"No one but the maids, Otis, and my
grandmother have ever been in my room since my parents died," he said. "I'd like you to be the first outsider, if you like."
"Yes, I would," I said. He opened the patio door and we entered a rather large bedroom, which contained a dresser, an armoire, and a bed made of mahogany. Everything was very neat and as clean and polished as it would be had the maid just left. A portrait of a pretty blond woman was hung over the dresser.
"Is that a painting of your mother?" I asked.
"Yes."
"She was very beautiful."
"Yes, she was," he said wistfully.
There were no pictures of his father or any pictures of his father and mother together. The only other paintings on the walls were of river scenes. There were no photographs in frames on the dresser either. Had he had all pictures of his father removed?
I gazed at the closed door that connected his room with the room I knew must have been his parents' bedroom, the room in which I had seen him curl up in emotional agony that night.
"What do you think of my self-imposed cell?" he asked.
"It's a nice room. The furniture looks brandnew. You're a very neat person."
He laughed.
And then he turned serious, letting go of my arm and moving to his bed. He ran his hand over the footboard and the post. "I've slept in this bed since I was three years old. This door," he said, turning around, "opens to my parents' bedroom. My
grandmother keeps it as clean and polished as any of the bedroom is still in use."
"This must have been a nice place to grow up in," I said. My heart had begun to pitter-patter, as if it sensed something my eyes had missed.
"It was and it wasn't," he said. His lips twisted as he struggled with his memories. He moved to the door and pressed his palm against it. "For years and years, this door was never locked," he said. "My mother and I. . we were always very close."
He continued to face the door and speak as if he could see through it into the past. "Often in the morning, after my father had gotten up to get to work, she would come in and crawl up beside me in my bed and hold me close so I could wake up in her arms. And if anything ever frightened me . . no matter how late or early, she would come to me or let me come to her." He turned slowly. "She was the only woman I have ever laid beside. Isn't that sad?"
"You're not very old, Louis. You'll find someone to love,' I said.
He laughed a strange, thin ugh.
"Who would love me? tt not only blind . .I'm twisted, as twisted and ugly as the Hunchback of Notre Dame?"
"Oh, but you're not. You're good-looking and you're very talented."
"And rich, don't forget that."
He walked back to the bed and took hold of the post. Then he ran his hand over the blanket softly.
"I used to lie here, hoping she would come to me, and if she didn't come on own, I would pretend to have been frightened by a bad dream just to bring her here," he confessed. "Is that so terrible?"
"Of course not."
"My father thought it was," he said angrily. "He was always bawling her out for spoiling me and for lavishing too much attention on me."
Having been someone who never knew her mother, I couldn't imagine being spoiled by one, but it sounded like a nice fault.
"He was jealous of us," Louis continued.
"A mother and her child? Really?"
He turned away and faced the portrait as if he could see it. "He thought I was too old for such motherly attention.
She was still coming to me and I was still going to her when I was eight. . nine ten. Even after I had turned thirteen," he added. "Was that wrong?" he demanded, spinning on me My hesitation put pain in his face. "You think so too, don't you?"
"No," I said softly.
"Yes you do." He sat on the bed. "I thought I could tell you about it. I thought you would understand."
"I do understand. Louis. I don't think badly of you. I'm sorry your father did," I added.
He raised his head hopefully. "You don't think badly ofme?"
"Of course not. Why shouldn't a mother and a son comfort and love each other?"
"Even if I pretended to need the comfort just so she would come to me?"
"I guess so," I said, not quite understanding.
"I'd open the door a little," he said, "and then I would return to my bed and lay here, curled up like this." He spread himself out and folded into the fetal position. "And I'd start to whimper." He made the small sounds to illustrate. "Just go over to the door," he said. "Go ahead. Please."
I did so, the pitter-patter of my heart growing stronger, faster, as his actions and words became more confusing. "Open it," he said. "I want to hear the hinges squeak."
"Why?"
"Please," he begged, so I did so. He looked so happy. "Then I would hear her say, 'Louis? Darling? Are you crying, dear?'
"Yes, Mommy,' I would tell her.
"Don't cry, dear,' she would say." He hesitated and turned his head in my direction. "Would you say that to me? Please?" he asked me.
I was silent.
"Please," he pleaded.
Feeling foolish and a bit frightened now, I did so. "Don't cry, dear."
"I can't help it, Mommy." He held his hand out. "Take my hand," he begged. "Just take it."
"Louis, what . . ."
"I just want to show you. I want you to know and to tell me what you think."
I took his hand and he pulled me toward him.
"Just lay down beside me for a moment. Just a moment. Pretend you're my mother. I'm your little Louis. Pretend."
"But why, Louis?"
"Please," he said, holding my hand even tighter. I sat on the bed and he drew me down toward him.
"She would come just like this and I would stroke her shoulder as she would stroke my hair and kiss my face, and then she would let my hand run down over her breasts," he said, running his hand over mine, "so I could feel her heartbeat and be comforted. It was what she wanted me to do. I did only what she wanted me to do! Was that wrong? Was it?"
"Louis, stop," I pleaded. "You're torturing yourself with these memories."
"Then she would put her hand here," he said, seizing my right wrist and bringing it between his legs, where he had already begun to grow hard. I pulled my hand away as if I had touched fire.
The tears were streaming down his cheeks now.
"And my father. he came in on us one day and he grew very angry with both of us and then he had the door locked and if I should cry or complain, he would come in and beat me with a leather strap. Once he did it so much. I had welts over my legs and back and my mother had to put salve over my body afterward, and then she tried to make me feel good again.
"But I couldn't and she became very unhappy too. She thought I had stopped loving her," he said, his face changing into an expression of fury. Then his lips began to tremble as he struggled to bring the words out of them, words that had haunted him. In a gush, he blurted, "So she tried to make another boy her son and my father found out."
He seized my hand with both his hands and brought it to his lips and his face, caressing the back of my hand with his cheeks.
"I've never told anyone that, not even my doctor, but I can't stand keeping it all inside me anymore. It's like having a hive of bees in your stomach and chest. I'm sorry I brought you here and made you listen . I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Louis," I said, stroking his hair with my other hand. "It's all right."
His sobbing grew harder. I put my arms around him and held him close as he cried. Finally he grew quiet and still. I lowered his head to the pillow, but when I let go of his hand, he seized mine again.
"I'm afraid I've made a mess of this visit too, but just stay a little while longer," he said. "Please."
"All right. I will."
He relaxed. His breathing grew softer, more regular. As soon as he was asleep, I slipped of the bed and tiptoed out the patio door. I walked quickly through th
e garden and back through the studio. Hurrying down the corridor toward the front door, I glanced to my right when I saw a shadow move. It was Mrs. Clairborne, peering out of a doorway. I stopped and started to turn to her but she closed the door. I hesitated only a moment longer before fleeing the plantation full of shadows and pain.
8
Suspicions
.
By the time I returned to the dorm, something
hard and heavy had grown in my chest, making it ache, so I was grateful that for once Gisselle and her clique were not in the lounge waiting to pounce on me when I entered our quad. Listening to Louis's revelations about himself and his mother and father, I felt as if I had trespassed and wandered into a confessional, overhearing someone else's sins. Abby took one look at my face and knew I had gone through something terrible.
"Are you all right?" she asked softly.
"Yes," I said.
"What happened?"
I shook my head. I couldn't get myself to talk
about it, and she understood. Instead, I dove into my homework and began studying for upcoming exams in math and science. I dreaded facing Gisselle's biting questions and remarks later. I don't know whether she was just trying to show she wasn't interested in the things I did or whether she really didn't care, but neither at lunch nor at dinner did she inquire about my visit at the plantation. She looked like she was still smarting over the fact that my punishment had been mitigated.
Actually, we had a very quiet Sunday night. Jackie, Katie, and Vicki left the dorm to go to the school library, which was open until nine, and Gisselle and Samantha spent most of their time in their room or out in the lobby, watching television and talking to girls from the other quads.
I soaked in a hot bath and then went to bed early. Before I fell asleep, Abby asked me again what it was Louis had wanted. I took a deep breath before I replied.
"Mostly to apologize for his behavior the last time," I told her. I didn't even know how to begin telling her about the things he told me concerning his relationship with his mother and father.
"Are you going back there to visit him?" "I don't want to," I admitted. "I feel sorry for him--I really do--but there are more dark turns and swamp holes in that plantation house than there are in the bayou. Being rich and coming from a
distinguished family background doesn't guarantee happiness, Abby. In fact, it might make happiness harder to find because you have to live up to all that expectation."
Abby agreed and then she wished for something.
"I wish my parents would stop trying to hide the truth and keep people from knowing I'm descended from a Haitian woman. I'm a quadroon, and there's no sense pretending otherwise. I think we'd all be happier being who we are."
"We all would," I said.
Louis didn't call or contact me the next day, but on Tuesday, Mrs. Penny brought me a letter that Louis had had delivered to the dorm. She stood in the doorway of my room for a few moments, hoping I would open it in her presence, I suppose, but I simply thanked her and put it aside. My fingers trembled when I opened it later.
.
Dear Ruby,
I just wanted to scribble out this note to thank you for coming to see me again after I had been so unpleasant to you the first time. I was surprised when I woke up in my room hours after you had apparently left and found myself alone. I don't even remember what I did or said prior to your leaving, but I hope it wasn't anything that upset you. Naturally, I hope you will visit with me again.
And now for a piece of exciting news. Yesterday I woke up and for the first time saw a hazy light. I can't see anything really, but I can suddenly distinguish between light and shadows. It might not sound like much to someone with sight, but to me it's almost a miracle. Grandmother is excited about it too, and so is my doctor, who wants me to spend time in an institute for the legally blind. I'm not ready to leave home and do that and I have continued instead with my periodic doctor's visits at the house. So if you so decide, I will be here and can see you almost any time you wish. I would like that very much. I hope you enjoy the song I wrote for you.
With deepest regards, Louis
.
I put the note in with my box of letters I had received from Paul and from Beau. Then I sat down and wrote a short note expressing my happiness for Louis and hope that his sight was really returning. I made no specific mention about another visit but instead made a vague promise to see him again soon. Mrs. Penny said she would see to it that my letter was delivered promptly.
About midweek, the excitement over our first social, the Halloween dance, began building. It was practically the only subject the girls wanted to discuss at dinner. I was surprised to learn that costumes weren't permitted. Abby and I were discussing it when we saw Vicki sitting in the lounge, reading a biography of Andrew Jackson. We asked her about the prohibition . Annoyed with the interruption, she looked up from her reading and shifted her glasses back on the bridge of her nose.
"Because some of the costumes girls chose to wear at past Halloween dances were deemed inappropriate dress, it was decided there wouldn't be any costume ball as such," she explained.
"Oh, too bad," I said, just imagining some of the costumes Miss Stevens and I could have created. I had remained after school all week to help Miss Stevens, who had been given the assignment to decorate the gymnasium. We drew and cut out pumpkins and witches, goblins and ghosts. On Saturday, she and I and some members of the school's social committee would put everything up in the gymnasium, along with crepe paper streamers, Japanese lanterns, and tons of tinsel.
"So then what should we wear?" Abby asked Vicki.
"You can wear what you want, but I'll warn you that anyone whose clothes are too sexy or too revealing will be stopped at the gym door."
"Really?"
"Yes. Mrs. Ironwood stands off to the side and either nods or shakes her head when we enter, and then the teacher on duty, usually Mrs. Brennan or Miss Weller, our librarian, admits or refuses to admit you. If you're refused admittance, you have to go back to your dorm and change into something considered more appropriate.
"Inappropriate dress includes anything that reveals even a smidgen of cleavage, a skirt that shows your knees, or a blouse or sweater that is too tight around your bosom. One time last year a girl was sent back because she wore a blouse too thin. It revealed the outline of her bra."
"Why don't we just dress in our uniforms and forget it," Abby suggested with disgust. "Or is that considered a costume?"
"Some girls do wear their uniforms."
"You're kidding?" I said. "To a dance?"
Vicki shrugged, and I wondered if she hadn't been one to have worn her uniform.
"What is the dance like?" Abby asked.
"The boys gather on one side of the gym and we on the other. Just before or just after the music starts, they cross and ask us to dance. They must ask properly, of course."
"Of course," I said. She smirked.
"Didn't you read the section in the handbook concerning the proper behavior at school socials?" she asked us. "Naturally, smoking or drinking anything alcoholic is strictly forbidden, but there is also an acceptable and unacceptable way to dance. It specifically says that there should be a clear inch or so between you and the boy when you're on the dance floor."
"1 didn't read that," Abby said.
"It's in there. Check the footnotes."
"Footnotes!" I moaned and then laughed. "What are they afraid will happen on a dance floor?"
"I don't know," Vicki said, "but that's the rule. You're not supposed to leave the gym with a boy alone either, but a lot of girls get around that by leaving separately and then meeting someplace outside," Vicki said. "Anyway, the dance lasts two and a half hours exactly, after which Mrs. Ironwood announces it has come to an end and stops the music. The boys are told to board their bus and the girls are told to return to their dorms. Some girls escort the boys they've met to the bus, but Mrs. Ironwood is out there watching to see how the
y say goodbye. Passionate kissing is strictly forbidden, and if she should catch a girl permitting a boy's hands to wander, that girl will get a note about it and some demerits, which might prohibit her from attending the next social."
"Mrs. Ironwood should come to one of the fais dodos in the bayou," I whispered to Abby, who laughed.
Vicki frowned.
"Anyway," she concluded, "the refreshments are usually very good."
"Sounds like . . loads of fun," Abby said, and we giggled so much that Vicki went back to her reading.
But despite the rules and restrictions and the promise of being followed by Mrs. Ironwood's eagle eyes and the eyes of other teachers on duty,
excitement over the social continued to build all week long.
Gisselle, who was normally bitter about the fact that she couldn't get up and dance, was quite enthusiastic about all this party preparation. Her devoted followers gathered around her more often and more closely to listen to her experienced advice about boy-girl relations. She obviously enjoyed tutoring them in the ways of a coquette, describing the things she did to tease and torment and draw a boy's attention. On Thursday and Friday night, she actually sat in the lounge and instructed Jackie, Samantha, and Katie on how to walk, turn their shoulders, flutter their eyelashes, and how to find ways to brush their bosoms against the arms and chests of the boys they fancied. Vicki stood in her doorway scowling, but listening and observing like someone who wished she could enter a forbidden world; while Abby and I kept off to the side, smiling but saying nothing to bring on one of Gisselle's nasty tirades.
Then on Saturday morning, just before I went off to help set up the decorations, Gisselle surprised me by wheeling into our room to talk to Abby. Samantha was at her side.
Pearl in the Mist Page 15
