Ruby

followed it with a silly, thin laugh. There was

  something about the way she wobbled that led me to

  believe she had been drinking. "That's how good a

  time I had," she added with a flare. "And Beau was

  good enough not to mention your shocking

  appearance all night." Her expression turned sour,

  indignant as my question to her sunk in. "Of course

  I'm just coming home. Mardi Gras goes until dawn.

  It's expected. Don't think you can tell my parents

  anything they don't know and get me in trouble," she

  warned.

  "I don't want to get you in trouble. I was just .

  surprised. I've never done that."

  "Haven't you ever gone to a dance and enjoyed

  yourself, or don't they have such things in the bayou?"

  she asked with disdain.

  "Yes. We call them fais dodos," I told her. "But

  we don't stay out all night."

  "Fais dodos? Sounds like a good old time, twostepping to the sounds of an accordion and a

  washboard." She smirked and continued to climb the

  stairs toward me.

  "They're usually nice dances with lots of good

  things to eat. Was the ball nice?" I asked.

  "Nice?" She paused on the step just below me

  and laughed again. "Nice? Nice is a word for a school

  party or an afternoon tea in the garden, but for a

  Mardi Gras Bail? It was more than nice; it was

  spectacular. Everyone was there," she added, stepping

  up. "And everyone ogled me and Bean with green

  eyes. We're considered the handsomest young Creole

  couple these days, you know. I don't know how many

  of my girlfriends begged me to let them have a dance

  with Beau, and all of them were dying to know where

  I had gotten this dress, but I wouldn't tell them." "It is a very pretty dress," I admitted.

  "Well, don't expect I'll let you borrow it now

  that you've stormed into our lives," she retorted,

  gathering her wits about her. "I still don't understand

  how you got here and who you are," she added with

  ice in her voice.

  "Your father . . . our father will explain," I said.

  She flicked me another of her scornful glances before

  throwing her hair back.

  "I doubt anyone can explain it, but I can't listen

  now anyway. I'm exhausted. I must sleep and I'm certainly not in the mood to hear about you right now." She started to turn but paused to look me over from foot to head. "Where did you get these clothes? Is everything you have handmade?" she asked

  contemptuously.

  "Not everything. I didn't bring much with me

  anyway," said.

  "Thank goodness for that." She yawned. "I've

  got to get some sleep. Beau's coming by late in the

  afternoon for tea. We like reviewing the night before,

  tearing everyone to shreds. If you're still here, you can

  sit and listen and learn."

  "Of course I'll still be here," I said. "This is my

  home now, too."

  "Please. I'm getting a headache," she said,

  pinching her temples with her thumb and forefinger.

  She turned and held her arm out toward me, her palm

  up. "No more. Young Creole women have to replenish

  themselves. We're more . . . feminine, dainty, like

  flowers that need the kiss of soft rain and the touch of

  warm sunlight. That's what Beau says." She stopped

  smiling at her own words and glared at me. "Don't

  you put on lipstick before you meet people?" "No. I don't own any lipstick," I said.

  "And Beau thinks we're twins."

  Unable to hold back, I flared. "We are!" "In your dreams maybe," she countered, and

  then sauntered to her bedroom. After she entered and

  closed her door, I went downstairs, pausing to admire

  her headdress and cloak. Why did she leave it here?

  Who picked up after her? I wondered.

  As if she heard my thoughts, a maid came out

  of the living room and marched down the corridor to

  retrieve Gisselle's things. She was a young black

  woman with beautiful, large brown eyes. I didn't think

  she was much older than I.

  "Good morning,." I said.

  "Mornin'. You're the new girl who looks just

  like Gisselle?" she asked.

  "Yes. My name's Ruby."

  "I'm Wendy Williams," she said. She scooped

  up Gisselle's things, her eyes glued to me, and then

  walked away.

  I started down the corridor to the kitchen, but

  when I reached the dining room, I saw my father

  already seated at the long table. He was sipping coffee

  and reading the business section of the newspaper.

  The moment he saw me, he looked up and smiled. "Good morning. Come on in and sit down," he

  called. It was a very big dining room, almost as big as a Cajun meeting hall, I thought. Above the long table hung a shoo-fly, a great, wide fan unfurled at dinnertime and pulled to and fro by a servant to provide a breeze and do what it was named for: shoo away flies . . . I imagined it was there just for decoration. I had seen them before in rich Cajun

  homes where they had electric fans.

  "Here, sit down," my father said, tapping the

  place on his left. "From now on, this is your seat.

  Gisselle sits here on my right and Daphne sits at the

  other end."

  "She sits so far away," I remarked, gazing down

  the length of the rich, cherry wood table, polished so

  much I could see my face reflected in its surface. My

  father laughed.

  "Yes, but that's the way Daphne likes it. Or

  should I say, that's the proper seating arrangement.

  So, how did you sleep?" he asked as I took my seat. "Wonderfully. It's the most comfortable bed

  I've ever been in. I felt like I was sleeping on a

  cloud!"

  He smiled.

  "Gisselle wants me to buy her a new mattress.

  She claims hers is too hard, but if I get one any softer,

  she'll sink to the floor," he added, and we both laughed. I wondered if he had heard her come in and

  knew she had just returned from the ball. "Hungry?" "Yes," I said. My stomach was rumbling. He hit

  a bell and Edgar appeared from the kitchen.

  "You've met Edgar, correct?" he asked. "Oh, yes. Good morning, Edgar," I said. He

  bowed

  "Good morning, mademoiselle."

  "Edgar, have Nina prepare some of her

  blueberry pancakes for Mademoiselle Ruby, please.

  You'd like that, I expect?"

  "Yes, thank you," I said. My father nodded

  toward Edgar. "Very good, sir," Edgar said, and

  smiled at me.

  "Some orange juice? It's freshly squeezed," my

  father said, reaching for the pitcher.

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I don't think Daphne needs to worry about

  your manners. Grandmere Catherine did a fine job,"

  he complimented. I couldn't help but shift my eyes

  away for a moment at the mention of Grandmere. "I

  bet you miss her a great deal."

  "Yes, I do."

  "No one can replace someone you love, but I

  hope I can fill some of the emptiness I know is in your heart," he said. "Well," he continued, sitting back, "Daphne is going to sleep late this morning, too." He winked. "And we know Gisselle will sleep away most of the day. Daphne says she'll take you shopping midafternoon. So that leaves just the tw
o of us to spend the morning and lunch. How would you like me

  to show you around the city a bit?"

  "I'd love it. Thank you," I said.

  After breakfast, we got into his Rolls Royce

  and drove down the long driveway. I had never been

  in so luxurious an automobile before and sat gaping

  stupidly at the wood trim, running the palm of my

  hand over the soft leather.

  "Do you drive?" my father asked me.

  "Oh, no. I haven't even ridden in cars all that

  much. In the bayou we get around by walking or by

  poling pirogues."

  "Yes, I remember," he said, beaming a broad

  smile my way. "Gisselle doesn't drive either. She

  doesn't want to be bothered learning. The truth is she

  likes being carted around. But if you would like to

  learn how to drive, I'd be glad to teach you," he said. "I would. Thank you."

  He drove on through the Garden District, past

  many fine homes with grounds just as beautiful as ours, some with oleander-lined pike fences. There were fewer clouds now which meant the streets and beautiful flowers had fewer shadows looming over them. Sidewalks and tiled patios glittered. Here and there the gutters were full of pink and white camellias

  from the previous night's rain.

  "Some of these houses date back to the

  eighteen-forties," my father told me and leaned over

  to point to a house on our right. "Jefferson Davis,

  President of the Confederacy, died in that house in

  1899. There's a lot of history here," he said proudly. We made a turn and paused as the olive green

  streetcar rattled past the palm trees on the esplanade.

  Then we followed St. Charles back toward the inner

  city.

  "I'm glad we had this opportunity to be alone

  for a while," he said. "Besides my showing you the

  city, it gives me a chance to get to know you and you

  a chance to get to know me. It took a great deal of

  courage for you to come to me," he said. The look on

  my face confirmed his suspicion. He cleared his throat

  and continued.

  "It will be hard for me to talk about your

  mother when someone else is around, especially

  Daphne. I think you understand why."

  I nodded.

  "I'm sure it's harder for you to understand right

  now how it all happened. Sometimes," he said,

  smiling to himself, "when I think about it, it does

  seem like something I dreamt."

  It was as though he were talking in a dream.

  His eyes were glazed and far away, his voice smooth,

  easy, relaxed.

  "I must tell you about my younger brother,

  Jean. He was always much different from me, far

  more outgoing, energetic, a handsome Don Juan if

  there ever was one," he added, breaking into a soft

  smile. "I've always been quite shy when it came to

  members of the genteel sex.

  "Jean was athletic, a track star and a wonderful

  sailor. He could make our sailboat slice through the

  water on Lake Pontchartrain even if there wasn't

  enough breeze to nudge the willows on the bank. "Needless to say, he was my father's favorite,

  and my mother always thought of him as her baby.

  But I wasn't jealous," he added quickly. "I've always

  been more business minded, more comfortable in an

  office crunching numbers, talking on the telephone,

  and making deals than I have been on a playing field

  or in a sailboat surrounded by beautiful young

  women.

  "Jean had all the charm. He didn't have to work

  at making friends or gaining acquaintances. Women

  and men alike just wanted to be around him, to walk

  in his shadow, to be favored with his words and

  smiles.

  "The house was always full of young people

  back then. I never knew who would be encamped in

  our living room or eating in our dining room or

  lounging at our pool."

  "How much younger than you was he?" I asked. "Four years. When I graduated from college,

  Jean had begun his first year and was a track star in

  college already, already elected president of his

  college class, and already a popular fraternity man. "It was easy to see why our father doted on him

  so and had such big dreams for him," my father said,

  and he made a series of turns that took us deeper and

  deeper into the busier areas of New Orleans. But I

  wasn't as interested in the traffic, the crowds, and the

  dozens and dozens of stores as I was in my father's

  story.

  We paused for a traffic light.

  "I wasn't married yet. Daphne and I had really

  just begun to date. In the back of his mind, our father was already planning out Jean's marriage to the daughter of one of his business associates. It was to be a wedding made in Heaven. She was an attractive young lady; her father was rich, too. The wedding

  ceremony and reception would rival those of royalty." "How did Jean feel about it?" I asked. "Jean? He idolized our father and would do

  anything he wanted. Jean thought of it all as

  inevitable. You would have liked him a great deal,

  loved him, I should say. He was never despondent and

  always saw the rainbow at the end of the storm, no

  matter what the problem or trouble."

  "What happened to him?" I finally asked,

  dreading the answer.

  "A boating accident on Lake Pontchartrain. I

  rarely went out on the boat with him, but this time I

  let him talk me into going. He had a habit of trying to

  get me to be more like him. He was always after me to

  enjoy life more. To him I was too serious, too

  responsible. Usually, I didn't pay much attention to his

  complaints, but this time, he argued that we should be

  more like brothers. I relented. We both drank too

  much. A storm came up. I wanted to turn around

  immediately, but he decided it would be more fun to

  challenge it and the boat turned over. Jean would have been all right, I'm sure. He was a far better swimmer

  than I was, but the mast struck him in the temple." "Oh no," I moaned.

  "He was in a coma for a long time. My father

  spared no expense, hired the best doctors, but none of

  them could do anything. He was like a vegetable." "How terrible."

  "I thought my parents would never get over it,

  especially my father. But my mother became even

  more depressed. Her health declined first. Less than a

  year after the tragic accident, she suffered her first

  heart attack. She survived, but she became an

  invalid."

  We continued onward, deeper into the business

  area. My father made one turn and then another and

  then slowed down to pull the vehicle into a parking

  spot, but he didn't shut off the engine. He faced

  forward and continued his remembrances.

  "One day, my father came to me in our offices

  and closed the door. He had aged so since my

  brother's accident and my mother's illness. A once

  proud, strong man, now he walked with his shoulders

  turned in, his head lowered, his back bent. He was

  always pale, his eyes empty, his enthusiasm for his

  business at a very low ebb.

  " 'Pierre,' " he said, I don't think you
r mother's

  long for this world, and frankly, I feel my own days

  are numbered. What we would like most to see is for

  you to marry and start your family.'

  "Daphne and I were planning on getting

  married anyway, but after his conversation with me, I

  rushed things along. I wanted to try to have children

  immediately. She understood. But month after month

  passed and when she showed no signs of becoming

  pregnant, we became concerned.

  "I sent her to specialists and the conclusion was

  she was unable to get pregnant. Her body simply

  didn't produce enough of some hormone. I forget the

  exact diagnosis.

  "The news devastated my father who seemed to

  live only for the day when he would rest his eyes on

  his grandchild. Not long after, my mother died." "How terrible," I said. He nodded and turned

  off the engine.

  "My father went into a deep depression. He

  rarely came to work, spent long hours simply staring

  into space, took poorer and poorer care of himself.

  Daphne looked after him as best she could, but

  blamed herself somewhat, too. I know she did, even

  though she denies it to this day.

  "Finally, I was able to get my father interested

  in some hunting trips. We traveled to the bayou to

  hunt duck and geese and contracted with your

  grandpere Jack to guide us, That was how I met

  Gabrielle."

  "I know," I said.

  "You have to understand how dark and dreary

  my life seemed to me during those days. My

  handsome, charming brother's wonderful future had

  been violently ended, my mother had died, my wife

  couldn't have children, and my father was slipping

  away day by day.

  "Suddenly. . . I'll never forget that moment . . . I

  turned while unloading our car by the dock, and I saw

  Gabrielle strolling along the bank of the canal. The

  breeze lifted her hair and made it float around her,

  hair as dark red as yours. She wore this angelic smile.

  My heart stopped and then my blood pounded so

  close to the surface, I felt my cheeks turn crimson. "A rice bird lighted on her shoulder and when

  she extended her arm, it pranced down to her hand

  before flying off. I still hear that silver laugh of hers,

  that childlike, wonderful laugh that was carried in the

  breeze to my ears.

  "Who is that?' I asked your grandfather. "Just my daughter,' he said.

  "Just his daughter? I thought, a goddess who