All That Glitters

16

All is Lost

"Well," Monsieur Polk said after he heard Beau describe our story, "this is a rather complicated matter. Very," he added, and nodded emphatically, jiggling his jowls and his loose double chin. He sat back in his oversize black leather desk chair and pressed his palms against his bear-size chest with his fingers intertwined, the large gold pinky ring with a black onyx oval stone glittering in the afternoon sunlight that came pouring through the thin, white blinds.

Beau sat beside me and held my hand. My other hand clutched the mahogany arm of the chair as if I thought I might be toppled out and onto the dark brown carpet in Monsieur Polk's plush office. It was on the seventh floor of the building, and the large windows behind Monsieur Polk's desk looked out on the river with a vast view of the boats and ships navigating in and out of New Orleans harbor.

I bit down on my lower lip and held my breath as our attorney pondered. His large, watery hazel eyes gazed down and he was so still, I feared he had fallen asleep.

The only sound in the office was the tick tock of the miniature grandfather clock on the shelf to our left.

"No birth certificates, you say?" he finally asked, just raising his eyes. The rest of him, all two hundred forty pounds, remained settled in the chair, his suit jacket folded and creased in the shoulders. He wore a dark brown tie with lemon dots.

"No. As I said, the twins were born in swamp country, no doctor, no hospital."

"My Grandmère was a traiteur, better than any doctor," I said.

"Traiteur?"

"Cajun faith healer," Beau explained.

Monsieur Polk nodded and shifted his eyes toward me and stared a moment. Then he sat forward and clasped his hands on his desk.

"We'll move quickly for a custody hearing. It will be conducted like a trial in this situation. The first order of business will be to find a legal way to establish you as Ruby. Once that is accomplished, you will testify to being the father of your child, which you will own up to," he said to Beau.

"Of course." Beau squeezed my hand and smiled.

"Now let's look at the face of this," Monsieur Polk said. He reached over to a dark cherry wood cigar box and flicked up the cover to pluck a fat Havana cigar out of it. "You," he said, pointing at me with the cigar, "and your twin sister, Gisselle, were apparently so identical in looks, you could pull off this switch of identities, correct?"

"Down to the dimples in their cheeks," Beau said. "Eye color, hair color, complexion, height, weight?"

Monsieur Polk listed. Beau and I nodded after each item. "There might have been a few pounds difference between them, but nothing very noticeable," Beau said.

"Scars?" Monsieur Polk asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

I shook my head.

"I have none and my sister had none, even though she was in a bad car accident and was crippled for a time," I said.

"Bad car accident?" I nodded. "Here in New Orleans?"

"Yes."

"Then she was in the hospital for a time. Good. There'll be a medical history with records about her blood. Maybe you two had a different blood type. If so, that would settle it immediately. A friend of mine," he continued, taking out his lighter, "tells me that in years to come, from blood tests, using DNA, they'll be able to identify who is the parent of a child. But we're a number of years away from that."

"And by then it would be too late!" I complained. He nodded and lit his cigar, leaning back to blow the puffs of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Maybe some X-rays were taken. Did she break any bones in the accident?"

"No," I said. "She was bruised and the shock of it did something to her spine, affecting the nerves, but that healed and she was able to walk again."

"Um," Monsieur Polk said. "I don't know if there would be anything discernible by X-ray. We'd have to have X-rays done of you and then find a medical expert to testify that there should be some residual evidence of the trauma."

I brightened. "I'll go right to the hospital for X-rays."

"Right," Beau said.

Monsieur Polk shook his head. "They might very well locate an expert who would claim X-rays wouldn't pick up any residual damage if the problem was cured," he said. "Let me research the medical records at the hospital and get one of my doctor friends to give me an opinion about it first."

"Ruby had a child; Gisselle did not," Beau said. "Surely an examination . . ."

"Can you establish Gisselle did not beyond a doubt?" Monsieur Polk asked.

"Pardon?"

"Gisselle is dead and buried. How can we examine her? You'd have to have the body exhumed, and what if Gisselle had been pregnant sometime and had had an abortion?"

"He's right, Beau. I would never swear about that," I said.

"This is very bizarre. Very bizarre," Monsieur Polk muttered. "You worked at convincing people you were your twin sister and did it so well, everyone who knew her believed it, right?"

"As far as we know."

"And the family, Paul Tate's family, believed it and believed they buried Ruby Tate?"

"Yes," I said.

"There was actually a death certificate issued in your name?"

"Yes," I said, swallowing hard. The vivid memories of attending my own funeral came rushing back over me.

Monsieur Polk shook his head and thought a moment. "What about the doctor who first treated Gisselle for encephalitis?" he asked with some visible excitement. "He knew he was treating Gisselle and not Ruby, right?"

"I'm afraid we can't call on him," Beau said, deflating our balloon of hope. "I made an arrangement with him, and anyway, it would ruin him, wouldn't it? His being a part of this?"

"I'm afraid that's very true," Monsieur Polk said. "He put his name to fraud. Any of the servants we can call upon?"

"Well . . . the way we worked it, the doctor and myself . . ."

"They didn't know what was happening exactly, is that it?"

"Yes. They wouldn't make the best witnesses anyway. The German couple don't speak English too well and my cook saw nothing. The maid is a timid woman who wouldn't be able to swear to anything."

"That's not an avenue to pursue, then." Monsieur Polk nodded. "Let me think. Bizarre, very bizarre. Dental records," he cried. "How are your teeth?"

"Perfect. I've never had a cavity or a tooth pulled."

"And Gisselle?"

"As far as I know," Beau said, "she was the same. She had remarkable health for someone with her lifestyle."

"Good genes," Monsieur Polk said. "But both of you had the benefit of the same genetic advantages."

Was there no way to determine our identities to the satisfaction of a judge? I wondered frantically.

"What about our signatures?" I asked.

"Yes," Beau said. "Ruby always had a nicer handwriting."

"Handwriting is an exhibit to use," Monsieur Polk said with a bit of official-sounding nasality, "but it's not conclusive. We'll have to rely on the opinions of experts, and they might bring in their own expert who would develop the effectiveness of forgery. I've seen that happen before. Also," he said after another puff of his cigar, "people are inclined to believe that twins can imitate each other better. I'd like to have something more."

"What about Louis?" Beau asked me. "You said he recognized you."

"Louis?" Monsieur Polk asked.

"Louis was someone I met when Gisselle and I attended a private girls' school in Baton Rouge. He's a musician who recently had a concert here in New Orleans."

"I see."

"When I knew him, he was blind. But he sees now," I added, hopefully.

"What? Blind, you say? Really, monsieur," he said, turning to Beau. "You want me to put a man who was blind on the stand to testify he can tell the difference."

"But he can!" I said.

"Maybe to your satisfaction, but to a judge's?"

Another balloon deflated. My heart was thumping. Tears of frustration had begun to sting my eyes. Defeat seemed all around me.

"Look," Beau said, squeezing my hand again, "what possible motive could we have for Ruby pretending to be Ruby? First, we will be exposing our deception to the world, and besides, everyone who knew Gisselle knew how self-centered she was. She wouldn't want to win custody of a child and be responsible for the child's upbringing."

Monsieur Polk thought a moment. He turned his chair and gazed out the window.

"I'll play the devil's advocate," he said, continuing to gaze down at the river. Then he turned sharply back to us and pointed at me with his cigar again. "You said your husband, Paul, inherited oil-rich land in the bayou?"

"Yes."

"And built you a mansion with beautiful grounds, an estate?"

"Yes, but—"

"And has wells pumping up oil, creating a large fortune?"

I couldn't swallow. I couldn't nod. Beau and I gazed at each other.

"But, monsieur, we are far from paupers. Ruby inherited a tidy sum and a profitable business and—"

"Monsieur Andreas, you have at your fingertips the possibility of inheriting a major fortune, a continually growing major fortune. We're not talking now about just being well-to-do."

"What about the child?" Beau threw out in desperation. "She knows her mother."

"She's an infant. I wouldn't think of putting her on a witness stand in a courtroom. She would be terrified, I'm sure."

"No, we can't do that, Beau," I said. "Never." Monsieur Polk sat back. "Let me look into the hospital records, talk to some doctors. I’ll get back to you."

"How long will this take?"

"It can't be done overnight, madame," he said frankly.

"But my baby . . . Oh, Beau."

"Did you consider going to see Madame Tate and talking it out with her? Perhaps this was an impulsive angry act and now she's had some time to reconsider," Monsieur Polk suggested. "It would simplify the problem."

"I don't say this is her motive," he added, leaning forward, "but you might offer to sign over any oil rights, et cetera."

"Yes," I said, hope springing in my heart.

Beau nodded. "It could be driving her mad that Ruby would inherit Cypress Woods and all the oil on the land," Beau agreed. "Let's drive out there and see if she will speak with us. But in the meantime . . ."

"I'll go forward with my research in the matter," Monsieur Polk said. He stood up and put his cigar in the ashtray before leaning over to shake Beau's hand. "You know," he said softly, "what a field day our gossip columnists in the newspapers will have with this?"

"We know." Beau looked at me. "We're prepared for all that as long as we get Pearl back."

"Very well. Good luck with Madame Tate," Monsieur Polk said, and we left.

"I feel so weak, Beau, so weak and afraid," I said as we left the building for our car.

"You can't present yourself to that woman while you're in this state of mind, Ruby. Let's stop for something to eat to build your strength. Let's be optimistic and strong. Lean on me whenever you have to," he said, his face dark, his eyes down. "This is really all my fault," he murmured. "It was my idea, my doing."

"You can't blame yourself solely, Beau. I knew what I was doing and I wanted to do it. I should have known better than to think we could splash water in the face of Destiny."

He hugged me to him and we got into our car and started for the bayou. As we rode, I rehearsed the things I would say. I had no appetite when we stopped to eat, but Beau insisted I put something in my stomach.

The late afternoon grew darker and darker as the sun took a fugitive position behind some long, feather-brushed storm clouds. All the blue sky seemed to fall behind us as we drove on toward the bayou and the confrontation that awaited. As familiar places and sights began to appear, my apprehension grew. I took deep breaths and hoped that I would be able to talk without bursting into tears.

I directed Beau to the Tate residence. It was one of the larger homes in the Houma area, a two-and-a-half-story Greek Revival with six fluted Ionic columns set on pilastered bases a little out from the edge of the gallery. It had fourteen rooms and a large drawing room. Gladys Tate was proud of the decor in her home and her art, and until Paul had built the mansion for me, she had the finest house in our area.

By the time we drove up, the sky had turned ashen and the air was so thick with humidity, I thought I could see droplets forming before my eyes. The bayou was still, almost as still as it could be in the eye of a storm. Leaves hung limply on the branches of trees, and even the birds were depressed and settled in some shadowy corners.

The windows were bleak with their curtains drawn closed or their shades down. The glass reflected the oppressive darkness that loomed over the swamps. Nothing stirred. It was a house draped in mourning, its inhabitants well cloistered in their private misery. My heart felt so heavy; my fingers trembled as I opened the car door. Beau reached over to squeeze my arm with reassurance.

"Let's be calm," he advised. I nodded and tried to swallow, but a lump stuck in my throat like swamp mud on a shoe. We walked up the stairs and Beau dropped the brass knocker against the plate. The hollow thump seemed to be directed into my chest rather than into the house. A few moments later, the door was thrust open with such an angry force, it was as if a wind had blown it. Toby stood before us. She was dressed in black and had her hair pinned back severely. Her face was wan and pale.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"We've come to speak with your mother and father," Beau said.

"They're not exactly in the mood to talk to you," she spit back at us. "In the midst of our mourning, you two had to make problems."

"There are some terrible misunderstandings we must try to fix," Beau insisted, and then added, "for the sake of the baby more than anyone."

Toby gazed at me. Something in my face confused her and she relaxed her shoulders.

"How's Pearl?" I asked quickly.

"Fine. She's doing just fine. She's with Jeanne," she added.

"She's not here?"

"No, but she will be here," she said firmly.

"Please," Beau pleaded. "We must have a few minutes with your parents."

Toby considered a moment and then stepped back. "I'll go see if they want to talk to you. Wait in the study," she ordered, and marched down the hallway to the stairs.

Beau and I entered the study. There was only a single lamp lit in a corner, and with the dismal sky, the room reeked of gloom. I snapped on a Tiffany lamp beside the settee and sat quickly, for fear my legs would give out from under me.

"Let me begin our conversation with Madame Tate," Beau advised. He stood to the side, his hands behind his back, and we both waited and listened, our eyes glued to the entrance. Nothing happened for so long, I let my eyes wander and my gaze stopped dead on the portrait above the mantel. It was a portrait I had done of Paul some time ago. Gladys Tate had hung it in place of the portrait of herself and Octavious. I had done too good a job, I thought. Paul looked so lifelike, his blue eyes animated, that soft smile captured around his mouth. Now he looked like he was smiling with impish satisfaction, defiant, vengeful. I couldn't look at the picture without my heart pounding.

We heard footsteps and a moment later Toby appeared alone. My hope sunk. Gladys wasn't going to give us an audience.

"Mother will be down," she said, "but my father is not able to see anyone at the moment. You might as well sit," she told Beau. "It will be a while. She's not exactly prepared for visitors right now," she added bitterly. Beau took a seat beside me obediently. Toby stared at us a moment.

"Why were you so obstinate? If there was ever a time my mother needed the baby around her, it was now. How cruel of you two to make it difficult and force us to go to a judge." She glared at me and then turned directly to Beau. "I might have expected something like this from her, but I thought you were more compassionate, more mature."

"Toby," I said. "I'm not who you think I am."

She smirked. "I know exactly who you are. Don't you think we have people like you here, selfish, vain people who couldn't care less about anyone else?"

"But . . ."

Beau put his hand on my arm. I looked at him and saw him plead for silence with his eyes. I swallowed back my words and closed my eyes. Toby turned and left us.

"She'll understand afterward," Beau said softly. A good ten minutes later, we heard Gladys Tate's heels clicking down the stairway, each click like a gunshot aimed at my heart. Our eyes fixed with anticipation on the doorway until she appeared. She loomed before us, taller, darker in her black mourning dress, her hair pinned back as severely as Toby's. Her lips were pale, her cheeks pallid, but her eyes were bright and feverish.

"What do you want?" she demanded, shooting me a stabbing glance.

Beau rose. "Madame Tate, we've come to try to reason with you, to get you to understand why we did what we did," he said.

"Humph," she retorted. "Understand?" She smiled coldly with ridicule. "It's simple to understand. You're the type who care only about themselves, and if you inflict terrible pain and suffering on someone in your pursuit of happiness, so what?" She whipped her eyes to me and flared them with hate before she turned to sit in the high-back chair like a queen, her hands clasped on her lap, her neck and shoulders stiff.

"Much of this is my fault, not Ruby's," Beau continued. "You see," he said, turning to me, "a few years ago we . . . I made Ruby pregnant with Pearl, but I was cowardly and permitted my parents to send me to Europe. Ruby's stepmother tried to have the baby aborted in a run-down clinic so it would all be kept secret, but Ruby ran off and returned to the bayou."

"How I wish she hadn't," Gladys Tate spit, her hating eyes trying to wish me into extinction.

"Yes, but she did," Beau continued, undaunted by her venom. "For better or for worse, your son offered to make a home for Ruby and Pearl."

"It was for worse. Look at where he is now," she said. Ice water trickled down my spine.

"As you know," Beau said softly, patiently, "theirs was not a true marriage. Time passed. I grew up and realized my errors, but it was too late. In the interim, I renewed my relationship with Ruby's twin sister, who I thought had matured, too. I was mistaken about that, but that's another story."

Gladys smirked.

"Your son knew how much Ruby and I still eared for each other, and he knew Pearl was our child, my child. He was a good man and he wanted Ruby to be happy."

"And she took advantage of that goodness," Gladys accused, stabbing the air between us with her long forefinger.

"No, Mother Tate, I—"

"Don't sit there and try to deny what you did to my son." Her lips trembled. "My son," she moaned. "Once, I was the apple of his eye. The sun rose and fell on my happiness, not yours. Even when you were enchanting him here in the bayou, he would love to sit and talk with me, love to be with me. We had a remarkable relationship and a remarkable love between us," she said. "But you were relentless and you charmed him away from me," she charged, and I realized there was no hate such as that born out of love betrayed. This was why her brain was screaming out for revenge.

"I didn't do those things, Mother Tate," I said quietly. "I tried to discourage our relationship. I even told him the truth about us," I said.

"Yes, you did and viciously drove a wedge between him and me. He knew that I wasn't his real mother. Don't you think that changed things?"

"I didn't want to tell him. It wasn't my place to tell him," I cried, recalling Grandmère Catherine's warnings about causing any sort of split between a Cajun mother and her child. "But you can't build a house of love on a foundation of lies. You and your husband should have been the ones to tell him the truth."

She winced. "What truth? I was his mother until you came along. He loved me," she whined. "That was all the truth we needed . . . love."

A pall fell among us for a moment. Gladys sucked in her anger and closed her eyes.

Beau decided to proceed. "Your son, realizing the love between Ruby and myself, agreed to help us be together. When Gisselle became seriously ill, he volunteered to take her in and pretend she was Ruby so that Ruby could become Gisselle and we could be man and wife."

She opened her eyes and laughed in a way that chilled my blood. "I know all that, but I also know he had little choice. She probably threatened to tell the world he wasn't my son," she said, her flinty eyes aimed at me.

"I would never. . ."

"You'd say anything now, so don't try," she advised.

"Madame," Beau said, stepping forward. "What's done is done. Paul did help. He intended for us to live with our daughter and be happy. What you're doing now is defeating what Paul himself tried to accomplish."

She stared up at Beau for a moment, and as she did so, the gossamer strands of sanity seemed to shred before they snapped behind her eyes. "My poor granddaughter has no parents now. Her mother was buried and her father will be interred beside her."

"Madame Tate, why force us to go to court over this and put everyone through the misery again? Surely you want peace and quiet at this point, and your family—"

She turned her dark, blistering eyes toward Paul's portrait, and those eyes softened. "I'm doing this for my son," she said, gazing up at him with more than a mother's love. "Look how he smiles, how beautiful he is and how happy he is. Pearl will grow up here, under that portrait. At least he'll have that. You," she said, pointing her long, thin finger at me again, "took everything else from him, even his life."

Beau looked at me desperately and then turned back to her. "Madame Tate," he said, "if it's a matter of the inheritance, we're prepared to sign any document."

"What?" She sprang up. "You think this is all a matter of money? Money? My son is dead." She pulled up her shoulders and pursed her lips. "This discussion is over. I want you out" of my house and out of our lives."

"You won't succeed with this. A judge—"

"I have lawyers. Talk to them." She smiled at me so coldly, it made my blood curdle. "You put on your sister's face and body and you crawled into her heart. Now live there," she cursed, and left the room.

Right down to my feet, I ached, and my heart became a hollow ball shooting pains through my chest. "Beau!"

"Let's go," he said, shaking his head. "She's gone mad. The judge will realize that. Come on, Ruby." He reached for me. I felt like I floated to my feet.

Just before we left the room, I gazed back at Paul's portrait. His expression of satisfaction put a darkness in my heart that a thousand days of sunshine couldn't nudge away.

After the funeral drive back to New Orleans, I collapsed with emotional exhaustion and slept into the late morning. Beau woke me to tell me Monsieur Polk had just called.

"And?" I sat up quickly, my heart pounding.

"I'm afraid it's not good news. The experts tell him everything is identical with identical twins, blood type, even organ size. The doctor who treated Gisselle doesn't think anything would show in an X-ray. We can't rely on the medical data to clearly establish identities.

"As far as my being the father of Pearl . . . a blood group test will only confirm that I couldn't be, not that I could. As Monsieur Polk said, those sorts of tests aren't perfected yet."

"What will we do?" I moaned.

"He has already petitioned for a hearing and we have a court date," Beau said. "We'll tell our story, use the handwriting samples. He wants to also make use of your art talent. Monsieur Polk has documents prepared for us to sign so that we willingly surrender any claim to Paul's estate, thus eliminating a motive. Maybe it will be enough."

"Beau, what if it isn't?"

"Let's not think of the worst," he urged.

The worst was the waiting. Beau tried to occupy himself with work, but I could do nothing but sleep and wander from room to room, sometimes spending hours just sitting in Pearl's nursery, staring at her stuffed animals and dolls. Not more than forty-eight hours after Monsieur Polk had filed our petition with the court, we began to get phone calls from newspaper reporters. None would reveal his or her sources, but it seemed obvious to both Beau and me that Gladys Tate's thirst for vengeance was insatiable and she had deliberately had the story leaked to the press. It made headlines.

TWIN CLAIMS SISTER BURIED IN HER GRAVE! CUSTODY BATTLE LOOMS.

Aubrey was given instructions to say we were unavailable to anyone who called. We would see no visitors, answer no questions. Until the court hearing, I was a virtual prisoner in my own home.

On that day, my legs trembling, I clung to Beau's arm as we descended the stairway to get into our car and drive to the Terrebone Parish courthouse. It was one of those mostly cloudy days when the sun plays peekaboo, teasing us with a few bright rays and then sliding behind a wall of clouds to leave the world dark and dreary. It reflected my mood swings, which went from hopeful and optimistic to depressed and pessimistic.

Monsieur Polk was already at the courthouse, waiting, when we arrived. The story had stirred the curious in the bayou as well as in New Orleans. I gazed quickly at the crowd of observers and saw some of Grandmère Catherine's friends. I smiled at them, but they were confused and unsure and afraid to smile back. I felt like a stranger. How would I ever explain to them why I had switched identities with Gisselle? How would they ever understand?

We took our seats first, and then, with obvious fanfare, milking the situation as much as she could, Gladys Tate entered. She still wore her clothes of mourning. She hung on Octavious's arm, stepping with great difficulty to show the world we had dragged her into this horrible hearing at a most unfortunate time. She wore no makeup, so she looked pale and sick, the weaker of the two of us in the judge's eyes. Octavious kept his gaze down, his head bowed, and didn't look our way once.

Toby and Jeanne and her husband, James, walked behind Gladys and Octavious Tate, scowling at us. Their attorneys, William Rogers and Martin Bell, led them to their seats. They looked formidable with their heavy briefcases and dark suits. The judge entered and every-one took his seat.

The judge's name was Hilliard Barrow, and Monsieur Polk had found out that he had a reputation for being caustic, impatient, and firm. He was a tall, lean man with hard facial features: deep-set dark eyes, thick eyebrows, a long, bony nose, and a thin mouth that looked like a slash when he pressed his lips together. He had gray and dark brown hair with a deeply receding hairline so that the top of his skull shone under the courtroom lights. Two long hands with bony fingers jutted out from the sleeves of his black judicial robe.

"Normally," he began, "this courtroom is relatively empty during such proceedings. I want to warn those observing that I won't tolerate any talking, any sounds displaying approval or disapproval. A child's welfare is at stake here, and not the selling of newspapers and gossip magazines to the society people in New Orleans." He paused to scour the crowd to see if there was even the hint of insubordination in anyone's eyes. My heart sunk. He seemed a man void of any emotion, except prejudices against rich New Orleans people.

The clerk read our petition and then Judge Barrow turned his sharp, hard gaze on Monsieur Polk.

"You have a case to make," he said.

"Yes, Your Honor. I would like to begin by calling Monsieur Beau Andreas to the stand."

The judge nodded, and Beau squeezed my hand and stood up. Everyone's eyes were fixed on him as he strutted confidently to the witness seat. He was sworn in and sat quickly.

"Monsieur Andreas, as a preamble to our presentation, would you tell the court in your own words why, how, and when you and Ruby Tate effected the switching of identities between Ruby and Gisselle Andreas, who was your wife at the time."

"Objection, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said. "Whether or not this woman is Ruby Tate is something for the court to decide."

The judge grimaced. "Monsieur Williams. There isn't a jury to impress. I think I'm capable of understanding the question at hand without being influenced by innuendo. Please, sir. Let's make this as fast as possible."

"Yes, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said, and sat down.

My eyes widened. Perhaps we would get a fair shake after all, I thought.

Beau began our story. Not a sound was heard through his relating of it. No one so much as coughed or cleared his throat, and when he was finished, an even deeper hush came over the crowd. It was as if everyone had been stunned. Now, when I turned and looked around, I saw all eyes were on me. Beau had done such a good job of telling our story, many were beginning to wonder if it couldn't be so. I felt my hopes rise to the surface of my troubled thoughts.

Monsieur Williams rose. "Just a few questions, if I may, Your Honor."

"Go on," the judge said.

"Monsieur Andreas. You said your wife was diagnosed with St. Louis encephalitis while you were at your country estate. A doctor made the diagnosis?"

"Yes."

"Didn't this doctor know he was diagnosing your wife, Gisselle?" Beau looked toward Monsieur Polk. "If so, why didn't you bring him here to testify that it was Gisselle and not Ruby?" Monsieur Williams hammered. Beau didn't respond.

"Monsieur Andreas?" the judge said.

"Your honor," Monsieur Polk said. "Since the twins are so identical, we didn't think the doctor would be able to testify beyond a doubt as to which twin he examined. I have researched the medical history of the twins, as much as could be researched, and we are willing to admit that identical twins share so many physiological characteristics, it is virtually impossible to use medical data to identify them."

"You have no medical records to enter into the record?" Judge Barrow asked.

"No, sir."

"Then what hard evidence to you intend to enter into the record to substantiate this fantastic story, sir?" the judge asked, getting right to the point.

"We are prepared at this time," Monsieur Polk said, approaching the judge, "to present handwriting samples that you will quickly be able to see distinguish one twin from the other. These come from school records and legal documents," Monsieur Polk said, and presented the exhibits.

Judge Barrow gazed at them. "I'd have to have an expert analyze them, of course."

"We would like to reserve the right to bring them to our experts, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said.

"Of course," the judge said. He put the exhibits aside. "Are there any more questions for Monsieur Andreas?"

"Yes," Monsieur Williams said, and stood his ground between Beau and us. He smiled skeptically. "Sir, you claim Paul Tate, once hearing of this fantastic scheme, volunteered to take the sick twin into his home and pretend she was his wife?"

"That's correct," Beau said.

"Can you tell the court why he would do such a thing?"

"Paul Tate was devoted to Ruby and wanted to see her happy. He knew Pearl was my child and he wanted to see us with our child," Beau added.

Gladys Tate groaned so loud, everyone paused to see. She had closed her eyes and fallen back against Octavious's shoulder.

"Monsieur?" the judge asked. Octavious whispered something in Gladys's ear and her eyelids fluttered open. With great effort, she sat up again. Then, she nodded she was all right.

"And so," Monsieur Williams continued, "you are telling the court that Paul Tate willingly took in his sister-in-law and then pretended she was his wife to the extent that when she died, he fell into a deep depression which caused his own untimely death? He did all this to make sure Ruby Tate was happy living with another man? Is that what you want this court to believe?"

"It's true," Beau said.

Monsieur Williams widened his smile. "No further questions, Your Honor," he said. The judge told Beau he was excused. He looked very dark and troubled as he returned to his seat beside me.

"Ruby," Monsieur Polk said. I nodded and he called me to the stand. I took a deep breath and with my eyes nearly closed, walked to the witness chair. After I was sworn in, I took another deep breath and told myself to be strong for Pearl's sake.

"Please state your real name," Monsieur Polk said.

"My legal name is Ruby Tate."

"You have heard Monsieur Andreas's story. Is there anything with which you wish to disagree?"

"No. It's all true."

"Did you discuss this switching of identities with your husband, Paul, and did he indeed agree to the plan?"

"Yes. I didn't want him to be so involved," I added, "but he insisted."

"Describe the birth of your child," he said, and stood back.

I told the story, how Paul had been there during the storm to help with Pearl's birth. Monsieur Polk then took me through many of the highlights of my life, events at the Greenwood School, the people I had known and things I had accomplished. After I finished with that, he nodded toward the rear and an assistant brought in an easel, some drawing pencils, and a drawing pad.

Monsieur Williams shot up out of his seat as soon as it was obvious what Monsieur Polk wanted to demonstrate. "I object to this, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams cried.

"Monsieur Polk, what do you plan to enter into the record here?" the judge asked.

"There were many differences between the twins, Your Honor, many we recognize will be hard to substantiate, but one is possible, and that is Ruby's ability to draw and paint. She has had paintings in galleries in New Orleans and—"

"Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said, "whether this woman can draw a straight line or not is irrelevant. It was never established that Gisselle Andreas could not."

"I'm afraid he has a point, Monsieur Polk. All you will show here is that this woman can perform artistically."

Monsieur Polk sighed with frustration. "But, Your Honor, never in Gisselle Andreas's history has there ever been any evidence. . ."

The judge shook his head. "It's a waste of the court's time, monsieur. Please continue with your witness or enter new exhibits or call another witness." Monsieur Polk shook his head. "Are you finished with this witness?"

With deep disappointment, Monsieur Polk replied, "Yes, Your Honor."

"Monsieur Williams?"

"A few minor questions," he said, dripping with sarcasm. "Madame Andreas. You claim you were married to Paul Tate even though you were still in love with Beau Andreas. Why did you marry Monsieur Tate, then?"

"I . . . was alone and he wanted to provide a home for me and my child."

"Most husbands want to provide homes for their wives and children. Did he love you?"

"Oh yes."

"Did you love him?"

"I . . .”

"Well, did you?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"But what, madame?"

"But it was a different sort of love, a friendship, a . . ." I wanted to say "sisterly," but when I looked at Gladys and Octavious, I couldn't do it. "A different sort of love."

"You were man and wife, were you not? You were married in a church, you said."

"Yes."

He narrowed his eyes. "Did you see Monsieur Andreas romantically while you were married to Monsieur Tate?"

"Yes," I said, and some in the audience gasped and shook their heads.

"And according to your tale, your husband was aware of this?"

"Yes."

"He was aware of this and he tolerated it? Not only did he tolerate it, but he was willing to take in your dying sister and pretend it was you so you would be happy." He spun around as he continued, directing himself to the audience as much as he directed himself to the judge. "And then he became so depressed over her death that he drowned in the swamp? This is the story you and Monsieur Andreas want everyone to accept?"

"Yes," I cried. "It's true. All of it."

Monsieur Williams gazed at the judge and twisted the corner of his mouth until it cut into his cheek.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

The judge nodded. "You may step down, madame," he said, but I couldn't stand. My legs were like wet straw and my back felt as if it had turned to jelly. I closed my eyes.

"Ruby," Beau called.

"Are you all right, madame?" the judge asked.

I shook my head. My heart was pounding so hard, I couldn't catch my breath. I felt the blood drain from my face. When I opened my eyes, Beau was holding my hand. Someone had brought up a wet cloth for my forehead and I realized I had fainted.

"Can you walk, Ruby?" Beau asked.

I nodded.

"We'll have a short recess," the judge said, and slammed his gavel down. I felt as if he had slammed it down on my heart.