Ruby

10

An Unexpected Friend

Annie Gray was so excited about arriving in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras, she talked incessantly during the remainder of the trip. I sat with my knees together, my hands nervously twisting on my lap, but I was grateful for the conversation. Listening to her descriptions of previous Mardi Gras celebrations she had attended, I had little time to feel sorry for myself and worry about what would happen to me the moment I stepped off the bus. For the time being at least, I could ignore the troubled thoughts crowded into the darkest corners of my brain.

Annie came from New Iberia, but she had been to New Orleans at least a half-dozen times to visit her aunt, who she said was a cabaret singer in a famous nightclub in the French Quarter. Annie said she was going to live with her aunt in New Orleans from now on.

"I'm going to be a singer, too," she bragged. "My aunt is getting me my first audition in a nightclub on Bourbon Street. You know about the French Quarter, don'tcha, honey?" she asked.

"I know it's the oldest section of the city and there is a lot of music, and people have parties there all the time," I told her.

"That's right, honey, and it has the best restaurants and many nice shops and loads and loads of antique and art galleries."

"Art galleries?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did you ever hear of Dominique's?"

She shrugged.

"I wouldn't know one from the other. Why?"

"I have some of my artwork displayed there," I said proudly.

"Really? Well, ain't that somethin'? You're an artist." She looked impressed. "And you say you ain't ever been to New Orleans before?"

I shook my head.

"Oh," she squealed, and squeezed my hand. "You're in for a bundle of fun. You've got to tell me where you'll be and I'll send you an invitation to come hear me sing as soon as I get hired, okay?"

"I don't know where I'll be yet," I had to confess. That slowed down her flood of excitement. She pulled herself back in her seat and scrutinized me with a curious smile on her face.

"What do you mean? I thought you said you're going to visit relatives," she said.

"I am . . . I . . . just don't know their address." I allowed my eyes to meet hers briefly before they fled to stare almost blindly at the passing scenery, which right now was a blur of dark silhouettes and an occasional lit window of a solitary house.

"Well, honey, New Orleans is a bit bigger than downtown Houma," she said, laughing. "You got their phone number at least, don'tcha?"

I turned back and shook my head. Numbness tingled in my fingertips, perhaps because I had my fingers locked so tightly together.

Her smile wilted and she narrowed her turquoise eyes suspiciously as her gaze shifted to my small bag and then back to me. Then she nodded to herself and sat forward, convinced she knew it all.

"You're runnin' away from home, ain'tcha?" she asked. I bit down on my lower lip, but I couldn't stop my eyes from tearing over. I nodded.

"Why?" she asked quickly. "You can tell Annie Gray, honey. Annie Gray can keep a secret better than a bank safe."

I swallowed my tears and vanquished my throat lump so I could tell her about Grandmère Catherine, her death, Grandpère Jack's moving in and his quickly arranging for my marriage to Buster. She listened quietly, her eyes sympathetic until I finished. Then they blazed furiously.

"That old monster," she said. "He be Papa La Bas," she muttered.

"Who?"

"The devil himself," she declared. "You got anything that belongs to him on you?"

"No," I replied. "Why?"

"Fixin'," she said angrily. "I'd cast a spell on him for you. My great-Grandmère, she was brought here a slave, but she was a mamaloa." Voodoo queen, and she hand me down lots of secrets," she whispered, her eyes wide, her face close to mine. "Ya, ye, ye Ii konin tou, gris-gris," she chanted. My heart began to pound.

"What's that mean?"

"Part of a voodoo prayer. If I had a snip of your Grandpère's hair, a piece of his clothing, even an old sock . . . he never be bothering you again," she assured me, her head bobbing.

"That's all right. I'll be fine now," I said, my voice no more than a whisper either.

She stared at me a moment. The white part of her eyes looked brighter, almost as if there were two tiny fires behind each orb. Finally, she nodded again, patted my hand reassuringly and sat back.

"You be all right, you just don't lose that black cat bone I gave you," she told me.

"Thank you." I let out a breath. The bus bounced and turned on the highway. Ahead of us, the road became brighter as we approached more lighted and populated areas en route to the city that now loomed before me like a dream.

"I tell you what you do when we arrive," Annie said. "You go right to the telephone booth and look up your relatives in the phone book. Besides their telephone number, their address will be there. What's their name?"

"Dumas," I said.

"Dumas. Oh, honey, there's a hundred Dumas in the book, if there's one. Know any first names?"

"Pierre Dumas."

"Probably at least a dozen or so of them," she said, shaking her head. "He got a middle initial?"

"I don't know," I said.

She thought a moment.

"What else do you know about your relatives, honey?"

"Just that they live in a big house, a mansion," I said. Her eyes brightened again.

"Oh. Maybe the Garden District then. You don't know what he does for a living?"

I shook my head. Her eyes turned suspicious as one of her eyebrows lifted quizzically.

"Who's Pierre Dumas? Your cousin? Your uncle?"

"No. My father," I said. Her mouth gaped open and her eyes widened with surprise.

"Your father? And he never set eyes on you before?"

I shook my head. I didn't want to go through the whole story, and thankfully, she didn't ask for details. She simply crossed herself and muttered something before nodding.

"I'll look in the phone book with you. My Grandmère told me, I have a mama's vision and can see my way through the dark and find the light. I'll help you," she added, patting my hand. "Only, one thing must be to make it work," she added.

"What's that?"

"You've got to give me a token, something valuable to open the doors. Oh, it ain't for me," she added quickly. "It's a gift for the saints to thank them for help in the success of your gris-gris. I'll drop it by the church. Whatcha got?"

"I don't have anything valuable," I said.

"You got any money on you?" she asked.

"A little money I've earned selling my artwork," I told her.

"Good," she said. "You give me a ten dollar bill at the phone booth and that will give me the power. You lucky you found me, honey. Otherwise, you'd be wanderin' around this city all night and all day. Must be meant to be. Must be I be your good gris-gris."

And with that she laughed again and again began describing how wonderful her new life in New Orleans was going to be once her aunt got her the opportunity to sing.

When I first saw the skyline of the city, I was glad I had found Annie Gray. There were so many buildings and there were so many lights, I felt as if I had fallen into a star laden sky. The traffic and people, the maze of streets was over-whelming and frightening. Everywhere I looked out the bus window, I saw crowds of revelers marching through the streets, all of them dressed in bright costumes, wearing masks and hats with bright feathers and carrying colorful paper umbrellas. Instead of masks, some had their faces made up to look like clowns, even the women. People were playing trumpets and trombones, flutes and drums. The bus driver had to slow down and wait for the crowds to cross at almost every corner before finally pulling into the bus station. As soon as he did so, our bus was surrounded by partygoers and musicians greeting the arriving passengers. Some were given masks, some had ropes of plastic jewels cast over their heads and some were given paper umbrellas. It seemed if you weren't celebrating Mardi Gras, you weren't welcome in New Orleans.

"Hurry," Annie told me as we started down the aisle. As soon as I stepped down, someone grabbed my left hand, shoved a paper umbrella into my right, and pulled me into the parade of brightly dressed people so that I was forced to march around the bus with them. Annie laughed and threw her hands up as she started to dance and swing herself in behind me. We marched around as the bus driver unloaded the luggage. When Annie saw hers, she pulled me out of the line and I followed her into the station. People were dancing everywhere, and everywhere I looked, there were pockets of musicians playing Dixieland Jazz.

"There's a phone booth," she said, pointing. We hurried to it. Annie opened the fat telephone book. I had never realized how many people lived in New Orleans. "Dumas, Dumas," she chanted as she ran her finger down the page. "Okay, here be the list. Quickly," she said, turning back to me. "Fold the ten dollar bill as tightly as you can. Go on."

I did what she asked. She opened her purse and kept her eyes closed.

"Just drop it in here," she said. I did so and she opened her eyes slowly and then turned to the phone book again. She did look like someone who had fallen into a trance. I heard her mumble some gibberish and then she put her long right forefinger on the page and ran it down slowly. Suddenly, she stopped. Her whole body shuddered and she closed and then opened her eyes. "It's him!" she declared. She leaned closer and nodded. "He does live in the Garden District, big house, rich." She tore off a corner of the page and wrote the address on it. It was on St. Charles Avenue.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Didn't you see my finger stop on the page? I didn't stop it; it was stopped!" she said, eyes wide. I nodded.

"Thank you," I said.

"You welcome, honey. Okay," she said, picking up her suitcase. "I got to get me going. You be all right now. Annie Gray said so. I'll send for you when I start singing somewhere," she said, backing away.

"Annie don't forget you. Don't forget Annie!" she cried. Then she spun around once with her right hand high, the colorful bracelets clicking together. She threw me a wide smile as she danced her way off, falling in with a small group of revelers who marched out the door and into the street.

I gazed at the street address on the tiny slip of paper in the palm of my hand. Did she really have some kind of prophetic power or was this incorrect, an address that would get me even more lost than I imagined? I looked back at the opened telephone book, thinking maybe I should know where the addresses for any other Pierre Dumas were, and was shocked to discover, there was only one Pierre Dumas. What sort of magic was required for this? I wondered.

I laughed to myself, realizing I had paid for my company and entertainment. But who knew how much of what Annie had told me was true and how much wasn't? I wasn't one to be skeptical about supernatural mysteries, not with a traiteur for a grandmother.

Slowly, I walked to the station entrance. For a moment, I just stood there gaping out at the city. I looked around and floundered, filled with trepidation. Part of me wanted to march right back to the bus. Maybe I'd be better off in Houma living with Mrs. Thibodeau or Mrs. Livaudis, I thought. But the laughter and music from another group of revelers coming off a different bus interrupted my thoughts. When they reached me, one of them, a tall man wearing a white and black wolf mask paused at my side.

"Are you all alone?" he asked.

I nodded. "I just arrived."

A light sprang into his light blue eyes, the only part of his face not hidden by the mask. He was tall with wide shoulders. He had dark brown hair and a young voice causing me to think he was no more than twenty-five.

"So did I. But this is no night to be all alone," he said. "You're very pretty, but it's Mardi Gras. Don't you have a mask to go with that umbrella?"

"No," I said. "Someone gave me this as soon as I got off the bus. I didn't come for the Mardi Gras. I came—"

"Of course you did," he interrupted. "Here," he said, digging into his bag and coming up with another mask, a black one with plastic diamonds around its edges. "Put on this one and come along with us."

"Thank you, but I've got to find this address," I said. He looked at my slip.

"Oh, I know where this is. We won't be far from it. Come along. Might as well enjoy yourself on the way," he added. "Here, put on the mask. Everyone must wear a mask tonight. Go on," he insisted, resting his sharp gaze on me. I saw a smile form around his eyes and I took the mask.

"Now you look like you belong," he said.

"Do you really know this address?" I asked.

"Of course, I do. Come on," he said, taking my hand. Perhaps Annie Gray's voodoo magic was working, I thought. I found a stranger who could take me right to my father's door. I took the stranger's hand and hurried out with him to catch up with the group. There was music all around us and people hawking food and costumes and other masks as well. The whole city had been turned into a grand fais dodo, I thought. There wasn't a sad face anywhere, or if there was, it was hidden behind a mask. Above us, people were raining down confetti from the scrolled iron balconies. Columns and columns of revelers wound around every corner. Some of the costumes the women wore were scant and very revealing. I feasted visually on everything, turning and spinning at this carnival of life: people kissing anyone who was close enough to embrace, obvious strangers hugging and clinging to each other, jugglers juggling colorful balls, sticks of fire, and even knives!

As we danced down the street, the crowds began to swell in size. My newly found guide spun me around and threw his head back with laughter. Then he bought some sort of punch for us to drink and a poor boy shrimp sandwich for us to share. It was filled with oysters, shrimp, sliced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and sauce piquante. I thought it was delicious. Despite my nervousness and trepidation on arriving in New Orleans to meet my real family, I was having a good time.

"Thank you. My name's Ruby," I said. I had to shout even though he was next to me. That's how loud the laughter, the music, and the shouts of others around us were. He shook his head and then brought his lips to my ear.

"No names. Tonight, we are all mysterious," he said in a loud whisper. He followed that with a quick kiss on my neck. The feel of his wet lips stunned me for a moment. I heard his cackle and then I stepped back.

"Thank you for the drink and the sandwich, but I've got to find this address," I said. He nodded, swallowing the rest of his drink quickly.

"Don't you want to see the parade first?" he asked.

"I can't. I've got to find this address," I emphasized.

"Okay. This is the way," he told me, and before I could object, he seized my hand again and led me away from the procession of frolickers. We hurried down one street and then another before he told me we had to take a shortcut.

"We'll go right through this alley and save twenty minutes at least. There's a mob ahead of us."

The alley looked long and dark. It had ash cans and discarded furniture strewn through it, and there was the acrid stench of garbage and urine. I didn't move.

"Come on," he urged, and pulled me behind him, ignoring my reluctance. I held my breath, hoping now to get through it quickly. But less than halfway through the alley, he stopped and turned to me.

"What's wrong?" I asked, a chill so cold in my stomach it was as if I had swallowed an ice cube whole.

"Maybe we shouldn't hurry so. We're losing the best of the night. Don't you want to have fun?" he asked, stepping closer. He put his hand on my shoulder. I stepped back quickly.

"I've got to get to my relatives and let them know I've arrived," I said, now feeling foolish for allowing myself to be pulled into a dark alley with a stranger who wouldn't show me his face nor tell me his name. How could I have been so desperate and trusting?

"I'm sure they don't expect you so soon on a Mardi Gras night. Tonight is a magical night. Everything is different," he said. "You're a very pretty girl." He lifted the mask from his face, but I couldn't see him well in the shadows. Before I could flee, he embraced me and pulled me to him.

"Please," I said, struggling. "I must go. I don't want to do this."

"Sure you do. It's Mardi Gras. Let yourself loose, abandon yourself," he told me, and pressed his lips to mine, holding me so tightly, I couldn't pull away. I felt his hands move down my back and begin to scoop up my skirt. I turned and struggled, but his long arms had mine pinned against my sides. I started to scream and he squelched it by pressing his mouth into mine. When I felt his tongue jet out and rub over mine, I gasped. His hands had found my panties and he was tugging them down as he swung me about. I felt myself growing faint. How could he keep his mouth over mine so long? Finally, he pulled his head back and I gulped air. He turned me around, pressing me toward what looked like an old, discarded mattress on the alley floor.

"Stop!" I cried, twisting and turning to break free. "Let me go!"

"It's party time!" he cried, and laughed that dry cackle again. But this time, as he brought his face toward me, I managed to pull my right hand out from under his arm and claw his cheeks and nose. He screamed and threw me back in a rage.

"You bitch!" he cried, wiping his face. I cowered in the dark as he lifted his head and released another sick laugh. Had I fled from Buster Trahaw only to put myself into a worse predicament? Where was Annie Gray's magical protection now? I wondered as the stranger started toward me, a dark, dangerous silhouette, a character who had escaped from my worst nightmares to invade my reality.

Fortunately, just as he reached out for me, a group of street celebrants turned into our alley, their music reverberating off the walls. My attacker saw them coming, lowered his mask over his face, and ran in the opposite direction, disappearing into the darkness as if he had fled back to the world of dark dreams.

I didn't waste a moment. I scooped up my bag and ran toward the revelers, who shouted and laughed, trying to hold me back so I would join them.

"NO!" I cried and broke loose to tear through them and out of the alley. Once onto a street, I ran and ran to get myself as far away from that alley as I could, my feet slapping the pavement so hard, my soles stung. Finally, out of breath, my shoulders heaving, my side aching, I stopped. When I looked up I was happy to see a policeman on the corner.

"Please," I said, approaching him. "I'm lost. I just arrived and I've got to find this address."

"Some night to come to New Orleans and get lost," he said, shaking his head. He took the slip of paper. "Oh, this is in the Garden District. You can take the streetcar. Follow me," he said. He showed me where to wait.

"Thank you," I told him. Shortly afterward, the streetcar arrived. I gave the driver my address and he told me he would let me know when to get off. I sat down quickly, wiped my sweaty face with my handkerchief, and closed my eyes, hoping my heartbeat would slow down before I stood in my father's doorway. Otherwise, the excitement over what had already happened, and my actually confronting him would cause me to simply faint at his feet.

When the streetcar entered what was known as the Garden District of New Orleans, we passed under a long canopy of spreading oaks and passed yards filled with camellias and magnolia trees. Here there were elegant homes with garden walls that enclosed huge banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine. Each corner sidewalk was embedded with old ceramic tiles that spelled out the names of the streets. Some of the cobblestone sidewalks had become warped by the roots of old oak trees, but to me this made it even more quaint and special. These streets were quieter, fewer and fewer street revelers in evidence.

"St. Charles Avenue," the streetcar operator cried. An electric chill surged through my body turning my legs to jelly, and for a moment, I couldn't stand up. I was almost there, face-to-face with my real father. My heart began to pound. I reached for the hand strap and pulled myself into a standing position. The side doors slapped open with an abruptness that made me gasp. Finally, I willed one foot forward and stepped down to the street. The doors closed quickly and the streetcar continued, leaving me on the walk, feeling more stranded and lost than ever, clutching my little cloth bag to my side.

I could hear the sounds of the Mardi Gras floating in from every corner of the city. An automobile sped by with revelers hanging their heads out the windows, blowing trumpets and throwing streamers at me. They waved and cried out, but continued on their merry way while I remained transfixed, as firmly rooted as an old oak tree. It was a warm evening, but here in the city, with the streetlights around me, it was harder to see the stars that had always been such a comfort to me in the bayou. I took a deep breath and finally crossed down St. Charles Avenue toward the address on the slip of paper I now clutched like a rosary in my small hand.

St. Charles Avenue was so quiet in comparison to the festive sounds and wild excitement on the inner city streets. I found it somewhat eerie. To me it was as if I had entered a dream, slipped through some magical doorway between reality and illusion, and found myself in my own land of Oz. Nothing looked real: not the tall palm trees, the pretty streetlights, the cobblestone walks and streets, and especial-ly not the enormous houses that looked more like small palaces, the homes of princes and princesses, queens and kings. These mansions, some of which were walled in, were set in the middle of large tracts of land. There were many beautiful gardens full of swelling masses of shining green foliage and heavy with roses and every other kind of flower one could think of.

I strolled on slowly, drinking in the opulence and wondering how one family could live in each of these grand houses with such beautiful grounds. How could anyone be so rich? I wondered. I was so entranced, so mesmerized by the wealth and the beauty, I almost walked right past the address on my slip of paper. When I stopped and looked up at the Dumas residence, I could only stand and gape stupidly. Its out-buildings, gardens, and stables occupied most of this block. All of it was surrounded by a fence in cornstalk pattern.

This was my real father's home, but the ivory white mansion that loomed before me looked more like a house built for a Greek god. It was a two-story building with tall columns, the tops of which were shaped like inverted bells decorated with leaves. There were two galeries, an enormous one before the main entrance and another above it. Each had a different decorative cast iron railing, the one on the bottom showing flowers and the one above, showing fruits.

I strolled along the walk, circling the house and grounds. I saw the pool and the tennis court and continued to gape in awe. There was something magical here. It seemed as if I had entered my dreamland of eternal spring. Two gray squirrels paused in their foray for food and stared out at me, more curious than afraid. The air smelled of green bamboo and gardenias. Blooming azaleas, yellow and red roses, and hibiscus were everywhere in view. The trellises and the gazebo were covered with trumpet vine and clumps of purple wisteria. Redwood boxes on railings and sills were thick with petunias.

Right now the house was lit up, all of its windows bright. Slowly, I made a full circle and then paused at the front gate; but as I stood there gaping, drinking in the elegance and grandeur, I began to wonder what I could have been thinking to have traveled this far and come to this house. Surely the people who lived within such a mansion were so different from me, I might as well have gone to another country where people spoke a different language. My heart sank. A throbbing pain in my head stabbed sharply. What was I doing here, me, a nobody, an orphan Cajun girl who had deluded herself into believing there was a rainbow just waiting for me at the end of my storm of trouble? I knew now that I would have to find my way back to the bus station and return to Houma.

Dejected, my head lowered, I turned from the house and started to walk away when suddenly, seemingly coming from out of the thin air, a small, fire engine red, convertible sports car squeaked to an abrupt stop right in front of me. The driver hopped over the door. He was a tall young man with a shock of shiny golden hair that now fell wildly over his smooth forehead. Despite his blond strands, he had a dark complexion which only made his cerulean eyes glimmer that much more in the glow of the street lamp. Dressed in a tuxedo, his shoulders back, his torso slim, he appeared before me like a prince—gallant, elegant, strong, for the features of his handsome face did seem carved out of some royal heritage.

He had a strong and perfect mouth and a Roman nose, perfectly straight, to go along with those dazzling blue eyes. The lines of his jaw turned up sharply, enhancing the impression that his face had been etched out to duplicate the face of some movie star idol. I was breathless for a moment, unable to move under the radiance of his warm and attractive smile, which quickly turned into a soft laugh.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "And what sort of costume is this? Are you playing the poor girl or what?" he asked, stepping around me as if judging me in some fashion contest.

"Pardon?"

My question threw him into a fit of hysterics. He clutched his side and leaned back on the hood of his sports car. "That's great," he said. "I love it. Pardon?" he mimicked. "I don't think it's so funny," I said indignantly, but that just made him laugh again.

"I'd never expect you to choose anything like this," he said, holding his graceful hand out toward me, palm up. "And where did you get that bag, a thrift shop? What's in it anyway, more rags?"

I pulled my bag against my stomach and straightened up quickly.

"These aren't rags," I retorted. He started to laugh again. It seemed I could do nothing, say nothing, gaze at him in no way without causing him to become hysterical. "What's so funny? These happen to be my sole belongings right now," I emphasized. He shook his head and held his wide smile.

"Really, Gisselle, you're perfect. I swear," he said, holding up his hand to take an oath, "this is the best you've ever come up with, and that indignant attitude to go along with it . . . you're going to win the prize for sure. All of your girlfriends will die with envy. Brilliant. And to surprise me, too. I love it."

"First," I began, "my name is not Gisselle."

"Oh," he said, still holding a grin as if he were humoring a mad woman, "and what name have you chosen?"

"My name is Ruby," I said.

"Ruby? I like that," he said, looking thoughtful. "Ruby . . . a jewel . . . to describe your hair. Well, your hair has always been your most prized possession, aside from your real diamonds and rubies, emeralds, and pearls, that is. And your clothes and your shoes," he cataloged with a laugh. "So," he said, straightening up and changing to a serious face, "I'm to introduce you to everyone as Mademoiselle Ruby, is that it?"

"I don't care what you do," I said. "I certainly don't expect you to introduce me to anyone," I added and started away.

"Huh?" he cried. I started to cross the street when he walked quickly behind me and seized my right elbow. "What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked, his face now contorted in confusion.

"I'm going home," I said.

"Home? Where's home?"

"I'm returning to Houma, if you must know," I said. "Now, if you will be so kind as to let me go, I—"

"Houma? What?" He stared at me a moment and then, instead of releasing me, he seized my other arm at the elbow and turned me fully around so that I would be in the center of the pool of light created by the street lamp. He studied me for a moment, those soft eyes, now troubled and intense as he swept his gaze over my face. "You do look . . . different," he muttered. "And not in cosmetic ways either. I don't understand, Gisselle."

"I told you," I said. "I'm not anyone named Gisselle. My name is Ruby. I come from Houma."

He continued to stare, but still held me at the elbows. Then he shook his head and smiled again.

"Come on, Gisselle. I'm sorry I'm a little late, but you're carrying this too far. I admit it's a great costume and disguise. What else do you want from me?" he pleaded.

"I'd like you to let go of my arms," I said. He did so and stepped back, his confusion now becoming indignation and anger.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. I took a deep breath and looked back at the house. "If you're not Gisselle, then what were you doing in front of the house? Why are you on this street?"

"I was going to knock on the door and introduce myself to Pierre Dumas, but I've changed my mind," I said.

"Introduce yourself to . . ." He shook his head and stepped toward me again.

"Let me see your left hand," he asked quickly. "Come on," he added, and reached for it. I held out my hand and he gazed at my fingers for a moment. Then, when he looked up at me, his face twisted in shock. "You never take off that ring, never," he said, more to himself than to me. "And your fingers," he said, looking at my hand again, "your whole hand is rougher." He released me quickly, as quickly as he would had my hand been a hot coal. "Who are you?"

"I told you. My name is Ruby."

"But you look just like . . . you're the spitting image of Gisselle," he said.

"Oh. So that's her name," I said more to myself than to him. "Gisselle."

"Who are you?" he asked again, now gazing at me as if I were a ghost. "I mean, what are you to the Dumas family? A cousin? What? I demand that you tell me or I'll call the police," he added firmly.

"I'm Gisselle's sister," I confessed in a breath.

"Gisselle's sister? Gisselle has no sister," he replied, still speaking in a stern voice. Then he paused a moment, obviously impressed with the resemblances. "At least, none I knew about," he said.

"I'm fairly sure Gisselle doesn't know about me either," I said.

"Really? But . . ."

"It's too long of a story to tell you and I don't know why I should tell you anything anyway," I said.

"But if you're Gisselle's sister, why are you leaving? Why are you going back to . . . where'd you say, Houma?"

"I thought I could do this, introduce myself, but I find I can't."

"You mean, the Dumas don't know you're here yet?" I shook my head. "Well, you can't just leave without telling them you're in New Orleans. Come on," he said, reaching for my hand. "I'll bring you in myself."

I shook my head and stepped back, more terrified than ever.

"Come on," he said. "Look. My name's Beau Andreas. I'm a very good friend of the family. Actually, Gisselle is my girlfriend, but my parents and the Dumas have known each other for ages. I'm like a member of this family. That's why I'm so shocked by what you're saying. Come on," he chanted, and took my hand.

"I've changed my mind," I said, shaking my head. "This isn't as good an idea as I first thought."

"What isn't?"

"Surprising them."

"Mr. and Mrs. Dumas don't know you're coming?" he asked, his confusion building. I shook my head. "This is really bizarre. Gisselle doesn't know she has a twin sister and the Dumas don't know you're here. Well, why did you come all this way if you're only going to turn around and go right back?" he asked, his hands on his hips.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" he said quickly. "That's it, you're afraid of them. Well, don't be. Pierre Dumas is a very nice man and Daphne . . . she is nice, too. Gisselle," he said, smiling, "is Gisselle. To tell you the truth, I can't wait to see the expression on her face when she comes face-to-face with you."

"I can," I said, and turned away.

"I'll just run in and tell them you were here and you're running away," he threatened. "Someone will come after you and it will all be far more embarrassing."

"You wouldn't," I said.

"Of course I would," he replied, smiling. "So you might as well do it the right way." He held out his hand. I looked back at the house and then at him. His eyes were friendly, although a bit impish. Reluctantly, my heart thumping so hard I thought it would take my breath away and cause me to faint before I reached the front door, I took his hand and let him lead me back to the gate and up the walk to the grand galerie. There was a tile stairway.

"How did you get here?" he asked before we reached the door.

"The bus," I said. He lifted the ball and hammer knocker and let the sound echo through what I imagined, from the sound of the reverberation within, was an enormous entryway. A few moments later, the door was opened and we faced a mulatto man in a butler's uniform. He wasn't short, but he wasn't tall either. He had a round face with large dark eyes and a somewhat pug nose. His dark brown hair was curly and peppered with gray strands. There were dime-size brown spots on his cheeks and forehead and his lips were slightly orange.

"Good evening, Monsieur Andreas," he said, then shifted his gaze to me. The moment he set eyes on me, he dropped his mouth. "But Mademoiselle Gisselle, I just saw you . . ." He turned around and looked behind him. Beau Andreas laughed.

"This isn't Mademoiselle Gisselle, Edgar. Edgar, I'd like you to meet Ruby. Ruby, Edgar Farrar, the Dumas' butler. Are Mr. and Mrs. Dumas in, Edgar?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sir. They left for the ball about an hour ago," he said, his eyes still fixed on me.

"Well then, there's nothing to do but wait for them to return. Until then, you can visit with Gisselle," Beau told me. He guided me into the great house.

The entryway floor was a peach marble and the ceiling, which looked like it rose to at least twelve feet above me, had pictures of nymphs and angels, doves and blue sky painted over it. There were paintings and sculptures every-where I looked, but the wall to the right was covered by an enormous tapestry depicting a grand French palace and gardens.

"Where is Mademoiselle Gisselle, Edgar?" Beau asked.

"She's still upstairs," Edgar said.

"I knew she would be pampering herself forever. I'm never late when it comes to escorting Gisselle anywhere," Beau told me. "Especially a Mardi Gras Ball. To Gisselle, being on time means being an hour late. Fashionably late, of course," he added. "Are you hungry, thirsty?"

"No, I had half of a poor boy sandwich not so long ago," I said, and grimaced with the memory of what had nearly happened to me.

"You didn't like it?" Beau asked.

"No, it wasn't that. Someone . . . a stranger I trusted, attacked me in an alley on the way here," I confessed. "What? Are you all right?" he asked quickly.

"Yes. I got away before anything terrible happened, but it was quite frightening."

"I'll bet. The back streets in New Orleans can be quite dangerous during Mardi Gras. You shouldn't have wandered around by yourself." He turned to Edgar. "Where is Nina, Edgar?" he asked.

"Just finishing up some things in the kitchen."

"Good. Come on," Beau insisted. "I'll take you to the kitchen and Nina will give you something to drink at least. Edgar, would you be so kind as to inform Mademoiselle Gisselle that I've arrived with a surprise guest and we're in the kitchen?"

"Very good, monsieur," Edgar said and headed for the beautiful curved stairway with soft carpeted steps and a shiny mahogany balustrade.

"This way," Beau said. He directed me through the entryway, past one beautiful room after another, each filled with antiques and expensive French furniture and paintings. It looked more like a museum to me than a home.

The kitchen was as large as I expected it would be with long counters and tables, big sinks, and walls of cabinets. Everything gleamed. It looked so immaculate, even the older appliances appeared brand-new. Wrapping leftovers in cellophane was a short, plump black woman in a brown cotton dress with a full white apron. She had her back to us.

The strands of her ebony hair were pulled tightly into a thick bun behind her head, but she wore a white kerchief, too. As she worked, she hummed. Beau Andreas knocked on the doorjamb and she spun around quickly.

"I didn't want to frighten you, Nina," he said.

"That'll be the day when you can frighten Nina Jackson, Monsieur Andreas," she said, nodding. She had small dark eyes set close to her nose. Her mouth was small and almost lost in her plump cheeks and above her round jaw, but she had beautifully soft skin that glowed under the kitchen fixtures. Ivory earrings shaped like seashells clung to her small lobes.

"Mademoiselle, you changed again?" she asked incredulously.

Beau laughed. "This isn't Gisselle," he said.

Nina tilted her head.

"Go on with you, monsieur. That t'aint enough of a disguise to fool Nina Jackson."

"No, I'm serious, Nina. This isn't Gisselle," Beau insisted. "Her name is Ruby. Look closely," he told her. "If anyone could tell the difference, it would be you. You practically brought up Gisselle," he said.

She smirked, wiped her hands on her apron, and crossed the kitchen to get closer. I saw she wore a small pouch around her neck on a black shoestring. For a moment she stared into my face. Her black eyes narrowed, burned into mine, and then widened. She stepped back and seized the small pouch between her right thumb and forefinger so she could hold it out between us.

"Who you be, girl?" she demanded.

"My name is Ruby," I said quickly, and shifted my eyes to Beau, who was still smiling impishly.

"Nina is warding off any evil with the voodoo power in that little sack, aren't you, Nina?"

She looked at him and at me and then dropped the sack to her chest again.

"This here, five finger grass," she said. "It can ward off any evil that five fingers can bring, you hear?"

I nodded.

"Who this be?" she asked Beau.

"It's Gisselle's secret sister," he said. "Obviously, twin sister," he added. Nina stared at me again.

"How do you know that?" she asked, taking another step back. "My Grandmère, she told me once about a zombie made to look like a woman. Everyone stuck pins in the zombie and the woman screamed in pain until she died in her bed."

Beau roared.

"I'm not a zombie doll," I said. Still suspicious, Nina stared.

"I daresay if you stick pins in her, Nina, she'll be the one to scream, not Gisselle." His smile faded and he grew serious. "She's traveled here from Houma, Nina, but on the way to the house, she had a bad experience. Someone tried to attack her in an alley."

Nina nodded as if she already knew.

"She's actually quite frightened and upset," Beau said.

"Sit you down, girl," Nina said, pointing to a chair by the table. "I'll get you something to make your stomach sit still. You hungry, too?"

I shook my head.

"Did you know Gisselle had a sister?" Beau asked her as she went to prepare something for me to drink. She didn't respond for a moment. Then she turned.

"I don't know anything I'm not supposed to know," she replied. Beau lifted his eyebrows. I saw Nina mix what looked like a tablespoon of blackstrap molasses into a glass of milk with a raw egg and some kind of powder. She mixed it vigorously and brought it back.

"Drink this in one gulp, no air," she prescribed. I stared at the liquid.

"Nina usually cures everyone of anything around here," Beau said. "Don't be afraid."

"My Grandmère could do this, too," I said. "She was a Traiteur."

"Your Grandmère, a Traiteur?" Nina asked. I nodded.

"Then she was holy," she said, impressed. "Cajun Traiteur woman can blow the fire out of a burn and stop bleeding with the press of her palm," Nina explained to Beau.

"I guess she's not a zombie girl then, huh?" Beau asked with a smile. Nina paused.

"Maybe not," she said, still looking at me with some suspicion. "Drink," she commanded, and I did what she said even though it didn't taste great, I felt it bubble in my stomach for a moment and then I did feel a soothing sensation.

"Thank you," I said. I turned with Beau to look at the doorway when we heard the footsteps coming down the hall. A moment later, Gisselle Dumas appeared, dressed in a beautiful red, bare shoulder satin gown with her long red hair brushed until it shone. It was about as long as mine. She wore dangling diamond earrings and a matching diamond necklace set in gold.

"Beau," she began, "why are you late and what's this about a surprise guest?" she demanded. She whirled to confront me, putting her fists on her hips before she turned in my direction. Even though I knew what to expect, the reality of seeing my face on someone else took my breath away. Gisselle Dumas gasped and brought her hand to her throat.

Fifteen years and some months after the day we were born, we met again.