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.
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
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