Ruby

14

Someone's Crying

"We'll sit over there," Gisselle said, and pointed to lounges on the far end of the pool, near the cabana. It put us far enough away from the outside lights to keep us draped in soft shadows. It was a warm night, as warm as it would be on the bayou, only tonight without the cool breeze that would come up the canals from the Gulf. The sky was overcast; it even felt like it might rain.

Gisselle put the basket with the bottle of rum on the table and I put down the bucket of ice, the Coke, and the glasses. To bolster our courage for Gisselle's prank, she decided we should mix the rum in our Coke before the boys arrived. She did the pouring and it seemed to me she made each drink more rum than Coke. I tried to warn her about the effects of whiskey. After all, I knew about it from painful experiences.

"The man I called Grandpère is a drunk," I told her. "It's poisoned his brain."

I described the time I had poled our pirogue out to see him in the swamp and how he had gone berserk on his galerie. Then I described some of his ranting and raving in the house, how he wrecked things, dug up floorboards, and ended up sleeping in the muck and grime and not caring.

"I hardly think we'll become like that," Gisselle said. "Besides, you don't believe this is the first time I snuck some of our liquor, do you? All of my friends do it and no one is as bad as that old man you described," she insisted.

When I hesitated to take the glass of rum and Coke from her, she put her fist on her hip and scowled.

"Don't tell me you're going to be an old stick-in-the-mud now and not have fun after I've invited the boys over, especially so you could have a boyfriend."

"I didn't say I wouldn't have some. I just—"

"Just have a drink and relax," she insisted. "Here!" she said, and shoved the drink at me. Reluctantly, I took the glass and sipped, while she took long gulps of hers. I couldn't help grimacing. To me it tasted like one of Grandmère Catherine's herbal medicines.

Gisselle stabbed me with a hard penetrating gaze and then shook her head.

"I guess you didn't have much fun living in the bayou. It sounds like all work and no play, which makes Jack a dull boy," she added, and laughed.

"Jack?"

"It's just an expression. Really," she cried, throwing her hand up dramatically, "you're just like someone from a foreign country. I feel like I've got to do what Mother wants to do: teach you how to talk and walk." She took another gulp of her drink. Even Grandpère didn't swig it down that fast, I thought. I wondered if she was as sophisticated as she was making out to be.

"Hi, there," we heard Beau call, and turned to see two silhouettes come around the corner of the house. My heart began to drum in anticipation.

"Just remember to do what I told you to do and say what I told you to say," Gisselle coached.

"It's not going to work," I insisted in a whisper. "It better," she threatened.

The two boys stepped onto the pool deck and drew closer. I saw that Martin was a good-looking young man, about an inch or so taller than Beau, with jet black hair. He was leaner, longer-legged, and swaggered more when he walked. They were both dressed in jeans with white cotton shirts with buttoned-down collars. When they stepped into the dim pool of illumination cast by a lantern nearby, I noticed that Martin wore an expensive looking gold watch on his left wrist and a silver ID bracelet on the right. He had dark eyes and a smile that tucked the corner of his mouth into his cheek, creating more of a leer.

Gisselle nudged me with her elbow and then cleared her throat to urge me on.

"Hi," I said. My voice wanted to crack, but I felt Gisselle's hot, whiskey-scented breath on my neck, and I held myself together. "Martin, I'd like you to meet my sister, Ruby," I recited.

I couldn't see how anyone would think I was Gisselle, but Martin looked from me to Gisselle and then to me again with astonishment written on his face and not skepticism.

"Wow, you guys are really identical. I wouldn't know one from the other."

Gisselle laughed stupidly.

"Why, thank, you, Martin," she said with a silly twang, "That's a real compliment."

I gazed at Beau and saw a wry smile cocking his lips. Surely, he knew what we were doing, I thought, and yet he said nothing.

"Beau told me your story," Martin said to Gisselle, believing she was me. "I've been to the bayou, even to Houma. I could have seen you."

"That would have been nice," Gisselle said. Martin's smile widened. "We don't have too many good-looking boys out there in the swamps."

Martin beamed.

"This is great," he said, looking from me to her again. "I always thought Beau was real lucky having a girlfriend as pretty as Gisselle, and now there's a second Gisselle."

"Oh, I'm not as pretty as my sister," Gisselle said, batting her eyelashes and twisting her shoulder.

Anger, fanned by the rum that heated my blood, made my heart pound. A terrible fury washed over me as I sat here watching her make fun of me. Unable to hold back, I flared.

"Of course you're as pretty as I am, Ruby. If anything, you're prettier," I countered.

Beau laughed. I shot a furious glance at him and he knitted his eyebrows together with a look of confusion. Then he relaxed, his gaze fixing on the glasses in our hands.

"Looks like the girls have been enjoying themselves some before we got here," he said, turning to Martin and wagging his head toward the straw basket, the ice bucket, and Coke.

"Oh, this," Gisselle said, holding up her glass. "Why this is nothin' compared to what we do in the bayou."

"Oh, yeah," Martin said with interest, "and what did you do in the bayou?"

"I don't want to do anything or say anything that might corrupt you city boys," she quipped. Martin smiled at Beau whose eyes were dancing with amusement.

"I can't think of anything I'd like better than to be corrupted by Gisselle's twin sister," Martin said. Gisselle laughed and extended her arm so Martin could sip from her glass. He sat down quickly and did so. I turned back to Beau. Our eyes met, but he didn't say anything to stop the charade from continuing.

"I'll just mix my own drink. If that's all right with you, Gisselle?" he asked me.

Gisselle fixed a stone stare at me before I could reveal my true identity.

"Of course it is, Beau," I said, and sat back against the lounge. How long did she want to keep this up? Martin turned to me.

"Are your parents going to have the police go to the bayou and get these people?" he asked.

"No," I said. "They're all dead and gone."

"But before they died, they tortured me," Gisselle moaned. Martin's head snapped around so he could face her again.

"What did they do?" he asked.

"Oh, things I can't describe. Especially to a boy," she added.

"They did not!" I cried. Gisselle widened her eyes and shot looks of rage at me.

"Really, Gisselle," she said in her most arrogant, haughty voice, "you don't think! told you everything that happened to me, do you? I wouldn't want to give you nightmares."

"Wow," Martin said. He looked up at Beau who still wore a smart, tight smile on his lips.

"Maybe you shouldn't ask your sister about her previous life," he said, sitting at my feet on the lounge. "You'll only bring up bad memories."

"That's right," Gisselle said. "I'd rather not have bad memories tonight anyway," she added, and ran her hand down Martin's left shoulder and arm. "You've never been with a Cajun girl then, Martin?" she asked coquettishly.

"No, but I've heard about them."

She leaned forward until her lips nearly touched his ear.

"It's all true," she said, and threw her head back to laugh. Martin laughed, too, and took a long gulp from Gisselle's drink, emptying the glass. "Gisselle, can you make us another drink?" she asked me in a voice that dripped with enough sweetness to make my stomach bubble.

It took all my self-control to battle back the urge to throw my own drink into her face and run into the house. But surely, this would end soon, I thought, and Gisselle would be satisfied she had had her little fun, all at my expense. I got up and started to make the drink the way she had instructed. Beau kept his eyes on me. I saw that Gisselle noticed how he was watching me, too.

"I just love that ring you gave my sister, Beau," Gisselle said. "Someday, I hope a handsome young man will think enough of me to give me a ring like that. I'd do just about anything for it," she added.

The bottle slipped out of my hand and hit the table, but didn't break. Beau jumped up.

"Here, let me help you," he said, quickly seizing the neck of the bottle before too much rum spilled.

"Oh, Gisselle, you shouldn't waste good rum like that," Gisselle cried, and laughed again. My hand was still trembling. Beau took it quickly into his and gazed into my eyes.

"You all right?" he asked. I nodded. "Let me finish making the drink," he said, and did so, handing it to Gisselle.

"Thank you, Beau," she said. He smirked at her, but said nothing. "I'm sorry I can't talk about myself, Martin," she said, turning back to him, "but I would love to hear about you."

"Sure," he said.

"Let's take a little walk," she suggested, and rose from the lounge. Martin looked at Beau who simply stared expressionless for a moment. Was he waiting to see how far Gisselle would go? Surely, he didn't believe she was me. Why wasn't he putting an end to it then?

She scooped her arm into Martin's and pulled him close to her, laughing at the same time. Then she fed him some of the rum and Coke like she was feeding a baby. He gulped and gulped, his Adam's apple bouncing with the effort until she pulled the glass from his lips and drank some herself.

"What strong arms you have, Martin," she said. "I thought only Cajun boys had arms like this." She flashed a smile back at me. "And Cajun girls," she added with a laugh. She turned him away and they walked deeper into the shadows, Gisselle's laughter louder and sillier.

"Well," Beau said, sitting on my lounge again. "Your sister has really made herself at home."

"Beau," I began, but he put his fingers on my lips.

"No, don't say anything. I know how hard this has all been for you, Gisselle." He leaned toward me.

"But . . ."

Before I could say anything, he pressed his lips to mine, softly at first and then harder as he wrapped his arm around me and brought me into the nook between his shoulder and chest. He pressed the palm of his other hand against the small of my back, lifting me slightly. His kiss and embrace took my breath away. When our lips parted, I gasped. He kissed the tip of my nose and then brought his cheek to mine and whispered.

"You're right," he said. "We shouldn't wait any longer. can't keep my hands off you. I've thought of nothing else but touching you and making love to you," he said, and slid the palm of his right hand over my hip and up the side of my body until he reached my breast. He pressed his body against me, driving me back on the lounge.

"Wait . . . Beau . . ."

His lips were over mine again, only this time, he performed the French kiss Gisselle had described. The feel of his tongue on mine sent a mixed chill of excitement and fear down my spine. I struggled, wiggling under him, finally pulling my head back enough to free my mouth from his.

"Stop," I gasped. "I'm not Gisselle. I'm Ruby. It was all a prank."

"What?"

I saw from the look in his eyes and the silly smile on his face that he had known. Pressing my hands against his chest, I pushed him away. He sat back, still pretending a look of amazement and shook.

"You're Ruby?"

"Stop it, Beau. You knew all the time. I know you did. I'm not the kind of girl Gisselle is making me out to be. You shouldn't have done that," I admonished. Chastised, he reddened and-fired back.

"You played along with the ruse, didn't you?"

"I know and I shouldn't have let her talk me into doing it, but I didn't think she would let it go this far."

Beau nodded, his body relaxing.

"That's my Gisselle . . . always plotting something outrageous. I should pretend to be fooled even more," he said. "It would teach her a lesson."

"What do you mean?" I looked off left and saw that Gisselle and Martin were out by the gazebo. Beau followed my gaze and we saw them kissing. His eyes narrowed and his chin tightened.

"Sometimes, she goes too far," he said, his voice now sounding angry. "Come on," he said, grabbing my hand and standing.

"Where?" I stood up.

"Into the cabana," he said. "It will teach her a lesson."

"But . . ."

"It's all right. We'll just talk. Let her think otherwise though. It will serve her right," he said and tugged me along. Then he opened the cabana door and pulled me into the small room, slamming the door behind us so Gisselle and Martin would be sure to hear it. There was a cot against the far wail but neither of us moved from the door. Without any light, it was hard to see anything after the door had been closed.

"This will get to her," Beau said. "We've been in here before and she knows why."

"This is going too far, Beau. She'll hate me," I said.

"She's not exactly being nice to you right now anyway," he replied.

Talking like this in the pitch darkness was both strange and easy, easy because without seeing him, without feeling his eyes on me, I could relax and say what I wanted. I thought that might be true for him, too.

"I'm sorry I got angry at you before," I said. "It really isn't any of your fault. I shouldn't have let her talk me into this."

"You were at a disadvantage. Gisselle loves to take advantage of people whenever she can. It doesn't surprise me. But from now on, don't be anyone but yourself. I haven't known you very long, Ruby, but I think you're a very nice girl who's been through some terrible things and has managed to keep her good nature. Don't let Gisselle ruin it," he warned. A moment later, I felt his hand on my cheek. His touch was soft, but I shuddered with surprise.

"Anyway, you kiss better," he whispered. My heart began to thump again. His hand was on my shoulder and then, I felt his breath on my face and sensed his lips moving closer and closer until they found mine. I didn't resist this time, and when his tongue touched mine, I let my own tongue run over the tip of his. He moaned and then, we heard pounding on the door and parted quickly.

"Beau Andreas, you get yourself out here this minute, you hear. This minute," Gisselle cried. Beau laughed.

"Who is it?" he called through the closed door.

"You know very well who I am," she cried. "Now get out here."

Beau opened the door and Gisselle stepped back. A confused Martin stood beside her. She had her arms folded and she wobbled a bit.

"What do you two think you're doing?" she demanded. "Ruby," he began, "your sister and I—"

"You know I'm not Ruby and she's not me. You know it, Beau Andreas."

"What?" he said, pretending shock and surprise. He looked at me and stepped back. "I could never have known. This is amazing."

"Just stop it, Beau. It was just a little joke. And you," she said, flicking her bloodshot eyes over me. "You played along real well for someone who said she was scared it wouldn't work."

"What is this?" Martin finally said. "Who's who?"

The three of us turned to him. Beau and Gisselle burst into laughter first and then, feeling lighthearted from the rum and Beau's kisses, I couldn't help but laugh myself.

Gisselle explained the prank to Martin and the four of us began again, this time Martin sitting next to me. Gisselle kept pouring the rum into the Cokes, drinking one almost as quickly as she made it. I drank only a little more, but my head was spinning anyway. Afterward, Gisselle pulled Beau into the cabana, gazing back at me with satisfaction as she closed the door behind them.

I sat back on the lounge, unable to clear my mind of Beau's warm touch and Beau's warm kiss. Was it the effect of the rum that filled me with such warmth?

Martin suddenly embraced me and kissed me and tried to go further, but I pushed him away firmly.

"Hey," he said, his eyes half closed, "what's wrong? I thought we were having fun."

"Despite what you might have heard or believed about girls who come from the bayou, Martin, I'm not like that. I'm sorry," I said.

The rum had definitely gotten to him and he mumbled some apology before falling back on the lounge. Moments later, he was asleep. I waited beside him, but we didn't have to wait long. Suddenly, Beau and Gisselle emerged from the cabana. She was crying about her stomach and heaving so hard, I thought she threw up her lunch as well as her supper. Martin woke up and he and I stood back and watched. She realized what was happening and sobbed with embarrassment.

"I'll take care of her," I told Beau. "You'd better leave."

"Thanks," he said. "This isn't the first time she's done this," he added, and whispered good night after he first whispered, "Yours was the kiss I'll remember tonight."

I was speechless for a moment, watching them walk off, and then Gisselle wailed.

"Oh, I'm going to die!"

"You won't die, but you'll sure wish you had if I remember the way Grandpère felt sometimes," I told her. She moaned again and heaved up some more.

"I've ruined this new blouse," she cried. "Oh, I feel horrible. My head is pounding."

"You'd better go to sleep, Gisselle," I said.

"I can't. I can't move."

"I'll help you into the house. Come on." I embraced her and started her forward.

"Don't let Mother catch us," she warned. "Wait," she said. "Take the bottle of rum in, too." I hated doing all these sneaky things, but I had no choice. With the bottle in the basket in one hand, I helped her up with the other and guided her back to the house, slipping as silently as we could through the door.

It was quiet within. We started up the stairs, Gisselle sniveling to herself. After we reached the landing and started toward her room, I thought I heard something else though. It sounded like someone weeping.

"What's that?" I asked in a whisper.

"What's what?"

"Someone's crying," I said.

"Just get me to my room and forget about it," she said. "Hurry."

We crossed to her door and I helped her in.

"You should take off your clothes and take a shower," I suggested, but she plopped down on her bed and refused to move.

"Leave me alone," she moaned. "Just leave me alone. Hide the bottle in your closet," were her last words.

I stood back and looked at her. She was a deadweight now. There wasn't anything I could do. I wasn't feeling all that well either and reprimanded myself for letting Gisselle talk me into so many rum and Cokes.

I left her lying facedown on her bed, fully dressed, even wearing her shoes, and started for my room. Once again, however, I heard sobbing. Curious, I crossed the hallway and listened. It was coming from a room down right. I walked softly over to the door and leaned my head against it. There was definitely someone within, crying. It sounded. . . like a man.

The click of footsteps on the stairway sent me scurrying back to my room. I went in quickly and immediately hid the basket with the rum in my closet. Then I went to the door and cracked it open enough to peer out. Daphne, dressed in a flowing blue silk robe, stepped so softly she seemed to glide down the hallway to the master bedroom. Just before she got there, however, she paused as though to listen for the sobbing herself. I saw her shake her head and then go into the bedroom. After she closed her door, I closed mine.

I thought about going out again and knocking on that door to see who was crying. Could it have been my father? Thinking it might have been, I went out and approached the door. I listened, but heard nothing this time. Even so, I knocked softly and waited.

"Anyone in there?" I whispered through the crack between the door and the jamb. There was no response. I knocked again and waited. Still nothing. I was about to turn away when I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around with a gasp to look into my father's face.

"Ruby," he said, smiling. "Anything wrong?"

"I . . . I thought I heard someone sobbing in this room so I knocked," I said. He shook his head.

"Just your imagination at work, honey," he said. "There hasn't been anyone in that room for years. Where's Gisselle?"

"She just went to sleep," I said quickly. "But I'm almost certain I heard someone," I insisted. He shook his head.

"No. You couldn't have." He smiled. "Gisselle went to bed this early? Must be your good habits are rubbing off already. Well, I'm heading for sleep myself. I've got a busy day tomorrow. Don't forget," he said, "your art instructor will be stopping by at two. I'll be here to meet him also."

I nodded.

"Good night, dear," he said, and kissed me on the forehead. Then he started for the master bedroom. I looked back at the closed door. Could I have imagined it? Was it something that happened because of all the rum I had drunk?

"Daddy?" I said before I crossed to go to my room. He stopped and turned.

"Yes?"

"Whose room was that?" I asked.

He looked at the room and then rolled his dark, shining eyes my way and I saw why they shone—they were full of tears.

"My brother's," he said. "Jean's."

With a sigh he turned and walked away. As if on the legs of a spider, a chill crept up my spine and made me shudder. Fatigued and drowning in many emotions, I returned to my room and got ready for bed. My mind was cluttered with so many different thoughts, my heart full of different feelings. I was so dizzy and tired, I was eager to lay my head upon the soft pillow. When I closed my eyes, a potpourri of the day's images rolled on the backs of my eyelids taking me up and down like a roller coaster. I saw the New Orleans sights I had seen with my father, the myriad of fashions I had waded through with Daphne, my wonderful new art studio, Gisselle's face as she plotted her silly prank and once again, I felt Beau's electrifying kiss when we were in the cabana.

That kiss had frightened me because I had been unable to stop myself from wanting to kiss him back. That unexpected touch of his lips, his tongue forcing my lips to open, shot through me with a jolt of excitement that tore down all my resistance. Did that mean I was bad, that I had too much of the evil Landry blood running through my veins?

Or was it just that Beau had touched something tender and lonely in me, his soft voice whispering to me in the darkness, his assurances restoring a calm to my bedazzled and bewildered soul? Would any young man's kiss have done that or was it just Beau's?

I tried to remember Paul's kisses, but all those memories were clouded and polluted by the discovery of our real relationship. It was impossible to think of him now as my first love and not feel guilty about it, even though it was neither of our faults.

What a long, complex, and troubling day this had been, and yet what a wonderful one, too. Was this the way my life would be from now on?

The questions tired me out. I longed for sleep. As the drowsiness took over and my mind settled, I heard the faint sound of the sobbing again. It came from the darkest corners of my mind and before I fell asleep, I wasn't sure if it was my own sobbing or the sobbing of someone I had yet to meet.

I was surprised at how late I had slept into the next morning. When I finally awoke, I was sure everyone had gone down and had breakfast without me. Ashamed, I shot out of bed and hurriedly washed and dressed, tying my hair in a bandanna rather than spend the time to brush it out properly. But when I bounced quickly down the stairs and popped into the dining room, I found it empty. Edgar was just cleaning away some cups and dishes.

"Is breakfast over?" I asked.

"Breakfast over? Oh, no, mademoiselle. Monsieur Dumas has eaten and gone to work, but you're the first of the ladies to appear," he replied. "What would you like this morning? Some of Nina's eggs and grits?"

"Yes, thank you," I said. He smiled warmly and said he would bring me some fresh orange juice and a pot of hot coffee. I sat down and waited, expecting to hear either Daphne's or Gisselle's footsteps in the hallway at any moment, but I was still the only one at the table by the time Edgar brought me my complete breakfast. He looked in on me every once in a while to see if there was anything else I wanted.

When I was finished, he was there immediately to clear away my dishes. How long would it take, I wondered, for me to get used to being waited on and looked after like this? I couldn't help having the urge to pick up my own dirty dishes and take them into the kitchen. Edgar smiled down at me.

"And how are you enjoyin' New Orleans, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"I love it," I said. "Have you lived here all your life, Edgar?"

"Oh, yes, mademoiselle. My family's been workin' for the Dumas as far back as the Civil War. Of course, they were slaves then," he added, and started for the kitchen. I got up and followed him in to tell Nina how much I had enjoyed her cooking. She looked up with surprise, but was very pleased. She was happy to tell me she had definitely concluded I was no spirit.

"Otherwise, I would be killing a black cat in the cemetery at midnight," she told me.

"My goodness, why?"

"Why? You've got to once a spirit comes haunting. You kill the cat, remove the guts, and cook it all in hot lard with salt and eggs. You eat it as soon as it's lukewarm," she instructed. My stomach started to churn.

"Ugh," I said. "How horrible."

"Then you return to the cemetery the next Friday night and call the cat." Her eyes widened. "When the cat answers, call out the names of the dead people you know and tell the cat that you believe in the devil. When you've seen a spirit once, you'll be sure to see them all the time, so it's best you get to know them and they get to know you.

"Of course," she added as an aside, "this works best in October."

Her talk of spirits made me think about the sobbing I felt sure I had heard in what had been Jean's room.

"Nina, have you ever heard sobbing upstairs coming from what was once my uncle Jean's room?" I asked.

Her eyes, which I thought had become as wide as possible, grew even wider, only now they were full of terror, too.

"You heard that?" she replied. I nodded and she crossed herself quickly. Then she reached out and seized my wrist. "Come with Nina," she commanded.

"What?"

I let her pull me through the kitchen and out the back way. "Where are we going, Nina?"

She hurried us through the hallway to the rear of the house.

"This is my room," she told me, and opened the door. I hesitated, gasping at the sight.

The walls of the small room were cluttered with voodoo paraphernalia: dolls and bones, chunks of what looked like black cat fur, strands of hair tied with leather string, twisted roots, and strips of snakeskin. The shelves were crowded with small bottles of multicolored powders, stacks of yellow, blue, green, and brown candles, jars of snake heads, and a picture of a woman sitting on what looked like a throne. Around her picture were white candles.

"That be Marie Laveau," Nina told me when she saw I was looking at the picture, "Voodoo Queen."

Nina had a small bed, a nightstand, and a rattan dresser.

"Sit," she said, pointing to the one and only chair. I did so, slowly. She went to her shelves, found something she wanted, and turned to me. She put a small ceramic jar in my hands and told me to hold it. I smelled the contents.

"Brimstone," she said when I grimaced. Then she lit a white candle and mumbled a prayer. She fixed her eyes on me and said, "Someone put a spell on you for sure. You need to keep the evil spirits away." She brought the candle to the ceramic jar and dipped the flame toward the contents so the brimstone would burn. A small stream of smoke twisted its way up. The stench was unpleasant, but Nina looked relieved that I held onto the jar anyway.

"Close your eyes and lean over so the smoke touches your face," she prescribed. I did so. After a moment, she said,

"Okay, good." Then she took the jar from me and smothered the fire. "Now you'll be fine. It's good you do what I say and don't laugh at me.

"But I remember you said your Grandmère was a Traiteur woman, right?"

"Yes."

"That's good for you, but remember," she warned, "the evil spirits look to go into holy folk first. That is more of a victory." I nodded.

"Has anyone else ever heard sobbing upstairs, Nina?" I asked.

"It is no good to talk about it. Speak of the devil and he'll come through your door smiling and smoking a long, thin black cigar.

"Now we go back. Madame will come down soon for her breakfast," she told me.

I followed her out again and sure enough, when I re-entered the dining room, I found Daphne dressed and seated at the table.

"Did you have your breakfast?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Where's Gisselle?"

"I guess she's still upstairs," I said. Daphne grimaced.

"This is ridiculous. Why isn't she up and about like the rest of us?" she said, even though she had just risen herself. "Go up and tell her I want her down here immediately, please."

"Yes, madame," I said and hurried up the stairs. I knocked softly on Gisselle's door and then opened it to find her on her side, still asleep and still dressed in the clothes she had worn last night.

"Gisselle, Daphne wants you to wake up and come down," I said, but she didn't move. "Gisselle." I nudged her shoulder. She moaned and turned over, quickly closing her eyes again. "Gisselle."

"Go away," she cried.

"Daphne wants you to—"

"Leave me alone. I feel horrible. My head is killing me and my stomach feels raw inside."

"I told you this would happen. You drank too much too fast," I said.

"Goody for you," she said, her eyes still shut tight.

"What should I tell Daphne?" She didn't respond. "Gisselle?"

"I don't care. Tell her I died," she said, and pulled the pillow over her head. I stared at her for a moment and saw she wasn't going to budge.

Daphne didn't like my report.

"What do you mean she won't get up?" She slapped the coffee cup down so hard on the saucer, I thought it would shatter. "What did you two do last night?" she demanded, her eyes burning with suspicion.

"We just . . . talked to Beau and his friend Martin," I said. "Out by the pool"

"Just talked?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call me Mother or call me Daphne, but don't call me ma'am. It makes me sound years older than I am," she snapped.

"I'm sorry . . . Mother."

She stared at me furiously a moment and then got up and marched out of the dining room, leaving me standing there with my heart thumping. I didn't lie exactly, I thought. I just didn't tell the whole truth, but if I had, I would have gotten Gisselle into trouble. Even so, I felt bad about it. I wasn't happy about being sneaky and deceptive. Daphne was so upset she pounded her way upstairs.

I wondered what I should do and decided to go to the library to pick out a book and spend the day reading until my art instructor arrived. I was flipping through the pages of a book when I heard Daphne scream from the top of the stairs.

"Ruby!"

I put the book back and hurried to the doorway. "RUBY!"

"Yes?"

"Get up here this instant," she demanded.

Oh, no, I thought, she's discovered Gisselle's condition and wants to hear the whole story. What was I going to do? How would I protect Gisselle and not lie? When I reached the top of the stairway, I looked across the hallway and saw that the door to my room was wide open and Daphne was standing in my room and not in Gisselle's. I approached slowly.

"Get in here," she commanded. I stepped through the doorway. She was standing with her arms folded tightly under her bosom, her back straight, and her shoulders up. The skin around her chin was so taut, it looked like it might tear. "I know why Gisselle can't get up," she said. "You two were just talking last night?"

I didn't reply.

"Humph," she said, and then extended her right arm and pointed at my closet. "What is that in your closet on the floor? What is it?" she shrieked when I didn't respond quickly enough.

"A bottle of rum."

"A bottle of rum," she said, nodding, "that you took from our liquor cabinet."

I looked up quickly and started to shake my head.

"Don't deny it. Gisselle has confessed everything . . . how you talked her into taking the rum outside and showed her how to mix it with Coke."

My mouth gaped open.

"What else went on? What did you do with Martin Fowler?" she demanded.

"Nothing," I said. Her eyes grew smaller and she kept nodding as if she heard a string of sentences in her own mind that confirmed some horrible suspicions.

"I told Pierre last night that you had different values, that you grew up in a world so unlike ours, it would be difficult, if not next to impossible, and I told him you could corrupt Gisselle and influence her more than she would influence you. Don't try to deny anything," she snapped when my lips opened. "I was a young girl once. I know the temptations and how easy it is for someone to influence you and get you to do forbidden things."

She shook her head at me.

"And after we were so nice to you, welcoming you into our home, accepting you, with me devoting so much of my time to setting you up properly. . why is it you people have no sense of decency, no sense of responsibility? Is it in your blood?"

"That's not true. None of this is true," I wailed.

"Please," she said, closing and opening her eyes. "You're cunning. You've been brought up to be shrewd, just like gypsies. Now take this bottle of rum back down to the liquor cabinet."

"I don't even know where that is," I said.

"I'm not going to waste any more of my time on this. It's upset my breakfast and my day as it is. Do it and don't ever do this again. Your father will hear about this, I assure you," she added, and marched past me.

The tears that were burning behind my eyelids broke free and zigzagged down my cheeks to my chin. I went to the closet and picked up the basket. Then / went next door, barging into Gisselle's room. She was taking a shower and singing. I stomped into the bathroom and screamed at her through the glass door.

"What?" she back, pretending she couldn't hear me. "What?"

"How could you lie and put the blame on me?"

"Wait a minute," she cried, and rinsed her hair before shutting off the water. "Hand me my towel, please," she said. I put the basket down on the counter and got her her towel. "Now, what is it?"

"You told Daphne I was the one who took the bottle of rum," I said. "How could you?"

"Oh, I had to, Ruby. Please don't be mad. I got into trouble about a month ago when I came home very late with whiskey on my breath. I was almost grounded then. She surely would have grounded me now."

"But you blamed me! Now she thinks terrible things about me!"

"You've just arrived. Daddy is still infatuated with you. You can afford to be blamed a little. They won't do anything to you," she explained. "I'm sorry," she said, scrubbing her hair with the towel. "I couldn't think of anything else to do and it worked. It got her off my back."

I sighed.

"We're sisters," she said, smiling. "We've got to help each other out sometimes."

"Not like this, Gisselle, not by lying," I protested.

"Of course by lying. How else? They're just little lies anyway," she said. I looked up sharply. That was just the way Daphne had put things too, little lies. Was this the foundation upon which the Dumas built their happiness and contentment: little lies?

"Don't worry," she said, "I'll smooth it out with Daddy if he seems too upset with you. I'll make it seem as if I encouraged you to encourage me and he'll just be so confused, he won't do anything to either of us. I've done that sort of thing before," she confessed with an oily and evil smile.

"Relax," she said, wrapping her towel around her nude body. "After you have your art lesson, we'll meet Beau and Martin and go down to the French Quarter. We'll have fun, I promise."

"But . . . what am I to do with this? I don't know where the liquor cabinet is."

"It's in the study. I'll show you," she said. "Come help me pick out something to wear."

I shook my head and sighed.

"What a morning this has been already. I told Nina about the sobbing I heard and she hurried me off into her room to burn brimstone and then this?'

"The sobbing?"

"Yes," I said, following her out to her closet. "I thought it came from the room that was Jean's."

"Oh," she said as if it were nothing.

"Have you heard it, too?"

"Of course I have," she said. "What about this skirt?" she asked, plucking one off its hanger and holding it against her. "It's not as short as your skirts, but I like the way it fits my hips. And so does Beau," she added, smiling licentiously.

"It's nice. What do you mean, of course you have heard the sobbing? Why of course?"

"Because it's something Daddy often does."

"What? What does he do?"

"He goes into Uncle Jean's room and cries about him. He's done that for . . . for as long as I can remember. He just can't accept the accident and the way things are."

"But he told me no one was crying in there," I said.

"He doesn't like anyone to know. We all pretend it doesn't happen," she explained. I shook my head sadly.

"It was tragic," I said. "He told me about it. Jean sounded like such a wonderful person, and to die that young with everything ahead of you—"

"Die? What do you mean, die? Did he say Uncle Jean died?"

"What? Well, I just . . . he said he was struck by the mast of the sailboat and. ." I thought for a moment, recalling the details. "And he became a vegetable, but I just assumed he meant . . ."

"Oh, no," she said. "He's not dead."

"He's not? Well, what happened to him then?"

"He's a vegetable, but he's still quite good-looking. He just walks around without a thought in his head and looks at everyone and everything as though he never saw them or remembered them."

"Where is he?"

"In an institution outside of the city. We only see him once a year, on his birthday. At least, that's all I see him. Daddy might go more often. Mother never goes," she said. "How about this blouse?"

She held it up but I was looking right through it. I waited as she put it on.

"Why aren't there any pictures of Jean around?" I asked.

"Will you stop talking about it? Daddy can't stand it normally. I'm surprised he told you anything. There are no pictures because it's too painful for Daddy," she said. "Now, for the last time, what about this blouse?" She turned to look at herself in the mirror.

"It's very nice," I said.

"Oh, I hate that word," she cried. "Nice. Is it sexy?" I looked at it seriously this time.

"You forgot to put on your bra," I said.

She smiled. "I didn't forget. A lot of girls are doing that these days."

"They are?"

"Of course. Boy, do you have a lot to learn. Lucky you got out of the swamps," she added.

But right now, I wasn't so sure I was so lucky.