Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "So am I," I replied, and gobbled down the rest of my lunch so I could leave quickly.

  At the end of the school day, I went to see Mr. Saxon, the dramatics instructor, and told him I was resigning from the school play. It was obvious from the look on his face that he had heard all about the episode with the photograph.

  "That's really not necessary, Ruby," he said, but he looked relieved that I had come forward with the idea. I could tell he had already anticipated my bringing an unwelcome notoriety to the cast which would take away from the performances. People would come just out of curiosity to see the wicked little Cajun girl.

  "But if your mind is made up, I do appreciate your doing this before it gets to be too late for me to replace you," he added.

  Without saying another thing, I dropped the script on his desk and left to walk home.

  Daddy didn't come to dinner that evening. When I came down I found Gisselle and Daphne sitting alone. With her eyes fixed angrily on me, Daphne quickly explained that he had fallen into one of his fits of melancholia.

  "The combination of some unfortunate business ventures with the disastrous recent events have pushed him into a deep depression," she continued.

  I gazed at Gisselle who continued eating as if she had heard this a hundred times before.

  "Shouldn't we call a doctor, get him some medicine?" I asked.

  "There is no medicine except filling his life with cheerful news," she replied pointedly. Gisselle jerked her head up. "I got a ninety on a history test yesterday," she boasted.

  "That's very nice, dear. I'll be sure to tell him," Daphne said.

  I wanted to say that I had gotten a ninety-five on the same test, but I was sure Gisselle, and maybe even Daphne, would interpret it as my attempt to belittle Gisselle's accomplishment, so I remained silent.

  Later that evening, Gisselle stopped by my room. As far as I could tell, even though poor Daddy was quite distraught over all that had occurred, she was completely without guilt or regrets. I had the urge to scream at her and see her poise collapse! I wanted her smiles to peel off like bark from a tree, but I remained silent, afraid of only causing more trouble.

  "Deborah Tallant is having a party this weekend," she announced. "I'm going with Martin, and Beau's coming along with us," she added with sadistic pleasure. She looked like she was really enjoying pouring salt on my wounds. "I know he regrets giving me up so quickly now, but I'm not going to make things easy for him. I'm going to let him turn and turn out there like a ball on a string. You know how," she said with an oily, evil smile. "I'll kiss Martin passionately right in front of him, dance so closely with Martin that we look attached . . . that sort of thing."

  "Why are you so cruel?" I asked her.

  "I'm not so cruel. He deserves it. Anyway, I wish I could take you to the party, but I had to specifically promise Deborah I wouldn't. Her parents wouldn't like it," she said.

  "I wouldn't go if she invited me," I replied. A cynical smile twisted her lips.

  "Oh, yes you would," she said, laughing. "Yes, you would."

  She left me, infuriated. I sat there steaming for a while and then felt myself calm down to a quiet indifference. I lay back in my bed reminiscing and finding some comfort in my beautiful memories living with Grandmère Catherine in the bayou. Paul came to mind and I suddenly felt terrible about the way I had left without saying good-bye to him, even though at the time, it seemed to be the best thing to do.

  I sat up quickly and ripped a sheet of paper out of my notebook. Then I went to my desk and began writing him a letter. As I wrote, the tears filled my eyes and my heart contracted into a tight lead fist in my chest.

  Dear Paul,

  It has been some time now since I left the bayou, but you haven't been out of my thoughts. First, I want to apologize for leaving without saying good-bye to you. The reason why I didn't is simple—it would have been too painful for me, and I was afraid, too painful for you. I'm sure you were just as confused and disturbed about the events that occurred in our pasts as I was, and probably, you were just as angry about it. But fate is something we cannot change. It would be easier to hold back the tide.

  Even so, I imagine you've spent a lot of time wondering why I just upped and left the bayou. The immediate reason was Grandpère Jack was arranging my marriage to Buster Trahaw and you know I'd rather be dead than married to him. But there were deeper, even more important reasons, the most important one being that I found out who my real father was and decided to do what Grandmère Catherine had asked as a dying wish—go to him and start a new life.

  I have. I now live in an entirely different world in New Orleans. We're rich; we live in a grand house with maids and cooks and butlers. My father is very nice and very concerned about me. One of the first things he did when he discovered my artistic talent was to create a studio for me and hire a college art teacher to give me private lessons. However, the biggest surprise for you to learn is that I have a twin sister!

  I wish I could tell you that all is wonderful, that being rich and having so many beautiful things has made my life better. But it hasn't.

  My father's life has not been smooth either. The tragedies that befell his younger brother and some of the other things that happened to him have made him a deeply disturbed and sad man. I was hoping that I could change things for him and bring him enough happiness to cure his depression and sadness, but I haven't been successful yet and now I am not sure I can ever be.

  In fact, at this very moment I wish I could return to the bayou, return to the time before you and I learned all the terrible things about our own pasts, return to the time before Grandmère Catherine died. But I can't. For better or for worse, as I said, this is my fate and I must learn how to deal with it.

  Right now, all I want to do is ask you to forgive me for leaving without saying good-bye, and ask you when you have a chance, in a quiet moment, either in or out of church, to say a little prayer for me.

  I do miss you.

  God bless.

  Love,

  Ruby

  I put the letter into an envelope and addressed it. The next morning, I mailed it on my way to school. The day wasn't much different from the one before, but I could see that as time went by, the excitement and interest other students had in me and what had occurred would wane. There was nothing as dead as old news. Not that those who had been friendly and interested in me started to be those things again. Oh, no. That would take much longer and only if I made a great effort. For the present, I was treated as if I were invisible.

  I saw Beau a few times and every time, he looked at me, he had an expression of shame and regret on his face. I felt more sorry for him than he did for me and tried to avoid him as much as possible so things wouldn't be so hard for him. I knew there were girls and even boys who would rush home to tell their parents if Beau defiantly returned to my side. In a matter of hours, the phones at his house would ring off the hook and his parents would be enraged at him.

  But on the way home from school that afternoon, I was surprised when Gisselle and Martin drove up to the curb and called to me. I paused and went over to Martin's car.

  "What?" I asked.

  "If you want, you can come with us," Gisselle offered, as if she were handing out charity. "Martin's got some good stuff and we're going over to his house. No one's home," she said. I could smell the aroma of the marijuana and knew that they had already started having their so-called good time.

  "No, thanks," I said.

  "I'm not going to invite you to do things if you keep saying no," Gisselle threatened. "And you'll never get back into the swing of things and have friends again."

  "I'm tired and I want to begin my final term paper," I explained.

  "What a drag," Gisselle moaned.

  Martin puffed on his joint and smiled at me.

  "Don't you want to laugh and cry again?" he asked. That set them both laughing and I pulled myself away from the window just as he accelerated and shot off, his tires squealing
as he made the turn at the end of the block.

  I walked home and went right to my room to do what I had said, begin my homework. But less than an hour later, I heard some shouting coming from downstairs. Curious, I walked out of my room and went to the head of the stairs. Below, in the entryway stood two city policemen, both with their hats off. A few moments later, Daphne came rushing forward, Wendy Williams hurrying with her coat. I took a few steps down.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  Daphne paused in front of the policemen.

  "Your sister," she screamed. "She's been in a bad car accident with Martin. Your father's meeting me at the hospital."

  "I'll come with you," I cried, and ran down the steps to join her.

  "What happened?" I asked, getting into the car with her.

  "The police said Martin was smoking that dirty . . . filthy . . . drug stuff. He crashed right into the back of a city bus."

  "Oh no." My heart was pounding. I had seen only one car accident before in my life. A man in a pickup truck had gotten drunk and drove off an embankment. When I saw the accident, his bloodied body was still hanging out of the smashed front window, his head dangling.

  "What's wrong with you young people today?" Daphne cried. "You have so much, and yet you do these stupid things. Why?" she shrilled. "Why?"

  I wanted to say it was because some of us have too much, but I bit down on those thoughts, knowing she would take it as a criticism of her role as mother.

  "Did the policemen say how bad they were hurt?" I asked instead.

  "Bad," she replied. "Very bad . . ."

  Daddy was already waiting for us in the hospital emergency room. He looked terribly distraught, aged and weakened by the events.

  "What have you learned?" Daphne asked quickly. He shook his head.

  "She's still unconscious. Apparently, she hit the wind-shield. There are broken bones. They're doing the X rays now."

  "Oh, God," Daphne said. "This, on top of everything else."

  "What about Martin?" I asked. Daddy lifted his shadowy, sad eyes to me and shook his head. "He's not . . . dead?"

  Daddy nodded. My blood ran cold and drained down to my ankles, leaving a hollow ache in my stomach.

  "Just a little while ago," he told Daphne. She turned white and clutched his arm.

  "Oh, Pierre, how gruesome."

  I backed up to a chair by the wall and let myself drop into it. Stunned, I could only sit and stare at the people who rushed to and fro. I waited and watched as Daddy and Daphne spoke with doctors.

  When I was about nine, there was a four-year-old boy in the bayou, Dylan Fortier, who had fallen out of a pirogue and drowned. I remember Grandmère Catherine had been called to try to save him and I had gone along with her. The moment she looked at his little withered form on the bank of the canal, she knew it was too late and crossed herself.

  At the age of nine, I thought death was something that happened only to old people. We young people were invulnerable, protected by the years we were promised at birth. We wore our youth like a shield. We could get sick, very sick; we could have accidents, even serious ones, or we could be bitten by poisonous things, but somehow, someway there was always something that would save us.

  The sight of that little boy, pale and gray, his hair stuck on his forehead, his little fingers clenched into tiny fists, his eyes sewn shut, and his lips blue was a sight that haunted me for years afterward.

  All I could think of now was Martin's impish smile when he had pulled away from the curb. What if I had gotten into the car with them, I wondered? Would I be in some hospital emergency room or would I have prevailed and gotten Martin to slow down and drive more carefully?

  Fate . . . as I had told Paul in my letter . . . could not be defeated or denied.

  Daphne returned first, her face full of agony and emotional fatigue.

  "How is she?" I asked, my heart thumping.

  "She's regained consciousness, but something is wrong with her spine," she said in a dead, dry tone. She was even paler and held her right palm over her heart.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, my voice cracking.

  "She can't move her legs," Daphne said. "We're going to have an invalid in the family. Wheelchairs and nurses," she said, grimacing. "Oh, I feel sick," she added quickly. "I'm going to the bathroom. See to your father," she commanded with a wave of her hand.

  I looked across the hallway and saw him looking like someone who had been hit by a train. He was standing with the doctor. His back was against the wall and his head was down. The doctor patted him on the shoulder and then walked off, but Daddy didn't move. I rose slowly and started toward him. He raised his head as I approached, the tears streaming from his eyes, his lips quivering.

  "My little girl," he said, "my princess . . . is probably going to be crippled for life."

  "Oh, Daddy," I shook my head, my own tears rivaling his in quantity now. I rushed to him and embraced him and he buried his face in my hair and sobbed.

  "It's my fault," he sobbed. "I'm still being punished for the things I've done."

  "Oh, no, Daddy. It's not your fault."

  "It is. It is," he insisted. "I'll never be forgiven, never. Everyone I love will suffer."

  As we clung to each other tightly, all I could think was . . . this is definitely not his fault. It was my fault . . . my fault. I've got to get Nina to take me back to Mama Dede. I've got to undo the spell.

  Daphne and I returned home first. By now, it seemed like half the city had heard of the accident. The phones were ringing off the hook. Daphne went directly up to her suite, telling Edgar to take down the names of those who called, explaining that she wasn't able to speak to anyone just yet. Daddy was even worse, immediately retreating to Uncle Jean's room the moment he stepped through the door. I had a message that Beau had called and I called him back before I went to see Nina.

  "I can't believe it," he said, trying to hold back his tears. "I can't believe Martin's dead."

  I told him what had happened earlier, how they had approached me on the way home.

  "He knew better; he knew you couldn't drive and smoke that stuff or drink."

  "Knowing is one thing. Listening to wisdom and obeying it is another," I said dryly.

  "Things must be terrible at your house, huh?"

  "Yes, Beau."

  "My parents will be over to see Daphne and Pierre tonight, I'm sure. I might come along, if they let me," he said.

  "I might not be here."

  "Where are you going tonight?" he asked, astonished. "There's someone I have to see."

  "Oh."

  "It's not another boy, Beau," I said quickly, hearing the disappointment in his voice.

  "Well, they probably won't let me come anyway," he said. "I'm feeling sick to my stomach, myself. If I hadn't had baseball practice . . . I would probably have been in that car."

  "Fate just didn't point its long, dark finger at you," I told him.

  After we spoke I went to find Nina. She, Edgar, and Wendy were consoling each other in the kitchen. As soon as she lifted her eyes and met mine, she knew why I had come.

  "This is not your fault, child," she said. "Those who welcome the devil man into their hearts invite the bad gris-gris themselves."

  "I want to see Mama Dede, Nina. Right away," I added. She looked at Wendy and Edgar.

  "She won't tell you any different," she said.

  "I want to see her, Nina," I insisted. "Take me to her," I ordered. She sighed and nodded slowly.

  "If the madame or monsieur want something, get it to them," Wendy promised. Nina rose and got her pocketbook. Then we hurried out of the house and met the first streetcar. When we arrived at Mama Dede's, her mother seemed to know why. She and Nina exchanged knowing looks. Once in, we waited in the living room for the voodoo queen to enter. I couldn't take my eyes off the box I knew contained the snake and Gisselle's ribbon.

  Mama Dede made her entrance as the drums began. As before, she went to the settee and turned her gra
y eyes toward me.

  "Why you come back to Mama, child?" she asked.

  "I didn't want anything this terrible to happen," I cried. "Martin's dead and Gisselle is crippled."

  "What you want to happen and what you don't want to happen don't make no difference to the wind. Once you throw your anger in the air, it can't be pulled back."

  "It's my fault," I moaned. "I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have asked you to do something."

  "You came here because you were meant to come here. Zombi bring you to me to do what must be done. You didn't cast the first stone, child. Papa La Bas, he find an open door into your sister's heart and curled himself up comfortable. She let him cast the stones with her name on it, not you."

  "Isn't there anything we can do to help her now?" I pleaded.

  "When she drive Papa La Bas from her heart completely, you come back and Mama see what Zombi want to do. Not until then," she said with finality.

  "I feel terrible," I said, lowering my head. "Please, find a way to help us."

  "Give me your hand, child," Mama Dede said. I looked up and gave her my hand. She held it firmly, hers feeling warmer and warmer.

  "This all is meant to be, child," she said. "You were brought here by the wind Zombi sent. You want to help your sister now, make her a better person, drive the devil from her heart?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Don't be afraid," she said, and pulled my hand slowly toward the box. I looked desperately at Nina who simply closed her eyes and began to rock, mumbling some chant under her breath. "Don't be afraid," Mama Dede repeated, and opened the top of the box. "Now you reach down and take out your sister's ribbon. Take it back and nothing more be happening than has."

  I hesitated. Reach into a box that contained a snake? I knew pythons weren't poisonous, but still . . .

  Mama Dede released me and sat back, waiting. I thought about Daddy, the sadness in his eyes, the weight on his shoulders and slowly, with my eyes closed, I lowered my hand into the box. My fingers nudged the cold, scaly skin of the sleeping serpent. It began to squirm, but I continued moving my fingers around frantically until I felt the ribbon. Quickly, I seized it and pulled my hand out.