Ruby (34 page)

Envisioning the fun we would have all parading about in old-time clothes, I hurried to get into the bathing suit. I unfastened my skirt, stepped out of it, and unbuttoned my blouse, quickly slipping it off. I started to get into the bathing suit when there was a knock on the door.
"Who is it?"
Claudine peeked in. "How are you doing?"
"Okay. This is going to be big on me."
"My grandmother was a big lady. Oh, you can't wear your bra and panties under a bathing suit. They didn't do that," she said. "Hurry up. Take everything off, get into the suit, and come downstairs."
"But . . ."
She closed the door again. I shrugged to my image in the mirror and unfastened my bra. Then I lowered my panties. Just as they were down to my knees, I heard muffled laughter. A flutter of panic made my heart skip. I spun around to see the sliding closet door thrown open behind me and three boys emerge, laughing hysterically, Billy, Edward, and Charles. I screamed and scrambled for my garments just as a flashbulb went off. Then I charged out the door, another flash following.
Gisselle, Antoinette, and Claudine emerged from her parents' suite, and Deborah and Theresa came up the stairway, big smiles on all their faces.
"What's going on?" Claudine asked, pretending innocence.
"How could you do this?" I cried. The boys followed me to the doorway of Claudine's room and stared out at me, laughing. They were about to take another picture. Panicking, I gazed around for another place to hide and charged through an opened doorway into another room, slamming the door behind me and shutting away their laughter. As quickly as I could, I put on my clothing. The tears of anger and
embarrassment streamed down my cheeks and fell off my chin.
Still trembling, but awash in a terrible anger, I took a deep breath and came out to find no one. I took another deep breath and then walked down the stairs. Voices and laughter came from the family room. I paused at the doorway and looked in to see the boys spread out on the floor, drinking the vodka and cranberry juice and the girls around them on the sofas and chairs. I fixed my gaze on Gisselle hatefully.
"How could you let them do this to me?" I demanded.
"Oh, stop being a spoilsport," she said. "It was just a prank."
"Was it?" I cried. "Then let me see you get up and take off your clothes in front of them while they snap pictures. Go on, do it," I challenged. The boys looked up at her expectantly.
"I'm not that stupid," she said, and everyone laughed.
"No, you're not," I admitted. "Because you're not as trusting. Thanks for the lesson, dear sister," I fumed. Then I pivoted and marched to the front door.
"Where are you going? You can't go home now," she cried, charging after me. I turned at the door.
"I'm not staying here," I said. "Not after this."
"Oh, stop acting so babyish. I'm sure you let boys see you naked in the bayou."
"No, I did not. The truth is people have more morals there than you do here," I spit out. She stopped smiling.
"You going to tell?" she asked.
I just shook my head. ''What good would it do?" I replied, and walked out.
I hurried over the cobblestone streets and walks, my heart pounding as I practically jogged through the pools of yellow light cast by the street lanterns. I never noticed another pedestrian; I didn't even notice passing cars. I couldn't wait to get home and march up the stairway.
The first thing I was going to do was lock the door again between Gisselle's room and mine.

17
A Formal
Dinner Date
.
Edgar greeted me at the door, a look of concern

on his face when he took one look at mine. I quickly brushed away any lingering tears, but unlike my alligator skinned twin sister, I had a face as thin as cotton. Any mask of deception I tried to wear might as well be made of glass.

"Is everything all right, mademoiselle?" he asked with apprehension.
"Yes, Edgar." I stepped inside. "Is my father downstairs?"
"No, mademoiselle." Something soft and sad in his voice made me turn to meet his eyes. They were dark and full of despair.
"Is something wrong, Edgar?" I asked quickly. "Monsieur Dumas has retired for the evening, he replied, as if that explained it all.
"And my. . . mother?"
"She, too, has gone to bed, mademoiselle," he said. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank you, Edgar," I said. He nodded, then turned and walked away. There was an eerie stillness in the house. Most of the rooms were dark. The teardrop chandeliers above me in the hall were dim and lifeless, making the faces in some of the oil paintings gloomy and ominous. A different sort of panic grew in my chest. It made me feel hollow and terribly alone. A chill shuddered down my spine and sent me to the stairway and the promise of my snug bed waiting upstairs. However, when I reached the landing, I heard it again . . . the sound of sobbing.
Poor Daddy, I thought. How great his sorrow and misery must be to drive him into his brother's room so often and cause him still to cry like a baby after all these years. With pity and compassion in my heart, I approached the door and knocked gently. I wanted to talk to him, not only to comfort him, but to have him comfort me.
"Daddy?"
Just as before, the sobbing stopped, but no one came to the door. I knocked again.
"It's Ruby, Daddy. I came back from the pajama party. I need to talk to you. Please." I listened, my ear to the door. "Daddy?" Hearing nothing, I tried the doorknob and found it would turn. Slowly, I opened the door and peered into the room, a long, dark room with its curtains drawn, but with the light of a dozen candles flickering and casting the shadows of distorted shapes over the bed, the other furniture, and the walls. They performed a ghostly dance, resembling the sort of spirits Grandmere Catherine could drive away with her rituals and prayers. I hesitated, my heart pounding.
"Daddy, are you in here?"
I thought I heard a shuffling to the right and walked farther into the room. I saw no one, but I was drawn to the candles because they were all set up in holders on the dresser and surrounded dozens of pictures in silver and gold frames. All of the pictures were pictures of a handsome young man I could only assume was my uncle Jean. The pictures captured him from boyhood to manhood. My father stood beside him in a few, but most of the pictures were portrait photos, some in color.
He is a very handsome man, I thought, his hair the same sort of blond and brown mixture Paul's is. In every color portrait photo, he had soft bluish-green eyes, a straight nose, not too long or too short, a strong, beautifully drawn mouth that flashed a warm smile full of milk white teeth. From the few full body shots, I saw he had a trim figure, manly and graceful like a bullfighter's with a narrow waist and wide shoulders. In short, my father had not exaggerated when he had described him to me. Uncle Jean was any girl's idea of a dreamboat.
I gazed about the room and even in the dim light saw that nothing had been disturbed or changed since the accident years and years ago. The bed was still made and waiting for someone to sleep in it. It looked dusty and untouched, but everything that had been left on the dressers and nightstands, the desk and armoire was still there. Even a pair of slippers remained at the side of the bed, poised to accept bare feet in the morning.
"Daddy?" I whispered to the darkest corners of the room. "Are you in here?"
"What do you think you're doing?" I heard Daphne demand, and I spun around to see her standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. "Why are you in there?"
"I . . . thought my father was in here," I said.
"Get out of here this instant," she ordered, and backed away from the door. The moment I stepped out, she reached in and grabbed the doorknob to pull the door shut. "What are you doing home? I thought you and Gisselle were attending a slumber party tonight?"
She scowled at me, then turned her head to look at Gisselle's door. She had a lovely profile, classic, the lines of her face perfect when she burned with anger. I guess I really was an artist at heart. In the midst of this, all I could think of was what it would be like to paint that Grecian visage.
"Is she home, too?" Daphne asked.
"No," I said. She spun on me.
"Then why are you home?" she stormed back.
"I . . . didn't feel well, so I came home," I said quickly. Daphne focused her penetrating gaze on me, making me feel as if she were searching my eyes, maybe even my soul. I was forced to shift my eyes guiltily away.
"Are you sure that's the truth? Are you sure you didn't leave the girls to do something else, maybe something with one of the boys?" she asked
suspiciously. Really feeling sick now, I still managed to find a voice.
"Oh, no, I came right home. I just want to go to bed," I said.
She continued to stare at me, her eyes riveted to mine, pinning me to her like butterflies were pinned to a board. She folded her arms under her breasts. She was in her silk robe and slippers and had her hair down, but her face was still made up, her lipstick and rough fresh. I bit softly on my lower lip. Panic seized me in a tight grip. I imagined I did look quite sick at this point.
"What's wrong with you?" she demanded.
"My stomach," I said quickly. She smirked, but looked a bit more believing.
"They're not drinking liquor over there, are they?" she asked. I shook my head. "You wouldn't tell me if they were, would you?"
I. . .
"You don't have to answer. I know what it's like when a group of teenage girls get together. What surprises me is your letting a mere stomachache stop you from having fun," she said.
"I didn't want to spoil anyone else's," I said. She pulled her head back and nodded softly.
"Okay then, go to bed. If you get any sicker . . ."
"I'll be all right," I said quickly.
"Very good." She started to turn away.
"Why are all those candles lit in there?" I risked asking. Slowly, she turned back to me.
"Actually," she said, suddenly changing her tone of voice to a more reasonable and friendlier one, "I'm glad you saw all that, Ruby. Now you have some idea what I have to put up with from time to time. Your father has turned that room into a. . . into a. . . shrine. What's done is done," she said coldly. "Burning candles, mumbling apologies and prayers won't change things. But he's beyond reason. The whole thing is rather embarrassing, so don't discuss it with anyone and especially don't discuss it in front of the servants. I don't want Nina sprinkling voodoo powders and chanting all over the house.
"Is he in there now?"
She looked at the door.
"Yes," she said.
"I want to talk to him."
"He's not in the talking mood. The fact is, he's not himself. You don't want to talk to him or even see him like this. It would upset him afterward more than it would upset you now. Just go to sleep. You can talk to him in the morning," she said, and narrowed her eyes as a new thought crossed her suspicious mind. "Why is it so important for you to talk to him now anyway? What is it you want to tell him that you can't tell me? Have you done something else that's terrible?"
"No," I replied quickly.
"Then what did you want to say to him?" she pursued.
"I just wanted . . to comfort him."
"He has his priests and his doctors for that," she said. I was surprised she didn't say he had her, too. "Besides, if your stomach's bothering you so much you had to come home, how can you sit around talking to someone?" she followed quickly like a trial lawyer.
"It feels a little better," I said. She looked skeptical again. "But you're right. I'd better go to sleep," I added. She nodded and I walked to my room. She remained in the hallway watching me until I went inside.
I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to describe not only what had happened tonight, but the truth about the night with the rum and all the nasty things Gisselle had said and done at school, but I thought once I had drawn so sharp and clear a battle line between us, Gisselle and I would never be the sisters we were meant to be. She would hate me too much. Despite all that had already happened between us, I still clung to the hope that we would bridge the gap that all these years and different ways of living had created. I knew that right now I wanted that to happen more than Gisselle did, but I still thought she would eventually want it as much. In this hard and cruel world, having a sister or a brother, someone to care for you and love you was not something to throw away nonchalantly. I felt confident that someday, Gisselle would understand that.
I went to bed and lay there listening for my father's footsteps. Some time after midnight, I heard them: slow, ponderous steps outside my door. I heard him pause and then I heard him go on to his own room, exhausted, I was sure, from all the sorrow he had expressed in the room he had turned into a memorial to his brother. Why was his sorrow so long and so deep? I wondered. Did he blame himself?
The questions lingered in the darkness waiting for a chance to leap at the answers, like the old marsh hawk, patiently waiting for its prey.
I closed my eyes and rushed headlong into the darkness within me, the darkness that promised some relief.
The next morning it was my father who woke me, knocking on my bedroom door and poking his head in, his face so bright with smiles I wondered if I had dreamt the events of the night before. How could he move from such deep mental anguish to such a jolly mood? I wondered.
"Good morning;" he said when I sat up and ground the sleep out of my eyes with my small fists.
"Hi."
"Daphne told me you came home last night because you didn't feel well. How are you this morning?"
"Much better," I said.
"Good. have Nina prepare something soothing and easy to digest for you to have for breakfast. Just take it easy today. You've made quite a beginning with your art instructor, your schoolteachers. . . you deserve a day off, a day to do nothing but indulge yourself. Take a lesson from Gisselle," he added with a laugh.
"Daddy," I began. I wanted to tell him everything, to confide in him and develop the sort of relationship in which he wouldn't be afraid to confide in me.
"Yes, Ruby?" He took another step into my bedroom. "We never talked any more about Uncle Jean. I mean, I would like to go see him with you some day," I added. What I really meant to say was I wanted to share the burden of his sorrow and pain. He gave me a tight smile.
"Well, that's very kind of you, Ruby. It would be a blessed thing to do. Of course," he said, widening his smile, "he would think you were Gisselle. It will take some lengthy explanation to get him to even fathom that he has two different nieces."
"Then he can understand things?" I asked.
"I think so. I hope so," he said, his smile fading. "The doctors aren't as convinced of his improvements as I am, but they don't know him as I know him."
"I'll help you, Daddy," I said eagerly. "I'll go there and read to him and talk to him and spend hours and hours with him, if you like," I blurted.
"That's a very nice thought. The next time I go, I will take you along," he said.
"Promise?"
"Of course, I promise. Now let me go downstairs and order your breakfast," he said. Oh," he said, turning at the doorway, "Gisselle has phoned already to tell us she will be spending the day with the girls, too. She wanted to know how you were doing. I said I would tell you to call them later, and if you were up to it, I'd bring you back."
"I think I'll just do what you suggested, Daddy, and relax here."
"Fine," he said. "About fifteen minutes?" "Yes. I'm getting up," I said. He smiled and left.
Maybe what I had suggested I would do would be a wonderful thing. Maybe that was the way to get Daddy out of the melancholia Daphne had described and I had witnessed last night. To Daphne, it was all simply too embarrassing. She had no tolerance for it, and Gisselle certainly couldn't care less. Maybe this was one of the reasons Grandmere Catherine sensed I belonged here. If I could help lift the burden of Daddy's sadness, I could give him something a real daughter should.
Buoyed by these thoughts, I rose quickly and dressed to go down to breakfast. As was proving to be more the rule than the exception, Daddy and I had breakfast together while Daphne remained in bed. I asked Daddy why she rarely joined us.
"Daphne likes to wake up slowly. She watches a little television, reads, and then goes through her detailed morning ministrations, preparing to face each day as if she were making a debut in society," he replied, smiling. "It's the price I pay to have such a beautiful and accomplished wife," he added.
And then he did something rare: he talked about my mother, his eyes dreamy, his gaze far-off.
"Now Gabrielle, Gabrielle was different. She woke like a flower opening itself to the morning sunlight. The brightness in her eyes and the rush of warm blood to her cheeks were all the cosmetics she required to face a day in the bayou. Watching her wake up was like watching the sun rise."
He sighed, quickly realized what he was doing and saying, and snapped the newspaper in front of his face.
I wanted him to tell me so much more. I wanted to ask him a million questions about the mother I had never known. I wanted him to describe her voice, her laugh, even her cry. For now it was only through him that I could know her. But every reference he made to her and every thought he had of her was quickly followed by guilt and fear. The memory of my mother was locked away with so many other forbidden things in the closets of the Dumas past.
After breakfast, I did what my father
suggested--I curled up on a bench in the gazebo and read a book. Off, over the Gulf, I could see rain clouds, but they were moving in a different direction. Here, sunlight rained down, occasionally interrupted by the slow journey of a thin cloud nudged by the sea breeze. Two mockingbirds found me a curiosity and landed on the gazebo railing, inching their way closer and closer to me, flying off and then returning. My soft greetings made them tilt their heads and flick their wings, but kept them feeling secure, while a gray squirrel paused near the gazebo steps to sniff the air between us.
Every once in a while, I closed my eyes and lay back and imagined I was floating in my pirogue through the canals, the water lapping softly around me. If there was only some way to marry the best of that world with this one, I thought, my life would be perfect. Maybe that was what Daddy had dreamt would happen when he began his love affair with my mother.