fewer and fewer street revelers in evidence.
"St. Charles Avenue," the streetcar operator
cried. An electric chill surged through my body
turning my legs to jelly, and for a moment, I couldn't stand up. I was almost there, face-to-face with my real father. My heart began to pound. I reached for the hand strap and pulled myself into a standing position. The side doors slapped open with an abruptness that made me gasp. Finally, I willed one foot forward and stepped down to the street. The doors closed quickly and the streetcar continued, leaving me on the walk, feeling more stranded and lost than ever, clutching my
little cloth bag to my side.
I could hear the sounds of the Mardi Gras
floating in from every corner of the city. An
automobile sped by with revelers hanging their heads
out the windows, blowing trumpets and throwing
streamers at me. They waved and cried out, but
continued on their merry way while I remained
transfixed, as firmly rooted as an old oak tree. It was a
warm evening, but here in the city, with the
streetlights around me, it was harder to see the stars
that had always been such a comfort to me in the
bayou. I took a deep breath and finally crossed down
St. Charles Avenue toward the address on the slip of
paper I now clutched like a rosary in my small hand. St. Charles Avenue was so quiet in comparison
to the festive sounds and wild excitement on the inner
city streets. I found it somewhat eerie. To me it was as if I had entered a dream, slipped through some magical doorway between reality and illusion, and found myself in my own land of Oz. Nothing looked real: not the tall palm trees, the pretty streetlights, the cobblestone walks and streets, and especial-ly not the enormous houses that looked more like small palaces, the homes of princes and princesses, queens and kings. These mansions, some of which were walled in, were set in the middle of large tracts of land. There were many beautiful gardens full of swelling masses of shining green foliage and heavy with roses and
every other kind of flower one could think of. I strolled on slowly, drinking in the opulence
and wondering how one family could live in each of
these grand houses with such beautiful grounds. How
could anyone be so rich? I wondered. I was so
entranced, so mesmerized by the wealth and the
beauty, I almost walked right past the address on my
slip of paper. When I stopped and looked up at the
Dumas residence, I could only stand and gape
stupidly. Its out-buildings, gardens, and stables
occupied most of this block. All of it was surrounded
by a fence in cornstalk pattern.
This was my real father's home, but the ivory
white mansion that loomed before me looked more like a house built for a Greek god. It was a two-story building with tall columns, the tops of which were shaped like inverted bells decorated with leaves. There were two galeries, an enormous one before the main entrance and another above it. Each had a different decorative cast iron railing, the one on the bottom showing flowers and the one above, showing
fruits.
I strolled along the walk, circling the house and
grounds. I saw the pool and the tennis court and
continued to gape in awe. There was something
magical here. It seemed as if I had entered my
dreamland of eternal spring. Two gray squirrels
paused in their foray for food and stared out at me,
more curious than afraid. The air smelled of green
bamboo and gardenias. Blooming azaleas, yellow and
red roses, and hibiscus were everywhere in view. The
trellises and the gazebo were covered with trumpet
vine and clumps of purple wisteria. Redwood boxes
on railings and sills were thick with petunias. Right now the house was lit up, all of its
windows bright. Slowly, I made a full circle and then
paused at the front gate; but as I stood there gaping,
drinking in the elegance and grandeur, I began to
wonder what I could have been thinking to have traveled this far and come to this house. Surely the people who lived within such a mansion were so different from me, I might as well have gone to another country where people spoke a different language. My heart sank. A throbbing pain in my head stabbed sharply. What was I doing here, me, a nobody, an orphan Cajun girl who had deluded herself into believing there was a rainbow just waiting for me at the end of my storm of trouble? I knew now that I would have to find my way back to the bus station and
return to Houma.
Dejected, my head lowered, I turned from the
house and started to walk away when suddenly,
seemingly coming from out of the thin air, a small,
fire engine red, convertible sports car squeaked to an
abrupt stop right in front of me. The driver hopped
over the door. He was a tall young man with a shock
of shiny golden hair that now fell wildly over his
smooth forehead. Despite his blond strands, he had a
dark complexion which only made his cerulean eyes
glimmer that much more in the glow of the street
lamp. Dressed in a tuxedo, his shoulders back, his
torso slim, he appeared before me like a prince--
gallant, elegant, strong, for the features of his
handsome face did seem carved out of some royal
heritage.
He had a strong and perfect mouth and a
Roman nose, perfectly straight, to go along with those
dazzling blue eyes. The lines of his jaw turned up
sharply, enhancing the impression that his face had
been etched out to duplicate the face of some movie
star idol. I was breathless for a moment, unable to
move under the radiance of his warm and attractive
smile, which quickly turned into a soft laugh. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked.
"And what sort of costume is this? Are you playing
the poor girl or what?" he asked, stepping around me
as if judging me in some fashion contest.
"Pardon?"
My question threw him into a fit of hysterics.
He clutched his side and leaned back on the hood of
his sports car. "That's great," he said. "I love it.
/> Pardon?" he mimicked. "I don't think it's so funny," I
said indignantly, but that just made him laugh again. "I'd never expect you to choose anything like
this," he said, holding his graceful hand out toward
me, palm up. "And where did you get that bag, a thrift
shop? What's in it anyway, more rags?"
I pulled my bag against my stomach and
straightened up quickly.
"These aren't rags," I retorted. He started to
laugh again. It seemed I could do nothing, say
nothing, gaze at him in no way without causing him to
become hysterical. "What's so funny? These happen
to be my sole belongins right now," I emphasized. He
shook his head and held his wide smile.
"Really, Gisselle, you're perfect. I swear," he
said, holding up his hand to take an oath, "this is the
best you've ever come up with, and that indignant
attitude to go along with it . . . you're going to win the
prize for sure. All of your girlfriends will die with
envy. Brilliant. And to surprise me, too. I love it." "First," I began, "my name is not Gisselle." "Oh," he said, still holding a grin as if he were
humoring a mad woman, "and what name have you
chosen?"
"My name is Ruby," I said.
"Ruby? I like that," he said, looking thoughtful.
"Ruby. . . a jewel. . . to describe your hair. Well, your
hair has always been your most prized possession,
aside from your real diamonds and rubies, emeralds,
and pearls, that is. And your clothes and your shoes,"
he cataloged with a laugh. "So," he said, straightening
up and changing to a serious face, "I'm to introduce
you to everyone as Mademoiselle Ruby, is that it?" "I don't care what you do," I said. "I certainly
don't expect you to introduce me to anyone," I added
and started away.
"Huh?" he cried. I started to cross the street
when he walked quickly behind me and seized my
right elbow. "What are you doing? Where are you
going?" he asked, his face now contorted in
confusion.
"I'm going home," I said.
"Home? Where's home?"
"I'm returning to Houma, if you must know," I
said. "Now, if you will be so kind as to let me go, I--" "Houma? What?" He stared at me a moment
and then, instead of releasing me, he seized my other
arm at the elbow and turned me fully around so that I
would be in the center of the pool of light created by
the street lamp. He studied me for a moment, those
soft eyes, now troubled and intense as he swept his
gaze over my face. "You do look . . different," he
muttered. "And not in cosmetic ways either. I don't
understand, Gisselle."
"I told you," I said. "I'm not anyone named
Gisselle. My name is Ruby. I come from Houma." He continued to stare, but still held me at the
elbows. Then he shook his head and smiled again. "Come on, Gisselle. I'm sorry I'm a little late,
but you're carrying this too far. I admit it's a great
costume and disguise. What else do you want from
me?" he pleaded.
"I'd like you to let go of my arms," I said. He
did so and stepped back, his confusion now becoming
indignation and anger.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. I took a
deep breath and looked back at the house. "If you're
not Gisselle, then what were you doing in front of the
house? Why are you on this street?"
"I was going to knock on the door and
introduce myself to Pierre Dumas, but I've changed
my mind," I said.
"Introduce yourself to. . ." He shook his head
and stepped toward me again.
"Let me see your left hand," he asked quickly.
"Come on," he added, and reached for it. I held out
my hand and he gazed at my fingers for a moment.
Then, when he looked up at me, his face twisted in
shock. "You never take off that ring, never," he said,
more to himself than to me. "And your fingers," he
said, looking at my hand again, "your whole hand is
rougher." He released me quickly, as quickly as he
would had my hand been a hot coal. "Who are you?" "I told you. My name is Ruby."
"But you look just like. . . you're the spitting
image of Gisselle," he said.
"Oh. So that's her name," I said more to myself
than to him. "Gisselle."
"Who are you?" he asked again, now gazing at
me as if I were a ghost. "I mean, what are you to the
Dumas family? A cousin? What? I demand that you
tell me or I'll call the police," he added firmly. "I'm Gisselle's sister," I confessed in a breath. "Gisselle's sister? Gisselle has no sister," he
replied, still speaking in a stern voice. Then he paused
a moment, obviously impressed with the
resemblances. "At least, none I knew about," he said. "I'm fairly sure Gisselle doesn't know about me
either," I said.
"Really? But . . ."
"It's too long of a story to tell you and I don't
know why I should tell you anything anyway," I said. "But if you're Gisselle's sister, why are you
leaving? Why are you going back to . where'd you
say, Houma?"
"I thought I could do this, introduce myself, but
I find I can't"
"You mean, the Dumas don't know you're here yet?" I shook my head. "Well, you can't just leave without telling them you're in New Orleans. Come on," he said, reaching for my hand. "I'll bring you in
myself."
I shook my head and stepped back, more
terrified than ever.
"Come on," he said. "Look. My name's Beau
Andreas. I'm a very good friend of the family.
Actually, Gisselle is my girlfriend, but my parents and
the Dumas have known each other for ages. I'm like a
member of this family. That's why I'm so shocked by
what you're saying. Come on," he chanted, and took
my hand.
"I've changed my mind," I said, shaking my
head. "This isn't as good an idea as I first thought." "What isn't?"
"Surprising them."
"Mr. and Mrs. Dumas don't know you're
coming?" he asked, his confusion building. I shook
my head. "This is really bizarre. Gisselle doesn't know
she has a twin sister and the Dumas don't know you're
here. Well, why did you come all this way if you're
only going to turn around and go right back?" he
asked, his hands on his hips.
"You're afraid, aren't you?" he said quickly. "That's it, you're afraid of them. Well, don't be. Pierre Dumas is a very nice man and Daphne . . . she is nice, too. Gisselle," he said, smiling, "is Gisselle. To tell you the truth, I can't wait to see the expression on her
face when she comes face-to-face with you." "I can," I said, and turned away.
"I'll just run in and tell them you were here and
you're running away," he threatened. "Someone will
come after you and it will all be far more
embarrassing."
"You wouldn't," I said.
"Of course I would," he replied, smiling. "So
you might as well do it the right way." He held out his
hand. I looked back at the house and then at him. His
eyes were friendly, although a bit impish. Reluctantly,
my heart t
humping so hard I thought it would take my
breath away and cause me to faint before I reached the
front door, I took his hand and let him lead me back to
the gate and up the walk to the grand galerie. There
was a tile stairway.
"How did you get here?" he asked before we
reached the door.
"The bus," I said. He lifted the ball and hammer
knocker and let the sound echo through what I
imagined, from the sound of the reverberation within, was an enormous entryway. A few moments later, the door was opened and we faced a mulatto man in a butler's uniform. He wasn't short, but he wasn't tall either. He had a round face with large dark eyes and a somewhat pug nose. His dark brown hair was curly and peppered with gray strands. There were dime-size brown spots on his cheeks and forehead and his lips
were slightly orange.
"Good evening, Monsieur Andreas," he said,
then shifted his gaze to me. The moment he set eyes
on me, he dropped his mouth. "But Mademoiselle
Gisselle, I just saw you . . ." He turned around and
looked behind him. Beau Andreas laughed.
"This isn't Mademoiselle Gisselle, Edgar.
Edgar, I'd like you to meet Ruby. Ruby, Edgar Farrar,
the Dumas' butler. Are Mr. and Mrs. Dumas in,
Edgar?" he asked.
"Oh, no, sir. They left for the ball about an hour
ago," he said, his eyes still fixed on me.
"Well then, there's nothing to do but wait for
them to return. Until then, you can visit with
Gisselle," Beau told me. He guided me into the great
house.
The entryway floor was a peach marble and the
ceiling, which looked like it rose to at least twelve feet above me, had pictures of nymphs and angels, doves and blue sky painted over it. There were paintings and sculptures every-where I looked, but the wall to the right was covered by an enormous tapestry depicting a
grand French palace and gardens.
"Where is Mademoiselle Gisselle, Edgar?"
Beau asked.
"She's still upstairs," Edgar said.
"I knew she would be pampering herself
forever. I'm never late when it comes to escorting
Gisselle anywhere," Beau told me. "Especially a
Mardi Gras Ball. To Gisselle, being on time means
being an hour late. Fashionably late, of course," he
added. "Are you hungry, thirsty?"
"No, I had half of a poor boy sandwich not so
long ago," I said, and grimaced with the memory of
what had nearly happened to me.