But when Sophie and I returned from lunch, Jack was standing in the hallway talking to one of the nurses. He gazed our way and smiled as if nothing at all had happened between us. I hadn't said a word about it to Sophie, so she thought Jack was just being his usual funny and flirtatious self. I went directly to the linen room. Sheila Delacrois, the young woman who I had thought had trouble with her gallbladder, did have a problem and had been taken upstairs for an operation. Afterward she would go to recovery and she wouldn't return to our floor, so I had to change her bed and prepare it for a new patient.
I was busy stacking the pillowcases and sheets when I heard the door of the linen closet close softly behind me. I spun around to discover Jack standing there, his back against the door, his hands behind him on the knob.
"Open the door," I demanded. "I just want to talk to you privately for a moment," he replied.
"We have nothing to discuss. Just open the door," I insisted.
"Look, I want to apologize. Maybe I stepped over the line, went too far too quickly. Because of how intelligent you are, I thought you were more sophisticated. It was my mistake. I admit it. I just want to say it won't do dither of us any good to talk about this to others."
"You don't have to worry. I won't say anything to anyone. However, I did tell my mother," I added.
"Your mother?" His eyebrows looked as if they might lift right off his face.
"Yes. I don't hide things from my mother. We're very close."
"What did she say?"
"She didn't want my father to know. She thought he would come here and break your neck," I said dryly. Jack Weller swallowed hard and nodded. "I don't know what sort of a doctor you're going to be," I added, hot tears in my eyes.
"Hey, one thing has nothing to do with another. When I'm on duty, I'm a true professional."
"If you're not sensitive to people's feelings, it doesn't matter how much you know or how professional you appear," I retorted.
He smirked and shook his head. "I've seen girls like you before. Actually, I ran into your type throughout college and med school. You're too smart for your own good, know-it-alls who won't admit to their own feelings. You could have had a good time yesterday if you had let down your hair."
"I can live with the disappointment," I remarked dryly. My hot tears evaporated, and the trembling left my body. It was quickly replaced by cold anger, my fury showing in my eyes, eyes that glared down Jack Weller's arrogant smirk.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself." He opened the door. My heart was pounding and my hands were clenched into small fists. He paused in the open doorway, checking first to be sure no one was close enough to overhear his remarks. "I feel sorry for the poor jerk who makes love to you the first time. He'll probably feel as if he's just had a medical exam," Jack added and closed the door behind him.
The tears that had been kept in check under my eyelids poured free. How many men would accuse me of the same thing? I wondered. When would I find someone with whom I truly wanted to be affectionate and warm? Was I too cold, too impersonal, too analytical for my own good? Every boyfriend I'd had eventually deserted me, and now someone I thought was sophisticated and knowledgeable had accused me of the same crime, if it was a crime.
No matter how reassuring Mommy had been and would be, no matter how many books I read on the subject or how many other girls I questioned, I would always have these doubts about myself, I thought. Was I someone for whom the magic of love, the mystery of passion, would remain unattainable? Was it a curse or a blessing that I had what Claude had called X-ray eyes?
"Why is it," he had asked one time when he had tried to get me to make love with him and I retreated, "that I feel like you're looking at me and seeing spleens and kidneys and lungs and not me?"
Of course I told him he was wrong, but as we kissed and he pressed himself against me, I was thinking about his quickened breathing, his quick hardness, and the moist feel of his skin and wondering how the nervous system was triggered by sexual arousal and how different organs were affected. I guess I was some sort of brain monster.
The twins used to try to frighten me by bringing in worms and bugs, and they were always
disappointed by my calmness. To satisfy them, I even tried to pretend to be as shocked as most girls my age would be if they found thick night crawlers in their sink or a daddy long legs in their face cream jar, but I had no problem picking them up and putting them outside.
Pierre and Jean actually complained to Mommy about it. "Pearl isn't afraid to pick up a frog or a big black beetle!"
Mommy smiled and told them I had probably inherited my grandmother's love of animals. Even though she had never known her mother, she told us her grandmere Catherine described her mother as someone who felt comfortable with alligators and whom all creatures trusted. Birds would light on her shoulder and feed out of her palm. "Pearl's got that in her," Mommy had explained.
But was it that, or was I so scientific that I lacked feminine qualities? Couldn't I be interested in science and still be a warm, loving person?
I wiped away the tears and took a deep breath. Then [ returned to my work and kept my mind on the tasks I was assigned. A wall of impersonal
professionalism fell between me and Jack Weller. He made no more attempts at small talk, and if I walked into a room where he was, he would merely glance at me and then return to whatever he was doing.
There were other doctors--older, more accomplished professionals--with whom I had some conversations. Once they learned of my ambitions they were eager to speak with me and give me advice. If I went into a patient's room to replace a water pitcher or to bring juice or toast and tea, and a doctor was speaking to the patient in the other bed, I would linger and listen, learning about the diagnosis and treatment.
In the evenings I would tell Daddy about these things. He would listen, his eyes bright with interest and his lips relaxed in a tiny smile. If Mommy was there, too, she would sit back, her eyes full of pride, and she and Daddy would exchange secret glances.
Pierre and Jean were interested only in gory details. Had I seen another dead person? Did I see a lot of blood and broken bones? Most of my days were quite routine without any real emergencies, and in the twins' eyes those days were boring. Of course they were enjoying their summer--swimming in our pool, having their friends over, playing Little League baseball, collecting insects in jars. I told them not to take these days for granted, that time would flow by quickly and before they knew it, they would have to bear down and work hard to become successful at something. Jean didn't want to hear such advice, but Pierre would nod and give me a knowing look.
In early July Mommy's new exhibition was ready. It was being held at one of the newer galleries in the French Quarter. The impressive guest list for the opening included high government officials, doctors and lawyers, big businessmen, and some entertainers. The twins hated having to dress up and keep themselves spotless on the day of the opening. Mommy insisted that they wear identical dark blue suits with silk ties. She bought them shiny new shoes and Daddy took them for haircuts. They did look handsome, if uncomfortable, confined in their new clothes and forbidden to do anything that would dirty their hands or faces or stain their suits.
Jean kept pulling on his collar and moaning that he was choking to death. "Dressing up is dumb, Pearl," he groaned. "You've got to worry about furniture being too dusty or about brushing up against something greasy, and boys have to wear these stupid ties."
"You look so handsome, Jean. Both of you do, and you're doing it for Mommy. You know how big a day this is for her," I explained. Jean nodded, reluctantly agreeing; but a few minutes later he was teasing Pierre by deliberately stepping on his shoes and messing up his hair, then running off through the house. Daddy had to pull them both aside and give them a stern lecture, after which they both sat waiting with their hands folded-in their laps, looking glum.
For a while the music and the excitement at the exhibition kept them amused. Daddy had giv
en them instructions about how they should behave at the gallery, but the moment we all arrived, Daddy and Mommy were surrounded by friends, guests, and the press. The twins slipped away from me and explored. Every once in a while I caught sight of them darting in and out among clusters of people, gobbling hot hors d'oeuvres, and even sneaking a sip of wine. I cornered them a few times and had them sit quietly, but moments later they were gone.
From the comments we were hearing, Mommy's exhibition was being well received. A number of her pictures were sold during the opening. Afterward a party was to be held at Antoine's, one of the French Quarter's oldest and most famous restaurants. We had our party in the private dining room known as the Dungeon and actually used as such during the Spanish period in New Orleans. My waiter, who lingered at my side for a few moments after he served something, was very proud of the restaurant and proud that his name was Antoine, too.
"Oysters rockefeller, one of our most famous dishes," he said placing them before me, "were not created for John D. Rockefeller, you know. They were so named because of the richness of the sauce, and since Mr. Rockefeller was America's richest person at the time . . ."
"Oh, I see," I said, smiling.
He nodded at a waiter across the table from us who was pouring expensive wine like water. "Our wine cellar contains over 25,000 bottles, the oldest wine dating back to 1884. We even have a brandy produced in 1811."
I tried to appear sufficiently impressed, which encouraged him to continue his explanations and boasting with every course he served.
"Princess Margaret called our crabmeat souffle a poem."
The restaurant went all out to impress our guests and my parents. We were served chicken Rochambeau, crawfish cardinale, Brabant potatoes, and Antoine's famous creamed spinach. However, the twins went right to the desserts.
While we were having dinner, the first of the art reviews was brought in and read aloud because it was so favorable. Everyone applauded and Mommy stood up and thanked the guests. Then she and Daddy kissed.
Every time they kissed, it seemed to me as though they were kissing for the first time. Their faces always radiated excitement, and their eyes were full of the glitter of discovery. How was it possible for me to ever find such love and happiness? I wondered. Mommy, sensing my thoughts, gazed my way and smiled at me, her eyes saying, Don't worry, Pearl. There's someone like Daddy out there for you, too. I'm sure of it.
How I wished I could be as sure of it.
Right in the middle of all the excitement, while people were coming to our table to congratulate Mommy, while music was playing and the great meal was being served, I saw Mommy suddenly stop smiling and turn toward the doorway. Her face drained quickly and became white with concern. I gazed toward the doorway, too, and saw a tall, thin caramelskinned woman wearing a red tingon. The maitre d' went to greet her, and she nodded in Mommy's direction. He kept her from entering, but because she was so insistent, he brought a message to Mammy. I watched her read it and saw her face grow even paler. She leaned over to whisper in Daddy's ear, and he became visibly upset.
I got up quickly and went to her. "What's wrong, Mammy?"
"Oh, Pearl honey, this message is about Nina Jackson, my father's cook."
"What about her?" I looked toward the doorway but the mysterious woman was gone.
"She's dying and has asked for me. I've got to go to her at once, but Daddy doesn't think I should leave the party."
"It's your party, Mommy. How can you go? Is she going to die any moment?"
"I don't know, honey."
"Can't you go right afterward?"
"That's what Daddy wants me to do. We're having pictures taken in about a half hour. The mayor is supposed to be here."
"Then you have to stay, Mommy. But I'll go with you as soon as you can leave."
"Thank you, darling," she said, pressing my hands between hers. "I just feel I should get right up and go. Oh, dear."
I thought Mommy was upset enough to excuse herself and run out, but just at that moment the mayor of New Orleans made his entrance. There was applause and great excitement as he made his way through the party to greet Mommy and offer his congratulations. I went back to the twins and waited, knowing the turmoil Mommy was experiencing.
Finally, nearly an hour later, Mammy told Daddy she felt she had to go. Some people were already leaving. She asked Daddy to take the twins home. The twins and I were standing beside them while they discussed it.
"Pearl is going with me. We'll take a cab," Mommy told him.
Daddy looked troubled. "I don't like the idea of the two of you going places alone at night," he said.
"We'll be fine, Beau. We're just going from the cab into the house and back into the cab. I'll have the driver wait," she explained.
"I don't know what good it's going to do, your going," he muttered.
"She was very dear to me once and we remained friends for a long time after she left the House of Dumas, Beau. There was a time when Nina Jackson was practically the only one looking after me."
Daddy nodded and looked away. I imagined Mommy was referring to the time when he left her and went to Europe. "What am I to tell the rest of these people?" he asked under his breath.
"Tell them the truth, Beau. A dear friend is on her deathbed, and I went to her," she said.
"All right, all right. Be careful, will you?" He kissed her on the cheek.
"Take care of your mother, and make sure she doesn't do anything foolish," Daddy warned me.
"I will, Daddy," I promised.
"Let's go, honey," Mommy said.
"We want to go too," Jean whined.
"You two are going home with me," Daddy snapped. "You'll both need castor oil after hogging down all those pralines tonight and eating all that creme brulee, I'm sure. Don't wander out of my sight," he advised. The two of them looking longingly at me.
"Be good boys," I said and nodded at Pierre, who I knew could make Jean behave. He grimaced with unhappiness, but led Jean to chairs where they would sit obediently and wait for Daddy.
Meanwhile Mommy had the restaurant hostess hail us a cab. "Quickly, honey," she told me. We rushed out.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Mommy gave him the address.
"You sure you want to go there? That's not the safest part of town this time of the night," he said.
"We know where we want to go. Just get us there quickly," Mommy said. Her anxiety made her unusually firm and caustic. No one I knew spoke to servants and service people as kindly as Mommy usually did.
As we drove out of the Vieux Carre and toward a poorer section of the city, Mommy told me of the time Nina Jackson took her to see a voodoo mama so she could get a charm or learn a ritual to keep her sister Gisselle from being cruel to her. She described how she had cast a ribbon belonging to Gisselle into a box containing a snake.
"Not long after that, Gisselle was in the car accident," she said mournfully. "I always felt guilty."
"But, Mommy, you surely don't believe the ritual was the reason for the accident. You said her boyfriend had been smoking pot and driving recklessly."
"Still . . . the voodoo ceremony might have put her in the grip of danger. Afterward, I returned with Nina, and the mama made me reach into the box with the snake in it and take out the ribbon, but she wouldn't guarantee I could rescind the curse. She said once my anger was cast into the wind, the wind had control and I probably couldn't pull it back."
"But, Mommy . ."
"I told Gisselle, you know."
"What did she say?"
"She just used the information to blackmail me into becoming her slave, but I deserved it. I should never have let my anger get the better of me. No one else knew about it but Nina. She was always burning candles to keep evil away from me and giving me good luck charms, like the dime you now wear," Mommy said, smiling.
We turned the corner and started down a long, dark street. The buildings looked no better than shacks. Despite the hour, I saw young ch
ildren still playing on the stoops and on the scarred and bald front yards. Broken-down cars were parked along the sidewalks, and the streets were very dirty, the gutters full of cans, bottles, and paper.
We stopped at a shack that looked somewhat better than its neighbors. The yard and the sidewalk were clean, but I saw bones and feathers hanging above the front door.
"Wait here for us," Mommy ordered the driver. "I won't wait long," he warned.
"I have your name and your license number," she told him. "You had better be here when I step out of that house with my daughter," Mommy countered. He grunted his reluctance, but sat back. Mommy took a deep breath and then found my hand. We walked to the stoop, and Mommy knocked on the door. A moment later a short black woman peered out at us. Her long gray hair hung down to the middle of her back, and she wore what looked like a potato sack and old sneakers without laces. Dangling from her earlobes were two small live lizards. They both held on for dear life.
"We're here to see Nina," Mommy said.
"Nina is not here," the small woman said.
Mommy glanced at the note she had been given. "I was told to come to this address. I was told Nina Jackson was very sick and dying in this house."
"That be told true, but Nina's gone. Zombie take her about an hour ago. She's in paradise."
"Oh, no. We're too late," Mommy moaned. I squeezed her hand, and she straightened her shoulders. "I want to see her anyway," she insisted.
The woman stepped back for us to enter. A sweet aroma flowed from the rear of the house. The old lady nodded toward the left, and we heard the monotonous rat-a-tat of a drum. Slowly Mommy and I walked toward the entrance to the rear room.
It was a small bedroom with the shades drawn. The bed took up most of the space. Around it nearly a hundred candles were burning. Another black woman, not much bigger than the one who had greeted us, sat very still beside the coffin. Across from her, an elderly man with a luminous white beard was tapping a drum made of thin cypress staves hooped with brass and topped with sheepskin. He didn't look our way or move his head an inch when we entered, but when the woman turned toward us, her large, sad eyes brightened with some recognition.