Ruby

  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.