Ruby

9

Hard Lessons

I didn't see Paul for the remainder of the weekend and I was surprised when I went to school on Monday and didn't see him there either. When I asked his sister Jeanne about him, she told me he wasn't feeling well, but she looked put out that I had asked, especially in front of her friends, and wouldn't say another thing.

After I returned home from school, I decided to take a short walk along the canal before preparing dinner. I strolled down the path through our yard which was abloom with hibiscus and blue and pink hydrangeas. Spring was rushing in this year, the colors, the sweet scents, and the heightened sense of life and birth was all around me. It was as if Nature herself were trying to comfort me.

But my confused and troubled thoughts were like bees buzzing around in a jar. I heard so many different voices telling me to do so many different things. Run, Ruby, run, one voice urged. Get as far from the bayou and from Paul and Grandpère Jack as you can.

Forget running, be defiant, another voice told me. You love Paul. You know you do. Surrender to your feelings and forget what you've learned. Do what Paul wants you to do: live like it was all a lie.

Remember your promise to me, Ruby, I heard Grandmère Catherine urge. Ruby . . . your promise . . . remember.

The warm Gulf breeze lifted strands of my hair and made them dance over my forehead. The same warm breeze combed through the moss on the dead cypress trees in the marsh, making it look like some sprawling green animal, lifting and swaying to catch my attention. On a long sandbar, I saw a cottonmouth coiled over some driftwood soaking up the sun, its triangular head the color of a discolored copper penny. Two ducks and a heron sprung up from the water and flew low over the cattails. And then I heard the distant purr of a motorboat as it sliced through the bayou and wove its way closer and closer until it popped out from around a turn.

It was Paul. The moment he saw me, he waved, sped up, and brought the boat close to the shore, the wakes from the motorboat swelling up through the lily pads and cattails and slapping across the cypress roots along the bank.

"Walk down to the shale there," he called, and pointed. I did and he brought the boat as near as he could before shutting the engine and letting it drift up to me.

"Where were you today? Why didn't you come to school?" I asked. He was obviously not sick.

"I was busy, thinking and planning. Come into my boat. I want to show you something," he said.

I shook my head. "I've got to start on dinner for Grandpère Jack, Paul," I told him, retreating a step.

"You've got plenty of time and you know he'll either be late or not show up until he's too drunk to care," he replied. "Come on. Please," he begged.

"Paul, I don't want anything to happen like it did the other day," I said.

"Nothing will happen. I won't come near you. I just want to show you something. I'll bring you right back," he promised. He held up his hand to take an oath. "I swear."

"You won't come near me and you'll bring me right back?"

"Absolutely," he said, and leaned forward to take my hand as I hopped over the shale and stepped up and into the motorboat. "Just sit back," he said, starting the engine again. He spun the boat around sharply and accelerated with the confidence of an old Cajun swamp fisherman. Even so, I screamed. The best fisherman often ran into gators or sandbars. Paul laughed and slowed down.

"Where are you taking me, Paul Tate?" He steered us through the shadows cast by an overhang of willow trees, deeper and deeper into the swamp before heading southwest in the direction of his father's cannery. Off in the distance I could see thunderheads over the Gulf. "I don't want to get caught in any storms," I complained.

"My, you can be a nag," Paul said, smiling. He wove us through a narrow passage and then headed for a field, cutting his engine as we drew closer and closer. Finally, he turned it off to let the boat drift.

"Where are we?"

"My land," he replied. "And I don't mean my father's land. My land," he emphasized.

"Your land?"

"Yep," he said proudly and leaned back against the side of the boat. "All that you see—sixty acres actually. It's mine, my inheritance." He gestured broadly at the field.

"I never knew that," I said, gazing over what looked like prime land in the bayou.

"My grandfather Tate left it to me. It's held in trust, but it will be mine as soon as I turn eighteen, but that isn't the best of it," he said, smiling.

"Well, what is then?" I asked. "Stop grinning like a Cheshire cat and tell me what this is all about, Paul Tate."

"Better than tell you, I'll show you," he said, and took up the oar to paddle the boat softly through some marsh grass and into a dark, shadowy area. I stared ahead and soon saw the bubbles in the water.

"What's that?"

"Gas bubbles," he said in a whisper. "You know what it means?"

I shook my head.

"It means oil is under here. Oil and it's on my land. I'm going to be rich, Ruby, very rich," he said.

"Oh, Paul, that's wonderful."

"Not if you're not with me to share it," he said quickly. "I brought you here because I wanted you to see my dreams. I'm going to build a great house on my land. It will be a great plantation, your plantation, Ruby."

"Paul, how can we even think such a thing? Please," I said. "Stop tormenting yourself and me, too."

"We can think of such a thing, don't you see? The oil is the answer. Money and power will make it all possible. I'll buy Grandpère Jack's blessings and silence. We'll be the most respected, prosperous couple in the bayou, and our family—"

"We can't have children, Paul."

"We'll adopt, maybe even secretly, with your doing the same thing my mother did—pretending the baby is yours, and then—"

"But, Paul, we'll be living the same sort of lies, the same deceits, and they will haunt us forever," I said, shaking my head.

"Not if we don't let them, not if we permit ourselves to love and cherish each other the way we always dreamed we would," he insisted.

I turned away from him and watched a bullfrog jump off a log. It created a small circle of ripples that quickly disappeared. In a corner of the pond, I saw bream feeding on insects among the cattails and lily pads. The wind began to pick up and the Spanish moss swayed along with the twisted limbs of the cypress. A flock of geese passed overhead and disappeared over the tops of trees as if they had flown into the clouds.

"It's beautiful here, Paul. And I wish it could be our home someday, but it can't and it's just cruel to bring me here and tell me these things," I said, chastising him softly.

"But, Ruby—"

"Don't you think I wish it could be, wish it as much as you do?" I said, spinning around on him. My eyes were burning with tears of anger and frustration. "The same feelings that are tearing you apart are tearing me, but we're just prolonging the pain by fantasizing like this."

"It's not a fantasy; it's a plan," he said firmly. "I've been thinking about it all weekend. After I'm eighteen . . ."

I shook my head.

"Take me back, Paul. Please," I said. He stared at me a moment.

"Will you at least think about it?" he pleaded. "Will you?"

"Yes," I said, because I saw it was the key that would open the door and let us out of this room of misery.

"Good." He started the engine and drove us back to the dock at my house.

"I'll see you at school tomorrow," he said after he helped me out of the boat. "We'll talk about this every day, think it out clearly, together, okay?"

"Okay, Paul," I said, confident that one morning he would awaken and realize that his plan was a fantasy not meant to become a reality.

"Ruby," he cried as I started toward the house. I turned. "I can't help loving you," he said. "Don't hate me for it."

I bit down on my lower lip and nodded. My heart was soaked in the tears that had fallen behind my eyes. I watched him drive off and waited until his motorboat disappeared into the bayou. Then I took a deep breath and entered the house.

The roar of Grandpère's laughter greeted me and was immediately followed by the laughter of a stranger. I walked into the kitchen slowly to discover Grandpère Jack sitting at the table. He and a man I recognized as Buster Trahaw, the son of a rich sugar plantation owner, sat hunched over a large bowl of crawfish. There were at least a half-dozen or so empty bottles of beer on the table that they had drawn out of a case on the floor at their feet.

Buster Trahaw was a man in his mid-thirties, tall and stout with a circle of fat around his stomach and sides that made it look as if he wore an inner tube under his shirt. All of the features of his plain face were distorted by the bloat. He had a thick nose with wide nostrils, heavy jowls, a round chin, and a soft mouth with thick purple lips. His forehead protruded over his cavernous dark eyes and his large earlobes leaned away from his head so that from behind, he looked like a big bat. Right now, his dull brown hair was matted down with sweat, the strands sticking to the top of his forehead.

As soon as I stepped into the room, his smile widened, showing a mouthful of large teeth. Pieces of crawfish were visible between the gaps and his thick pink tongue was covered with the meat as well. He brought the neck of a beer bottle to his lips and drew on it so hard, his cheeks folded in and out like the bellows of an accordion. Grandpère Jack spun around in his chair when he caught Buster's smile.

"Well, where you been, girl?" Grandpère demanded.

"I went for a walk," I said.

"Me and Buster been here waitin' on you," Grandpère said. "Buster's our guest for dinner tonight," he said. I nodded and went to the icebox. "Can't you say hello to him?"

"Hello," I said, and turned back to the icebox. "Did you bring any fish or duck or anything for the gumbo, Grandpère?" I asked without looking at him. I took out some vegetables.

"There's a pile of shrimp in the sink just waitin' to be shelled," he replied. "She's one helluva cook, Buster. I'd match her gumbo, her jambalaya, and étouffée with any in the bayou," he bragged.

"Don't say?" Buster replied.

"You'll soon see. Yes, sir, you will. And look how nicely she keeps the house, even with a hog like me liven' in it," Grandpère added.

I turned and gazed at him suspiciously, my eyes no more than dark slits. He sounded like he was doing a lot more than bragging about his granddaughter; he sounded like someone advertising something he wanted to sell. My suspicious gaze didn't shake him. "Buster here knows about you, Ruby," he said. "He told me he's seen you walking along the road or tending to the stall or in town many times. Ain't that right, Buster?"

"Yes, sir, it is. And I always liked what I saw," he said. "You keep yourself nice and pretty, Ruby," he said.

"Thank you," I said, and turned away, my heart beginning to pound.

"I told Buster here that my granddaughter, she's gettin' to the point when she should think of settlin' down and havin' a place of her own, her own kitchen, her own flock to tend," Grandpère Jack continued. I started to shell the shrimp, "Most women in the bayou end up no better than they were to start, but Buster here, he's got one of the best plantations going."

"One of the biggest and best," Buster added.

"I'm still going to school, Grandpère," I said. I kept my back to him and Buster so neither would see the fear in my face or the tears that were starting to escape my lids and trickle down my cheeks.

"Aw, school ain't important anymore, not at your age. You've already gone longer than I did," Grandpère said. "And I bet longer than you did, huh, Buster?"

"That's for sure," Buster said, then laughed.

"All Buster had to learn was how to count the money comin' in, ain't that right, Buster?"

The two of them laughed.

"Buster's father is a sick man; his days are numbered and Buster's going to inherit the whole thing, ain't you, Buster?"

"That's true and I deserve it, too," Buster said.

"Hear that, Ruby?" Grandpère said. I didn't respond.

"I'm talking to you, child."

"I heard you, Grandpère," I said. I wiped my tears away with the back of my hand and turned around. "But I told you, I'm not ready to marry anyone and I'm still in school. I want to be an artist anyway," I said.

"Hell, you can be an artist. Buster here would buy you all the paint and brushes you'd need for a hundred years, wouldn't ya, Buster?"

"Two hundred," he said, and laughed.

"See?"

"Grandpère, don't do this," I pleaded. "You're embarrassing me."

"Huh? You're too old for that kind of thing, Ruby. Besides, I can't be around here watchin' over you all day now, can I? Your Grandmère's gone; it's time for you to grow up."

"She sure looks good and grow'd up to me," Buster said and wiped his thick tongue over the side of his mouth to scoop in a piece of crawfish that had attached itself to the grizzle of his unshaven face.

"Hear that, Ruby?"

"I don't want to hear that. I don't want to talk about it. I'm not marrying anyone right now," I cried. I backed away from the sink and from them. "And especially not Buster," I added, and charged out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"Ruby!" Grandpère called.

I paused at the top of the stairway to catch my breath and heard Buster complain.

"So much for your easy arrangements, Jack. You brought me here, got me to buy you this case of beer and she ain't the obedient little lady you promised."

"She will be," Grandpère Jack told him. "I'll see to that."

"Maybe. You're just lucky I like a girl who has some spirit. It's like breaking a wild horse," Buster said. Grandpère Jack laughed. "Tell you what," Buster said. "I'll up what I was going to give you by another five hundred if I can test the merchandise first."

"What'dya mean?" Grandpère asked.

"I don't got to spell it out, do I, Jack? You're just playin' dumb to get me to raise the ante. All right, I'll admit she's special. I'll give you one thousand tomorrow for a night alone with her and then the rest on our wedding day. A woman should be broken in first anyway and I might as well break in my wife myself."

"A thousand dollars!"

"You got it. What'dya say?"

I held my breath. Tell him to go straight to hell, Grandpère, I whispered.

"Deal," Grandpère Jack said instead. I could see them shaking hands and then opening another bottle of beer.

I hurried into my room and closed the door. If ever I needed proof that all the stories about Grandpère Jack were true, I just got it, I thought. No matter how drunk he got, no matter how many gambling debts he mounted, he should have some feeling for his own flesh and blood. I was seeing firsthand the sort of ugly and selfish animal Grandpère had become in Grandmère Catherine's eyes. Why didn't I have the courage to obey my promise to her immediately? I thought. Why do I always look for the best in people, even when there's not a hint of any there? All my lessons are to be learned the hard way, I concluded.

Less than an hour or so later, I heard Grandpère come up the stairs. He didn't knock on my door; he shoved it open and stood there glaring in at me. He was fuming so fiercely it looked like smoke might pour out of his red ears.

"Buster's gone," he said. "He lost his appetite over your behavior."

"Good."

"You ain't gonna be like this, Ruby," he said, pointing his finger at me. "Your Grandmère Catherine spoiled you, probably fillin' you with all sorts of dreams about your artwork and tellin' you you're goin' to be some sort of fancy city lady, but you're just another Cajun girl, prettier than most, admit; but still a Cajun girl who should thank her lucky stars a man as rich as Buster Trahaw's taken interest in her.

"Now, instead of being grateful, what do you do? You make me look like a fool," he said.

"You are a fool, Grandpère," I retorted. His face turned crimson. I sat up in my bed. "But worse, you're a selfish man who would sell his own flesh and blood just to keep himself in whiskey and gambling."

"You apologize for that, Ruby. You hear."

"I'm not apologizing, Grandpère. It's you who have years of apologizing to do. You're the one who has to apologize for blackmailing Mr. Tate and selling Paul to him."

"What? Who told you that?"

"You're the one who has to apologize for arranging the sale of my sister to some Creoles in New Orleans. You broke my mother's heart and Grandmère Catherine's, too," I accused. He stood there sputtering for a moment.

"That's a lie. All of it, a lie. I did what was necessary to do to save the family name and made a little on the side to help us out," he protested. "Catherine just worked you up against me by telling you otherwise and—"

"Just like you're selling me to Buster Trahaw, making a deal with him to come up here tomorrow night," I said, crying. "You, my grandfather, someone who should be looking after me, protecting me . . . you, you're nothing more than . . . than the swamp animal Grandmère said you were," I shouted.

He seemed to swell up, his shoulders rising so he reached his full height, his crimson face turning darker until his complexion was almost the color of my hair, his eyes so full of anger, they seemed luminous.

"I see these busybodies have filled you with defiance and turned you against me. Well, I'm doin' what's best for you by convincing a man as rich and prosperous as Buster to take interest in you. If I make something on the side, too, you should be happy for me."

"I'm not and I won't marry Buster Trahaw," I cried.

"Yes, you will," Grandpère said. "And you'll thank me for it, too," he predicted. Then he turned and left my room, pounding down the stairs.

A short while later, I heard him turn on the radio and then I heard some beer bottles clank and shatter. He was having one of his tantrums. I decided to wait in my room until he fell into his stupor. Afterward, I would leave.

I started to pack a small bag, being as selective as I could about what I would take because I knew I had to travel light. I had my art money hidden under the mattress, but I decided not to take it out until just before I was ready to leave. Of course, I would take the photographs of my mother and the one photograph of my real father and my sister. As I pondered what else to bring, I heard Grandpère's ranting grow more intense. Something else shattered and a chair was smashed. Shortly afterward, I heard something rattle and then I heard his heavy, unsure steps on the stairs.

I cowered back in my bed, my heart thumping. My door was thrown open again and he stood there, gazing in at me, the flames of anger in his eyes fanned by the whiskey and beer he had consumed. He looked around and saw my little bag in the corner.

"Goin' somewheres, are ya?" he asked, smiling. I shook my head. "Thought you might do that . . . thought you might leave me lookin' the fool."

"Grandpère, please," I began but he stepped forward with surprising agility and seized my left ankle. I screamed as he wrapped what looked like a bicycle chain around it and then ran the chain down and around the leg of the bed. I heard him snap on a lock before he stood up.

"There," he said. "That should help bring you to your senses."

"Grandpère . . . unlock me!"

He turned away.

"You'll be thankin' me," he muttered. "Thankin' me." He stumbled out of the door and left me, terrified, crying hysterically.

"Grandpère!" I screamed. My throat ached with the effort and the tears. When I stopped and listened, it sounded as if he had tripped and fallen down the stairs. I heard him curse and then I heard more banging and more furniture shattering. After a while it grew quiet.

Stunned by what he had done, I could only lie there and sob until my chest felt as if it were filled with stones. Grandpère was worse than a swamp animal; he was a monster, for swamp animals would never be as cruel to their own kind, I thought. And there was just so much to blame on the whiskey and beer.

Out of exhaustion and fear, I fell asleep, eagerly accepting the slumber as a form of escape from the horror I had never dreamed.

When I awoke, I felt as if I had slept for hours, but not even two had passed. I had no chance to think that what had happened was just a bad nightmare either, for the moment I moved my leg, I heard the chain rattle. I sat up quickly and tried to slide it off my ankle, but the harder I tugged, the deeper and sharper it cut into my skin. I moaned and buried my face in my hands for a moment. If Grandpère left me chained up like this all day . . . if I were like this when Buster Trahaw returned, I would be defenseless, helpless.

A cold, electric chill cut through my heart. I couldn't remember ever feeling such terror. I listened. All was quiet in the house. Even the breeze barely made the walls creak. It was as if time stood still, as if I were trapped in the eye of a great storm that was about to break over my head. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down enough to think clearly. Then I studied the chain and followed the line of it to the leg of the bed.

A surge of relief came over me when I realized that Grandpère Jack in his drunken state had merely wound and locked the chain around the leg, forgetting that I could lift the bed and slide the chain down. I twisted my body until I had my other leg off the bed and then lowered myself awkwardly, painfully, until I was far enough to get the leverage I needed. It took all the strength I could muster, but the bed lifted and I began to nudge the chain down until it fell off the bottom of the leg. I worked the chain around until I unraveled it from my ankle, which was plenty red and sore. Carefully, as quietly as I could, I lay the chain on the floor. Then I picked up my little bag of clothes and precious items, dug my money out from under the mattress, and went to the bedroom door. I opened it a crack and listened.

All was quiet. The butane lantern below flickered weakly, casting a dim glow and making the distorted silhouettes dance over the stairs and the walls. Was Grandpère asleep in Grandmère Catherine's room? I decided not to look, but instead, I slipped out of my bedroom and tiptoed to the stairs. No matter how softly I walked, however, the wooden floors creaked. It was as if the house wanted to betray me. I paused, listened, and then continued down the stairs. When I reached the bottom, I waited and listened. Then I went forward and discovered Grandpère Jack sprawled on the floor by the front door. He was snoring loudly.

I didn't want to risk stepping over him and going out the front, so I turned to the back, but I stopped halfway to the kitchen. I had to do one last thing, take one last look at the picture I had painted of Grandmère Catherine that hung on the wall in the parlor. I walked back softly and paused in the doorway. Moonlight pouring through the uncovered window illuminated the portrait, and for a moment it seemed to me that Grandmère was smiling, that her eyes were full of happiness because I was keeping to my promise.

"Good-bye, Grandmère," I whispered. "Someday, I'll return to the bayou and I'll take your picture back with me to wherever I live."

How I wished I could hug her and kiss her one more time. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I had, but Grandpère Jack groaned and turned over on the floor. I didn't move a muscle. His eyes opened and closed. If he had seen me, he must have thought it was a dream, for he didn't wake up. Not wasting another second, I turned away and walked quickly but quietly through the kitchen and out the back door. Then, I hurried around the corner of the house and headed for the front.

When I reached the road, I stopped and looked back. Something sweet and sour was in my throat. Despite all that had happened and all that would, it hurt me to leave this simple house that had known my first steps. Within those plain old walls Grandmère Catherine and I had made many a meal together, sung together, and laughed together. On that galerie, she had rocked and told me story after story about her own youthful days. Upstairs in that bedroom, she had nursed me through my childhood illnesses and told me the bedtime stories that made it easier to close my eyes and sleep contentedly, always feeling safe and secure in the cocoon of promises she wove with her soft voice and soft, loving eyes. Sitting by my bedroom window on hot summer nights, I had fantasized my future, seen my prince come, envisioned my jeweled wedding with the gold dust in the spiderwebs and the music.

Oh, it was more than an old swamp house I was leaving. It was my entire past, my years of growing and developing, my feelings of joy and feelings of sadness, my melancholy and my ecstasy, my laughter and my tears. How hard it was even now, even after all this, to turn away from it and let dark night shut the door of blackness behind me.

And what of the swamp itself? Could I really tear myself away from the flowers and the birds, from the fish and even the alligators who peered at me with interest? In the moonlight on a limb of a sycamore, sat a marsh hawk, his silhouette dark and proud against the white glow. He opened his wings and held them as if he were saying good-bye for all the swamp animals and birds and fish. And then he closed his wings and I turned and hurried off, the hawk's silhouette still lingering on the surface of my vision.

On the way into Houma, I passed many of the houses of people I knew, people I thought I might never see again. I almost paused at Mrs. Thibodeau's to say good-bye. She and Mrs. Livaudis were such special friends to me and my Grandmère, but I was afraid she would try to talk me out of leaving and try to talk me into staying either with her or Mrs. Livaudis. I pledged to myself that someday, when I was finally settled, I would write to both of them.

Few places were still open in town when I arrived. I went directly to the bus station and bought a one-way ticket to New Orleans. I had nearly an hour to wait and spent most of it on a bench in the shadows, fearful that someone would spot me and either try to stop me or tell Grandpère before I left. Twice, I thought about calling Paul, but I was afraid to talk to him. If I told him what Grandpère Jack had done, he was sure to lose his temper and do something terrible. I decided to write him a good-bye note instead. I bought an envelope and a stamp in the station and dug out a piece of paper from my pocketbook.

Dear Paul,

It would take too long to explain to you why I am leaving Houma without saying good-bye. I think the main reason though is I know how much it would break my heart to look at you and then leave. It hurts so much even writing this note. Let me just tell you that more things happened in the past than I revealed that day, and these events are taking me away from Houma to find my real father and my other life. There is nothing I would want more than to spend the rest of my life at your side. It seems like such a cruel joke for Nature to let us fall in love the way we did and then surprise us with the ugly truth. But I know now that if I didn't leave, you would not give up and you would make it painful for both of us.

Remember me as I was before we learned the truth, and I'll remember you the same way. Maybe you're right maybe we'll never love anyone else as much as we love each other, but we have to try. I will think of you often, and I will imagine you in your beautiful plantation.

Love always, Ruby

I posted the letter in the mailbox in front of the bus station and then I sat down and choked back my tears and waited. Finally, the bus arrived. It had come from St. Martinville and had made stops and picked up passengers at New Iberia, Franklin, and Morgan City before arriving at Houma, so the bus was nearly filled when I stepped up and gave the driver my ticket. I made my way toward the rear and saw an empty seat on the right next to a pretty caramel skinned woman with black hair and turquoise eyes. She smiled when I sat down, revealing milk white teeth. She wore a bright pink and blue peasant skirt with black sandals, a pink halter, and she had rings and rings of different bracelets on both her arms. She had her hair tied with a white kerchief, a tignon with seven knots whose points all stuck straight up.

"Hello," she said. "Going to the wet grave, too?"

"Wet grave?" I sat down beside her.

"New Orleans, honey. That's what my Grandmère called it because you can't bury anyone in the ground. Too much water."

"Really?"

"That's true. Everyone's buried in tombs, vaults, ovens above the ground. You didn't know that?" she asked, holding her smile. I shook my head. "First time to New Orleans then, huh?"

"Yes, it is."

"You picked the best time to visit, you know," she said. I saw how bright her eyes were, how full of excitement she was.

"Why?"

"Why? Why, honey, it's Mardi Gras."

"Oh . . . no," I said, thinking to myself that it was the worst time to go, not the best. I had read and heard about New Orleans at Mardi Gras. I should have realized that was why she was all dressed up. The whole city would be festive. It wasn't the best time to arrive on my real father's doorstep.

"You act like you just stepped out of the swamp, honey."

I took a deep breath and nodded. She laughed.

"My name's Annie Gray," she said, offering her slim, smooth hand. I took it and shook. She had pretty rings on all her fingers, but one ring, the one on her pinky, looked like it was made out of bone and shaped like a tiny skull.

"I'm Ruby, Ruby Landry."

"Pleased to meet you. You got relatives in New Orleans?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "But I haven't seen them . . . ever."

"Oh, ain't that somethin'?"

The bus driver closed the door and started the bus away from the station. My heart began to race as I saw us drive by stores and houses I had known all my life. We passed the church and then the school, moving over the road I had walked almost every day of my life. Then we paused at an intersection and the bus turned in the direction of New Orleans. I had seen the road sign many times, and many times dreamt of following it. Now I was. In moments we were flying down the highway and Houma was falling farther and farther behind. I couldn't help but look back.

"Don't look back," Annie Gray said quickly.

"What? Why not?"

"Bad luck," she replied.

I spun around to face forward.

"What?"

"Bad luck. Quick, cross yourself three times," she prescribed. I saw she was serious and so I did it.

"I don't need any more of that," I said. That made her laugh. She leaned forward and picked up her cloth bag. Then she dug into it and came up with something to place in my hand. I stared at it.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Piece of neck bone from a black cat. It's gris-gris," she said. Seeing I was still confused, she added, "a magical charm to bring you good luck. My Grandmère gave it to me. Voodoo," she added in a whisper.

"Oh. Well, I don't want to take your good luck piece," I said, handing it back. She shook her head.

"Bad luck for me to take it back now and worse luck for you to give it," she said. "I got plenty more, honey. Don't worry about that. Go on," she said, forcing me to wrap my fingers around the cat bone. "Put it away, but carry it with you all the time."

"Thank you," I said, and slipped it into my bag.

"I bet these relatives of yours are excited about seeing you, huh?"

"No," I said.

She tilted her head and smiled with confusion. "No? Don't they know you're comin'?"

I looked at her for a moment and then I looked forward again, straightening myself up in the seat.

"No," I said. "They don't even know I exist," I added.

The bus shot forward, its headlights slicking through the night, carrying me onward toward the future that awaited, a future just as dark and mysterious and as frightening as the unlit highway.