Southern Ruby (15 page)

‘I wanted to play the harp,' Aunt Louise said with a giggle. ‘Momma got me one and arranged for lessons with New Orleans'
finest teacher, but at the first sign of calluses I gave up.' She smiled at me. ‘I didn't have your father's talent for music, Amandine. Dale was a natural, but he was persistent too, which is why he was successful so young. Daddy used to take him to see the big names play, and Dale would find some way to get himself on stage while they took a rest. Eventually people were paying to come see him.'

‘Dale had passion,' agreed Grandma Ruby. ‘And passion makes all the difference. Yes, he was naturally talented, but he perfected his talent by practising for hours until he produced the most beautiful tone on whatever instrument he was playing — and there wasn't an instrument that he couldn't master.'

Hearing Aunt Louise and Grandma Ruby talk about my father was a soothing balm to my soul. Whatever his faults, he'd had admirable qualities too and I was finally learning about them. Perhaps if he'd lived, my father might have been someone I looked up to, and someone who would have encouraged me. I was a good musician, but maybe I could have been a great one if I'd had the discipline to practise for hours.

When it was time to go, and Grandma Ruby had gone to the bathroom while Aunt Louise brought the car out the front, I asked Uncle Jonathan something that had been on my mind ever since I'd arrived in New Orleans.

‘I'd like to see where my parents are buried,' I told him. ‘But I'm uncomfortable asking Grandma Ruby or Aunt Louise. I don't want to upset them.'

An expression of sympathy formed on his face. He squeezed my arm. ‘The family tomb is in Saint Louis Cemetery. Louise goes often but Ruby never does, not even on All Saints Day. It upsets her too much. Louise will take you.'

After Aunt Louise had helped Grandma Ruby into the front seat of the car, Uncle Jonathan told her what I'd requested.

‘Of course, darling,' said Aunt Louise, opening the rear door for me. ‘I'm free the day after tomorrow. I'll take you, and then we'll go to lunch somewhere nice afterwards.'

I kissed Uncle Jonathan good night and got into the car. I'd only met him, Grandma Ruby and Aunt Louise a day ago but already they were feeling like family.

Back at the house in the Garden District, Grandma Ruby made a tisane of rose petals, lavender and chamomile, and we drank it together in the dining room.

I was sitting in my mother's place again and was tempted to ask which place setting had been my father's: next to her or next to Grandma Ruby? I was pierced with a longing to know about my parents' daily lives in New Orleans. Every detail mattered. But I hesitated, remembering what Uncle Jonathan had said about Grandma Ruby never going to the cemetery. Perhaps that was why she was so attached to this house. It was a place to remember everyone without having to think about how they'd died.

‘I love Louise with all my heart,' Grandma Ruby suddenly offered, ‘but sometimes I wonder if I really gave birth to her. We are like chalk and cheese. But she has an inherent goodness that I admire. She got that from her father. Clifford was an honourable man.'

I held my breath, hoping that she would recommence her story about Clifford. I was thirsty to hear more.

Grandma Ruby stared at the space in front of her, as if thinking deeply about something, then she stood and gathered our empty cups and saucers to take them to the kitchen.

‘Well, to bed,' she said when she returned, standing by the light switch and waiting for me to follow her upstairs.

My heart sank. Things seemed to happen slowly in New Orleans. I'd have to be patient and wait.

B
laine arrived at the house the following morning wearing a banana yellow suit and a paisley shirt. He told me he was taking me to a funeral.

‘You should go,' said Lorena, stacking the breakfast plates in the dishwasher. ‘Funerals in New Orleans are something to see.'

Grandma Ruby had left a note to say that she'd gone to a dental appointment, so I didn't have her to come to my defence. I didn't want to go to a funeral, especially for someone I didn't know. My grief over Nan was still raw and I was afraid that seeing other people's pain would trigger my own depressed feelings again. At the same time, I didn't want to offend Blaine, who had obviously taken seriously Grandma Ruby's request to show me the sights of New Orleans.

‘I only brought one black dress with me,' I said, fishing for an excuse, ‘and it's far too short for the occasion.'

‘Oh, you don't wear black to this kind of funeral,' replied Blaine, pointing to his own bright outfit. ‘The more colour, the better. It's for a member of a family who were clients of your
grandfather's law firm,' he added. ‘I know that Ruby would appreciate it if you went on her behalf. She hasn't attended a funeral since Dale and Paula died.'

Wearing colourful clothes to funerals, releasing balloons into the sky and calling the service ‘a celebration of a life' had become trends in Australia too. But death was always a loss and I found it hard to be cheerful about it no matter how it was represented. Then it occurred to me that Blaine might be talking about a jazz funeral. I'd seen one on a re-run of the James Bond film
Live and Let Die
and had been curious enough to look up jazz funerals on the internet. The ceremony was a tradition unique to Louisiana. A band led the mourners through the streets in a slow dancing march step with dirges and hymns; however, once the funeral service was over and the body entombed, the band played upbeat music and the mourners danced wildly to celebrate the soul's ascent to heaven. Although I still didn't like the idea of going to the funeral, I had to admit that participating in a jazz funeral would be a unique part of my discovery of New Orleans.

‘All right,' I told Blaine. ‘Give me a minute to get ready.'

After my anticipation of a funeral parade, I was disappointed when Blaine and I arrived at an ordinary-looking funeral parlour with curtained French windows and azaleas in planter boxes bordering the driveway.

‘Traditionally the wake was held the night before the funeral,' Blaine explained, leading me into the marble foyer and signing the memorial register on behalf of both of us. ‘But these days we do the viewing, service and burial all together.'

The viewing! My mind raced. I'd been brought up a Protestant, and to me a wake meant tea and sandwiches after the funeral service. But Catholics were different, weren't they?
I remembered an Italian girl at university describing how she'd been taken to view her grandmother's body before the coffin was closed and had to kiss her cheek. She'd described her grandmother as looking like a shrivelled potato. My jaw tightened. The sight of Nan's pale and lifeless body in the morgue at the hospital had been traumatic enough.

‘Isn't the viewing for family members only?' I asked. ‘Maybe I should wait outside until the service?'

‘Oh, no,' said Blaine, guiding me into the reception room. ‘Estée was the most gregarious person I've ever known. She knew she was dying and planned this funeral herself. She wanted everyone to come!'

I became lightheaded as we followed the other mourners into the softly lit room. Although it was air-conditioned to a refrigerator-like chill, I was sweating. I scanned the crowded space for the coffin. But all I could see were vases of brightly coloured flowers: crocuses, dahlias, asters and hyacinths.
The coffin must have been in another room
.
Maybe I wouldn't have to view it at all
.

I had been self-conscious about coming to a funeral in a sky-blue skater dress, but the other mourners were also brightly attired. We looked more like we were celebrating Mardi Gras than attending a sombre event. A guitar and double bass duo played jazz in one corner; and a woman dressed like a gypsy and wearing sunglasses sat at a table to one side of the room, with a deck of tarot cards spread out before her and illuminated by a beaded lamp. People were lining up in front of her — I assumed to get their fortunes read. How had I ended up at this bizarre funeral with people I didn't know?

‘This wake is Estée down to a tee,' said Blaine, nodding towards the fortune-teller. ‘She came from one of the wealthiest families in New Orleans but liked nothing better than to sit in Jackson Square on Sundays and read the palms of tourists. Wasn't that a marvellous life?'

A waiter carrying a tray of cocktails offered us drinks.

Blaine picked up a couple of glasses and handed one to me. ‘Have you tried a Hurricane before? It's the quintessential New Orleans drink.'

I wondered how many ‘quintessential' drinks New Orleans had. It seemed irreverent to be drinking at somebody's funeral, but my nerves were getting the better of me and I sipped the red-coloured liquid. From the orange-wheel garnish, I'd expected the cocktail to be fruity but the caramel taste of rum burned my throat and went straight to my head.

‘What's in it?' I asked, coughing. ‘Besides the rum?'

A man standing behind me heard my question. ‘Grenadine,' he answered in a casual and friendly voice. ‘But it's got healthy content too — orange juice with lime and passionfruit thrown in.'

I turned to find myself face to face with a man in his early thirties wearing a Hawaiian shirt. His eyes were the colour of blue chintz and stood out against his dark eyebrows and fair skin. I hadn't intended to lock gazes with him but it was unusual for me to share the same eye level with anyone — I usually towered over people. I resisted the temptation to run my hand through his glossy brown hair, which fell to his shoulders in waves and was enough to make any girl envious. Instead, I discreetly placed my drink behind a vase. While getting drunk at a funeral might be forgivable, I doubted throwing up would be.

‘Well, hello, Professor Elliot,' said Blaine, shaking the man's hand daintily. ‘This is my friend Amandine, fresh from Australia.'

‘Australia?' repeated Elliot. He looked at me for what seemed an eternity, then smiled. ‘One of my graduate students is from Australia — Melbourne. He's writing his thesis on Don Burrows.'

‘Professor Elliot Davenport teaches music theory and jazz history at the University of New Orleans,' Blaine told me.

Jazz history? Elliot was too young to have heard my father play but he might know something about him. I was about to ask him, when the funeral director, dressed in a white suit with an orange gerbera in his lapel, stepped onto a podium and the chatter in the room quietened.

‘Dear family and friends of our beloved Estée,' he said. ‘We are going to take her away soon to prepare her for the service. If you haven't said your last goodbyes, could you kindly do so now.'

I glanced around, expecting some of the mourners to leave the room to pay their respects to the corpse wherever it was displayed. No-one did. Instead they lined up in front of the table where the fortune teller was reading cards. My blood turned cold. I stared at the woman. She hadn't moved. It wasn't simply that she hadn't got up from her chair, turned her head or reshuffled her cards. She hadn't moved at all — not a twitch or a tremor. She was as still as a statue.

‘Oh my God,' I said under my breath. ‘She's dead!'

‘Yes, my dear,' chuckled Blaine. ‘That's why we're here.'

He linked his arm with mine and directed me into the line that was heading towards Estée's corpse. I looked back to Elliot as if he might somehow save me, but an elderly woman in a bejewelled kaftan had engaged him in conversation. She was digging her long fingernails into his forearm and scrunching up her face. He glanced at me and grinned ruefully before turning back to the woman who was determined to have his full attention. Meanwhile, people were kissing Estée and telling her how well she looked. Others were touching her hands. I was horrified but I couldn't turn away.

As it came closer to our turn to pay our respects, I was twitching from head to foot. I wanted to run away but my legs were like lead. Then I noticed something. As each person touched Estée, whatever was propping her upright in the seat started to give way. At first it was a slight lean, but then she slipped sideways when someone patted her head. An elderly
man made a grab for her, but her deadweight was too much for him and she toppled to the floor with a thud that sent the room into a stunned silence.

The funeral director and an assistant rushed forward to set her back upright, but as they lifted her, the sunglasses slipped from her face and we were treated to the sight of her flattened, half-opened eyes staring at us.

‘Well, that's awkward,' said Blaine, nudging me. ‘Can I get you another drink?'

The burial was in Lafayette Cemetery. I'd thought such a historical place would be well-maintained, but many of the tombs had been vandalised or were falling into disrepair. If Estée's family was so wealthy, why, I wondered, did her family's tomb look like it was on the verge of crumbling? The door of the tomb next to it had already collapsed; and while the priest was conducting the burial service, I tried to ignore what looked like a femur bone poking out of the gap.

The funeral assistants took forever to line up the coffin properly on the top platform. The woman in the bejewelled kaftan fainted from the heat and I thought I might drop next. I was glad when Blaine suggested we skip the luncheon and go see the French Quarter.

We were making our way back to his red Mini Cooper when Elliot caught up with us. ‘Would you two like to get a bite to eat somewhere?'

‘I was going to show Amandine the French Quarter,' Blaine said. ‘Why don't you join us?'

‘Sure!' Elliot agreed.

When we reached the car, I turned to him and said, ‘I think you'd better take the front seat.' We were the same height, but he was built like a bear, with broad shoulders and muscular legs.

‘A gentleman would never allow a lady to sit cramped in the back,' he said. ‘Besides, the Quarter is only ten minutes away with Blaine driving.'

I'd seen pictures of the French Quarter many times but it was another thing to lay eyes on the old town centre for myself. The Spanish colonial townhouses that dominated it, with their ornate galleries and arcaded walls, gave the narrow streets an air of romance and mystery. It seemed fitting that Grandma Ruby had grown up here.

Blaine parked the car in front of a dusky pink and green-shuttered house in Royal Street with a gift shop on the ground floor. Nearly all the townhouses had some sort of commercial business at street level — art galleries, restaurants, antiques stores and souvenir shops. As we walked along the street, I caught glimpses of inner courtyards with banana trees and palms: little oases from the oppressive New Orleans heat.

Blaine prodded me. ‘Ruby said you studied restoration architecture? Seeing all this must be getting your fire started.'

‘Is this the first time you've been to the Vieux Carré?' Elliot asked. ‘Well, it couldn't be more different from the Garden District.' He pointed to a crown of vicious-looking spikes near the top of one of the gallery posts. ‘That's called a Romeo pole. The Creoles constructed them to prevent amorous young men climbing up the posts to reach their daughters.'

‘Ouch!' I giggled.

‘Elliot lives in the Quarter,' Blaine said. ‘In an apartment that's certified haunted.'

‘It's a friendly ghost of an old woman who still likes living there, so I don't mind,' Elliot said with a shrug. ‘She doesn't disturb me so I don't disturb her.'

‘It must be amazing to be surrounded by so much history,' I said to him. ‘As soon as I can, I'm going to take an architectural tour.'