Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "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.