"I hope this is the beginning and the end of such shenanigans," Daphne declared. She directed herself to Gisselle. "I'm trying to teach your sister the proper way to behave at dinner and in the company of others. It's not going to be easy. anyway. The last thing I need is for you to set a bad example, Gisselle."
"I'm sorry," she said, and looked down for a moment. Then her head snapped up. "How come you bought her all these short skirts and carried on so much when I wanted them last month?"
"It's what she liked," Daphne said.
I whipped my head around. What I liked? I never was given a chance to offer an opinion. Why did she say that? "Well, I want some new clothes then, too," Gisselle moaned.
"You can get a few new things, but there's no reason to throw out your entire wardrobe."
Gisselle sat back and looked at me with a smile of satisfaction.
Our meal service began. We ate on a floral pattern set of porcelain china, which Daphne pointed out was nineteenth century. She made everything, down to the napkin holders, sound so expensive and precious, my fingers trembled when I went to lift my fork. I hesitated when I saw there were two. Daphne explained how I was to use the silverware and even how I should sit and hold it.
I didn't know whether or not the meal was something done especially for the occasion of our first dinner together, but it seemed overwhelming.
We began with an appetizer of crabmeat ravigote served in scallop shells. That was followed with grilled cornish game hens with roasted shallots and browned garlic sauce, and Creole green beans. For dessert we were served vanilla ice cream smothered in hot bourbon whiskey sauce.
I saw how Edgar stood just behind Daphne after he served each course, waiting for her to take her first taste and signal approval. I couldn't imagine anyone not being satisfied with anything on the table. My father asked me to describe some of the meals I had in the bayou and I described the gumbos and the jambalayas, the homemade cakes and pastries.
"It doesn't sound like they starved you," Gisselle remarked. I couldn't help sounding
enthusiastic over the meals Grandmere Catherine used to make.
"Gumbo is nothing more than a stew," Daphne said. "The food is plain and simple. It doesn't take much imagination. You can see that yourself, can't you, Ruby?" she asked me firmly. I glanced at my father, who waited for my response.
"Nina Jackson is a wonderful cook. I never had such a meal," I admitted. That pleased Daphne and another little crisis seemed to pass. How hard it was for me to get used to belittling and criticizing my life with Grandmere, but realized that was the currency I would need to pay for the life I now had.
The conversation at the table moved from my description of foods in the bayou to questions Daphne had for Gisselle about the Mardi Gras Ball. She described the costumes and the music, referring to people they all knew. She and Daphne seemed to share opinions about certain families and their sons and daughters. Tired of hearing the gossip, my father began to talk about my artwork.
"I've already inquired about an instructor. Madam Henreid over at the Gallier House has recommended someone to me, an instructor at Tulane who takes pupils on the side. I've already spoken with him and he's agreed to meet Ruby and consider her work," he said.
"How come I never got my singing instructor," Gisselle whined.
"You never really showed that much interest, Gisselle. Every time I asked you to go to the teacher, you had some excuse not to," he explained.
"Well, she should have been brought here," Gisselle insisted.
"She would have come," he said, looking to Daphne. "Of course she would have come. Do you want your father to call her again?" she asked.
"No," Gisselle said. "It's too late."
"Why?" he asked.
"It just is," she said, pouting.
When dinner was over, my father decided he would show me the room he had in mind for my art studio. He winked at Daphne and had a tight smile on his lips. Reluctantly, Gisselle tagged along. He took us toward the rear of the house and when he threw open the door, there it was--a full art studio, already in place with easels, paints, brushes, clays, everything I would ever need or dreamt of having. For a moment I was speechless.
"I had this all done while you were out shopping with Daphne," he revealed. "Do you like it?"
"Like it? I love it!" I whirled around the room inspecting everything. There was even a pile of art books, going from the most elementary things to the most elaborate and complicated. "It's. . . wonderful!"
"I thought we should waste no time, not with a talent like yours. What do you think, Gisselle?" I turned to see her smirking in the doorway.
"I hate art class in school," she remarked. Then she focused a conspiratorial look on me and added, "I'm going up to my room. Come up as soon as you can. We have some things to prepare for later."
"Later?" my father asked.
"Just girl talk, Daddy," Gisselle said, and left. He shrugged and joined me at the shelves of supplies.
"I told Emile at the art store to give me everything we would need to have a complete studio," he said. "Are you pleased?"
"Oh, yes. There are things here, materials and supplies I have never seen, much less used."
"That's why we need the instructor as soon as possible, too. I think once he sees this studio, he'll be encouraged to take you on as one of his pupils. Not that he shouldn't by just looking at your painting anyway." He beamed his smile down at me.
"Thank you . . Daddy," I said. His smile widened.
"I like hearing that," he said. "I hoped you felt welcomed."
"Oh, yes, I do. Overwhelmed."
"And happy?"
"Very happy," I said. I stood on my toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. His eyes brightened even more.
"Well," he said. "Well . ." His eyes watered. "I guess I'll go see what Daphne is up to. Enjoy your studio and paint wonderful pictures here," he added, and walked off.
I stood there in awe of it all for a few moments. The room had a nice view of the sprawling oak trees and garden. It faced west so I could paint the sun on the final leg of its journey. Twilight was always magnificent for me in the bayou. I had high hopes that it would be just as magnificent here as well, for I believed that the things I carried in my heart and in my soul would be with me no matter where I was, where I lived, and what I looked at through my windows. My pictures were inside me, just waiting to be brought out.
After what I thought was only a short while later, I left the studio and hurried up to Gisselle's room. I knocked on the door.
"Well, it's about time," she said, pulling me in quickly and closing the door. "We don't have all that much time to plan. The boys will be here in twenty minutes."
"I don't think I can do this, Gisselle," I moaned.
"Of course you can," she said. "We'll be sitting around the table at the pool when they arrive. We'll have bottles of Coke and glasses for everyone, with ice. As soon as they approach, you introduce me to Martin. Just say I want you to meet my sister, Ruby. Then, you'll take this out from under the table and pour globs of it into the Coke," she said, and plucked a bottle of rum out of a straw basket. "Make sure you pour at least this much into every glass," she added, holding up her thumb and forefinger a good two inches apart. "Once Beau sees you do that, he'll be convinced you're me," she quipped.
"Then what?"
"Then. . . whatever happens, happens. What's the matter?" she snapped, pulling herself back. "Don't you want to pretend you're me?"
"It's not that I don't want to," I said.
"So? What is it?"
"I just don't think I can be you," I said.
"Why not?" she demanded, her eyes darkening and her eyelids narrowing into slits of anger.
"I don't know enough," I replied. That pleased her and she relaxed her shoulders.
"Just don't talk much. Drink and whenever Beau says something, nod and smile. I know I can be you," she added. And then in a voice that was supposed to be imitative, she said, "I just can
't believe I'm here. The food is s000 good, the house is s000 big and I'm sleepin' in a real bed without mosquitos and mud."
She laughed. Was I really like that in her eyes?
"Stop being so serious," she demanded when I didn't laugh at her mockery of me. She dropped the bottle of rum into the basket. "Come on," she said, picking it up and seizing my hand. "Let's go tease some stuck-up Creole boys until they beg for mercy."
Trailing along like a kite on a string, I followed my sister out and down the stairs, my heart thumping, my mind in a turmoil. I had never had a day packed with so much excitement. I couldn't begin to imagine what the night would bring.
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 Grandpere 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 stickin-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 Grandmere 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 Grandpere 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 ills, 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 memor
ies 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.
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