Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "He's a nice young man," she said, "but you can't rip a Cajun man away from his mother and father. It will tear his heart in two. Don't put all your heart in this, Ruby. Some things are just not meant to be," she added, and turned around to go back into the house.

  I stood there, the tears streaming down my face. For the first time, I understood why Grandpère Jack liked living in the swamp away from people.

  Despite what had happened on Sunday, I still had high hopes for the Saturday night fais dodo. But whenever I brought it up with Grandmère, she simply replied, "We'll see." On Friday night, I pressed her harder.

  "Paul's got to know if he can come by to pick me up, Grandmère. It's not fair to keep him dangling like bait on a fish line," I said. It was something Grandpère Jack would say, but I was frustrated and anxious enough to risk it.

  "I just don't want you to suffer another disappointment, Ruby," she told me. "His parents aren't going to let him take you and they would just be furious if he defied them and did so anyway. They would be angry with me, too."

  "Why, Grandmère? How can they blame you?"

  "They just would," she said. "Everybody would. I'll take you myself," she said nodding. "Mrs. Bourdeaux is going and she and I can sit together and watch the young people. Besides, it's been a while since I heard good Cajun music."

  "Oh, Grandmère," I moaned. "Girls my age are going with boys; some have been on dates for more than a year already. It's not fair; I'm fifteen. I'm not a baby anymore."

  "I didn't say you were, Ruby, but—"

  "But you're treating me like one," I cried, and ran up to my room to throw myself on my bed.

  Maybe I was worse off living with a grandmother who was a spiritual treater, who saw evil spirits and danger in every dark shadow, who was always chanting and lighting candles and putting totems on people's doorways. Maybe the Tates just thought we were a crazy family and that was why they wanted Paul to stay away from me.

  Why did my mother have to die so young and why did my real father have to desert me? I had a grandfather who lived like an animal in the middle of the swamp and a grandmother who thought I was a small child. My sadness was mixed suddenly with rage. Here I was, fifteen with other girls my age far less pretty than I enjoying themselves on real dates while I was expected to go trailing along with my Grandmère to the fais dodo. Never before did I feel like running away as much as I did now.

  I heard Grandmère coming up the stairs, her steps heavier than usual. She tapped gently on my door and looked in. I didn't turn around.

  "Ruby," she began. "I'm only trying to protect you."

  "I don't want you to protect me," I snapped. "I can protect myself. I'm not a baby," I insisted.

  "You don't have to be a baby to need protection," she replied in a tired voice. "Strong grown men often cry for their mothers."

  "I don't have a mother!" I shot back, and regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth.

  Grandmère's eyes saddened and her shoulders slumped. Suddenly, she looked very old to me. She put her hand on her heart and took a deep breath, nodding.

  "I know, child. That's why I try so hard to do what's right for you. I know I can't be your mother, too, but I can do some of what a mother would do. It's not enough; it's never enough, but—"

  "I didn't mean to say you don't do enough for me, Grandmère. I'm sorry, but I want to go to the dance with Paul very much. I want to be treated like a young woman and not a child anymore. Didn't you want that when you were my age?" I asked. She stared at me a long moment before sighing.

  "All right," she said. "If the Tate boy can take you, you can go with him, but you must promise me you will be home right after the dance."

  "I will, Grandmère. I will. Thank you."

  She shook her head.

  "When you're young," she began, "you don't want to face up to what has to be. Your youth gives you the strength to defy, but defiance doesn't always lead to victory, Ruby. More often than not, it leads to defeat. When you come face-to-face with Fate, don't charge headlong into him. He welcomes that; it feeds him and he's got an insatiable appetite for stubborn, foolish souls."

  "I don't understand, Grandmère," I said.

  "You will," she told me with that heavy, prophetic tone of hers. "You will." Then she straightened up and sighed again. "I guess I'd better iron your dress," she said.

  I wiped the tears from my cheeks and smiled.

  "Thank you, Grandmère, but I can do it."

  "No, that's all right. I want to keep myself busy," she said, then walked out, her head still hanging lower than usual.

  All day Saturday, I debated about my hair. Should I wear it brushed down, tied with a ribbon in the back, or should I wear it up in a French knot? In the end I asked Grandmère to help me put my hair up.

  "You have such a pretty face," Grandmère Catherine said. "You should wear your hair back more often. You're going to have a lot of nice boyfriends," she added, more to soothe herself than to please me, I thought. "So remember not to give away your heart too quickly." She took my hand into both of hers and fixed her eyes on me, eyes that looked sad and tired. "Promise?"

  "Yes, Grandmère. Grandmère," I said, "are you feeling all right? You've looked very tired all day."

  "Just that old ache in the back and my quickened heartbeat now and again. Nothing out of the ordinary," she said.

  "I wish you didn't have to work so hard, Grandmère. Grandpère Jack should do more for us instead of drinking up his money or gambling it away," I declared.

  "He can't do anything for himself, much less for us. Besides, I don't want anything from him. His money's tainted," she said firmly.

  "Why is his money any more tainted than any other trapper's in the bayou, Grandmère?"

  "His is," she insisted. "Let's not talk about it. If anything sets my heart beating like a parade drum, that does."

  I swallowed my questions, afraid of making her sicker and more tired. Instead, I put on my dress and polished my shoes. Tonight, because the weather was unstable with intermittent showers and stronger winds, Paul was going to use one of his family's cars. He told me his father had said it was all right, but I had the feeling he hadn't told them everything. I was just too frightened to ask and risk not going to the dance. When I heard him drive up, I rushed to the door. Grandmère Catherine followed and stood right behind me.

  "He's here," I cried.

  "You tell him to drive slowly and be sure you're home right after the dancing," Grandmère said.

  Paul rushed up to the galerie. The rain had started again, so he held an umbrella open for me.

  "Wow, Ruby, you look very pretty tonight," he said, then saw Grandmère Catherine step out from behind me. "Evening, Mrs. Landry."

  "You get her home nice and early," she ordered.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And drive very carefully."

  "I will."

  "Please, Grandmère," I moaned. She bit down on her lip to keep herself silent and I leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

  "Have a good time," she muttered. I ran out to slip under Paul's umbrella and we hurried to the car. When I looked back, Grandmère Catherine was still standing in the doorway looking out at us, only she looked so much smaller and older to me. It was as if my growing up meant she was to grow older, faster. In the midst of my excitement, an excitement that made the rainy night seem like a star-studded one, a small cloud of sadness touched my thrilled heart and made it shudder for a second. but the moment Paul started driving away, I smothered the trepidation and saw only happiness and fun ahead.

  The fais dodo hall was on the other side of town. All furniture, except for the benches for the older people, was moved out of the large room. In a smaller, adjoining room, large pots of gumbo were placed on tables. We didn't have a stage as such, but platforms were used to provide a place for the musicians, who played the accordion, the fiddle, the triangle, and guitars. There was a singer, too.

  People came from all over the bayou, many families
bringing their young children as well. The little ones were put in another adjoining room to sleep. In fact, fais dodo was Cajun baby talk for go-to-sleep, meaning put all the small kids to bed so the older folks could dance. Some of the men played a card game called bourré while their wives and older children danced what we called the Two-step.

  Paul and I no sooner entered the fais dodo hall than I could hear the whispers and speculations on people's lips—what was Paul Tate doing with one of the poorest young girls in the bayou? Paul didn't seem as aware of the eyes and the whispering as I was, or if he was, he didn't care. As soon as we arrived, we were out on the dance floor. I saw some of my girlfriends gazing at us with green eyes, for just about every one of them would have liked Paul Tate to bring her to a fais dodo.

  We danced to one song after another, applauding loudly at the end of each song. Time passed so quickly that we didn't realize we had danced nearly an hour before we decided we were hungry and thirsty. Laughing, feeling as if there were no one else here but the two of us, we headed for refreshments. Both of us were oblivious to the group of boys who followed along, lead by Turner Browne, one of the school bullies. He was a stout, bull-necked seventeen-year-old with a shock of dark brown hair and large facial features. It was said that his family went back to the flatboat polers who had navigated the Mississippi long before the steamboat. The polers were a rough, violent bunch and the Brownes were thought to have inherited those traits. Turner lived up to the family reputation, getting into one brawl after another at school.

  "Hey, Tate," Turner Browne said after we had gotten our bowls of gumbo and sat at the corner of a table. "Your mommy know you're out slumming tonight?"

  All of Turner's friends laughed. Paul's face turned crimson. Slowly, he stood up.

  "I think you'd better take that back, Turner, and apologize."

  Turner Browne laughed.

  "What'cha gonna do, Tate, tell your daddy on me?"

  Again, Turner's friends laughed. I reached up and tugged on Paul's sleeve. He was red-faced and so angry he seemed to give off smoke.

  "Ignore him, Paul," I said. "He's too stupid to bother with."

  "Shut your mouth," Turner said. "At least I know who my father is."

  At that, Paul shot forward and tackled the much larger boy, knocking him to the floor. Instantly, Turner's friends let up a howl and formed a circle, around Paul and Turner, blocking out anyone who might have rushed to put a quick end to it. Turner was able to roll over Paul and pin him down by sitting on his stomach. He delivered a punch to Paul's right cheek. It swelled up almost instantly. Paul was able to block Turner's next punch, just as the older men arrived and pulled him off Paul. When he stood up, Paul's lower lip was bleeding.

  "What's going on here?" Mr. Lafourche demanded. He was in charge of the hall.

  "He attacked me," Turner accused, pointing at Paul. "That's not the whole truth," I said. "He—"

  "All right, all right," Mr. Lafourche said. "I don't care who did what. This sort of thing doesn't go on in my hall. Now get yourselves out of here. Go on, Browne. Move yourself and your crew before I have you all locked up."

  Smiling, Turner Browne turned and led his bunch of cronies away. I brought a wet napkin to Paul and dabbed his lip gently.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my temper."

  "You shouldn't have. He's so much bigger."

  "I don't care how big he is. I'm not going to allow him to say those things to you," Paul replied bravely. With his cheek scarlet and a little swollen, I could only cry for him. Everything had been going so well; we were having such a good time. Why was there always someone like Turner Browne to spoil things?

  "Let's go," I said.

  "We can still stay and dance some more."

  "No. We'd better get something on your bruises. Grandmère Catherine will have something that will heal you quickly," I said.

  "She'll be disappointed in me, angry that I got into a fight while I was with you," Paul moaned. "Damn that Turner Browne."

  "No, she won't. She'll be proud of you, proud of the way you came to my defense," I said.

  "You think so?"

  "Yes," I said, although I wasn't sure how Grandmère would react. "Anyway, if she can fix it so your face doesn't look so bad, your parents won't be as angry, right?"

  He nodded and then laughed.

  "I look terrible, huh?"

  "Not much better than someone who wrestled an alligator, I suppose."

  We both laughed and then left the hall. "Turner Browne and his friends were already gone, off to guzzle beer and brag to each other, I imagined, so there was no more trouble. It was raining harder when we drove back to the house. Paul pulled as close as he could and then we hurried in under the umbrella. The moment we stepped through the door, Grandmère Catherine looked up from her needlework and nodded.

  "It was that bully, Turner Browne, Grandmère. He—"

  She lifted her hand, rose from her seat, and went to the counter where she had some of her poultices set out as if she had anticipated our dramatic arrival. It was eerie. Even Paul was speechless.

  "Sit down," she told him, pointing to a chair. "After I treat him, you can tell me all about it."

  Paul looked at me, his eyes wide, and then moved to the seat to let Grandmère Catherine work her miracles.

  4

  Learning to Be a Liar

  "Here," Grandmère Catherine told Paul, "keep this pressed against your cheek with one hand and this pressed against your lip with the other." She handed him two warm cloths over which she had smeared one of her secret salves. When Paul took the cloths, I saw the knuckles on his right hand were all bruised and scraped as well.

  "Look at his hand, too, Grandmère," I cried.

  "It's nothing," Paul said. "When I was rolling around on the floor—"

  "Rolling around on the floor? At the fais dodo?" Grandmère asked. He nodded and then started to speak. "We were having some gumbo and—"

  "Hold those tight," she ordered. While he was holding the cloth against his lip, he couldn't talk, so I spoke for him, quickly.

  "It was Turner Browne. He said one nasty thing after another just to show off in front of his friends," I told her.

  "What sort of nasty things?" she demanded.

  "You know, Grandmère. Bad things."

  She stared at me a moment and then looked at Paul. It wasn't easy to keep anything from Grandmère Catherine.

  For as long as I could remember, she had a way of seeing right into your heart and soul.

  "He made nasty remarks about your mother?" Grandmère asked. I shifted my eyes away which was as good as saying yes. She took a deep breath, her hand against her heart and nodded. "They won't let it go. They cling to other people's hard times like moss clings to damp wood." She shook her head again and shuffled away, her hand still on her heart.

  I looked at Paul. His sad eyes told me how sorry he was he had lost his temper. He started to take the cloth off his lip to say so, but I put my hand over his quickly. Paul smiled at me with his eyes, even though his lips had to be kept in a straight line.

  "Just hold it there like Grandmère said," I told him. She looked back at us. I kept my hand over his and smiled. "He was very brave, Grandmère. You know how big Turner Browne is, but Paul didn't care."

  "He looks it," she said, and shook her head. "Your Grandpère Jack wasn't much different and still isn't. I wish I had a pretty penny for every time I had to prepare a poultice to treat the injuries he suffered in one of his brawls. One time he came home with his right eye shut tight, and an-other time, he had a piece of his ear bitten off. You'd think that would make him think twice before getting into any more such conflicts, but not that man. He was at the end of the line when they passed out good sense," she concluded.

  The rain that had been pounding on our tin roof subsided until we could hear only a slight tap, tap, tap, and the wind had died down considerably. Grandmère opened the batten plank shutters to let the breeze travel through our house aga
in. She took a deep breath.

  "I do love the way the bayou smells after a good rain. It makes everything fresh and clean. I wish it would do the same to people," she said, and sighed deeply, Her eyes were still dark and troubled. I never had heard her sound so sad and tired. A kind of paralyzing numbness gripped me and for a moment, I could only sit there and listen to my heart pound. Grandmère suddenly shuddered and embraced herself.

  "Are you all right, Grandmère?"

  "What? Yes, yes. Okay," she said, moving to Paul. "Let me look at you."

  He took the cloths from his lips and cheek and she scrutinized his face. The swelling had subsided, but his cheek was still crimson and his lower lip dark where Turner Browne's fist had split the skin. Grandmère Catherine nodded and then went to the icebox and chipped out a small chunk to wrap in another washcloth.

  "Here," she said, returning. "Put this on your cheek until it gets too cold and then put it on your lip. Keep alternating until the ice melts away, understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Paul said. "Thank you. I'm sorry all this happened. I should have just ignored Turner Browne."

  Grandmère Catherine held her eyes on him a moment and then relaxed her expression.

  "Sometimes you can't ignore; sometimes the evil won't leave," she said, "But that doesn't mean I expect to see you in any more fights," she warned. He nodded obediently.

  "You won't," he promised.

  "Hmm," she said. "I wish I had another pretty penny for how many times my husband has made the same promise."

  "I keep mine," Paul said proudly. Grandmère liked that and finally smiled.

  "We'll see," she said.

  "I better get going," Paul declared, standing. "Thanks again, Mrs. Landry."

  Grandmère Catherine nodded.

  "I'll walk you to the car, Paul," I said. When we stepped out on the galerie, we saw the rain had nearly stopped. The sky was still quite dark, but the glow from the galerie's dangling naked bulb threw a stream of pale white light to Paul's car. Still holding the ice pack against his cheek, he took my hand with his free hand and we walked over the pathway.