suddenly said. "It's right off the rear entrance. They
won't bother you. To the left of the rest room is a
short stairway which goes down to the basement. The
second door on the right is the laundry room. They've
already done their laundry work for today. They do it
in the morning. So there won't be anyone there." "Are you sure?"
"I told you, I've been here ten years. I know
which clocks run slow and which run fast, what door
hinges squeak, and where there are windows without
bars on them," he added.
"Thank you Lyle."
He shrugged.
"I haven't done anything yet," he said, as if he
wanted to convince himself more than me that he
hadn't made a decision.
"You've given me hope, Lyle. That's doing a
great deal." I smiled at him. He stared at me a
moment, his rust-colored eyes blinking and then he
turned away.
"Go on," he said. "Do what I told you." I went to the female attendant and explained
that I had to go to the bathroom.
"I'll show you where it is," she said when we
returned to the door.
"1 know where it is. Thank you," I replied
quickly. She shrugged and left me. I did exactly what
Lyle said and scurried down the short flight of steps.
The laundry room was a large, long room with cement
floors and cement walls lined with washing machines,
dryers, and bins. Toward the rear were the windows
Lyle had described, but they were high up.
"Quick," I heard him say as he entered behind
me. We hurried to the back. "You just snap the hinge
in the middle and slide the window to your left," he
whispered. "It's not locked."
"How do you know that, Lyle?" I asked
suspiciously. He looked down and then up at me
quickly.
"I've been here a few times. I even went so far
as to stick my foot out, but I. . . I'm not ready," he
concluded.
"I hope you will be ready soon, Lyle." "I'll give you a boost up. Come on, before we're
missed," he said, cupping his hands together for my
foot.
"I wish you would come with me, Lyle," I said,
and put my foot into his hands. He lifted and I
clutched at the windowsill to pull myself up. Just as
he described, the latch opened easily and I slid the
window to the left. I looked down at him.
"Go on," he coached.
"Thank you, Lyle. I know how hard it was for
you to do this."
"No it wasn't," he confessed. "I wanted to help
you. Go on."
I started to crawl through the window, looking around as I did so to be sure no one was nearby. Across the lawn was a small patch of trees and beyond that, the main highway. Once I was out, I
turned and looked back in at him.
"Do you know where to go from here?" he
asked me.
"No, but I just want to get away."
"Go south. There's a bus stop there and the bus
will take you back to New Orleans. Here," he said,
digging into his pants pocket and coming up with a
fistful of money. "I don't need this in here."
He handed me the bills.
"Thank you, Lyle."
"Be careful. Don't look suspicious. Smile at
people. Act like you're just on an afternoon outing,"
he advised, telling me things I was sure he had recited
to himself a hundred times in vain.
"I'll be back to visit you someday, Lyle. I
promise. Unless you're out before then. If you are, call
me."
"I haven't used a telephone since I was six years
old," he admitted. Looking down at him in the laundry
room, I felt so sorry for him. He seemed small and
alone now, trapped by his own insecurities. "But," he
added, smiling, "if I do get out, I'll call you." "Good."
"Get going . . quickly," he said. "Remember,
look natural."
He turned and walked away. I stood up, took a
deep breath, and started away from the building.
When I was no more than a dozen or so feet from it, I
looked back and caught sight of someone on the third
floor standing in the window. A cloud moved over the
sun and the subsequent shade made it possible for me
to see beyond the glint of the glass.
It was Uncle Jean!
He looked down at me and then raised his hand
slowly. I could just make out the smile on his face. I
waved back and then I turned and ran as hard and as
fast as I could for the trees, not looking back until I
had arrived. The building and the grounds behind me
remained calm. I heard no shouting, saw no one
running after me. I had slipped away, thanks to Lyle. I
focused one more time on the window of Uncle Jean's
room, but I couldn't see him anymore. Then I turned
and marched through the woods to the highway. I went south as Lyle had directed and reached
the bus station which was just a small quick stop with
gas pumps, candies and cakes, homemade pralines
and soda. Fortunately, I had to wait only twenty minutes for the next bus to New Orleans. I bought my ticket from the young lady behind the counter and waited inside the store, thumbing through magazines and finally buying one just so I wouldn't be visible outside in case the institute had discovered I was
missing and had sent someone looking for me. I breathed relief when the bus arrived on time. I
got on quickly, but following Lyle's advice, I acted as
calmly and innocently as I could. I took my seat and
sat back with my magazine. Moments later, the bus
continued on its journey to New Orleans. We went
right past the main entrance of the institution. When it
was well behind us, I let out a breath. I was so happy
to be free, I couldn't help but cry. Afraid someone
would notice, I wiped away my tears quickly and
closed my eyes and suddenly thought about Uncle
Jean stuttering, "Jib . . . jib . . ."
The rhythm of the tires on the macadam
highway beat out the same chant: "Jib . . jib . . . jib." What was he trying to tell me? I wondered. When the New Orleans' skyline came into view,
I actually considered not returning to my home and
instead returning to the bayou. I wasn't looking
forward to the greeting I would receive from Daphne,
but then some of Grandmere Catherine's Cajun pride found its way into my backbone and I sat up straight and determined. After all, my father did love me. I was a Dumas and I did belong with him, too. Daphne
had no right to do the things she had done to me. By the time I got on the right city bus and then
changed for the streetcar and arrived at the house, I
was sure Dr. Cheryl had called Daphne and informed
her I was missing. That was confirmed for me the
moment Edgar greeted me at the door and I took one
look at his face.
"Madame Dumas is waiting for you," he said,
shifting his eyes to indicate all was not well. "She's in
the parlor." "Where's my father, Edgar?" I demanded. He shook his head first and then he replied in a
softer voice, "Upstairs, mademoiselle."
"Inform Madame Dumas that I've gone up to
see him first," I ordere
d. Edgar widened his eyes,
surprised at my insubordination.
"No, you're not!" Daphne shouted from the
parlor doorway the moment I stepped into the
entryway. "You're marching yourself right in here
first." She stood there, her arm extended, pointing to
the room. Her voice was cold, commanding. Edgar
quickly moved away and retreated through the door
that would take him through the dining room and into the kitchen, where I was sure he would make a report
to Nina.
I took a few steps toward Daphne. She kept her
arm out, her finger toward the parlor.
"How dare you try to tell me what to do and
what not to do after what you've done," I charged,
walking toward her slowly, my head high.
"I did what I thought was necessary to protect
this family," she replied coldly, lowering her arm
slowly.
"No, you didn't. You did what you thought was
necessary to get rid of me, to keep me away from my
father," I accused, meeting her furious gaze with a
furious gaze of my own. She faltered a bit at my
aggressive stance, her eyes shifting. "You're jealous of
his love for me. You've been jealous ever since I
arrived and you hate me because I remind you that he
was once more in love with someone else."
"That's ridiculous. That's just another ridiculous
Cajun--"
"Stop it!" I shouted. "Stop talking about the
Cajun people like that. You know the truth; you know
I wasn't kidnapped and sold to any Cajun family. You
have no right to act superior. Few Cajun people I've
known would stoop to do the sort of deceitful,
horrible thing you tried to do to me."
"How dare you shout at me like that?" she said,
trying to recover her superior demeanor, but her lips
quivered and her body began to tremble. "How dare
you!"
"How dare you do what you did at the
institution!" I retorted. "My father is going to hear all
about it. He's going to know the truth and . ." She smiled.
"You little fool. Go on upstairs to him. Go on
and gaze upon your savior, your father, who sits in his
brother's shrine of a room and moans and groans. I'm
thinking about having him committed soon, if you
must know. I can't go on like this."
She stepped toward me with renewed
confidence.
"Who do you think has been running things
around here? Who do you think makes this all
possible? Your weak father? Ha! What do you think
happens when he falls into one of his melancholic
states? Do you think Dumas Enterprises just sits
around and waits for him to snap out of it?
"No," she cried, stabbing herself with her
thumb so hard it made me wince, "it always falls to
me to save the day. I've been conducting business for years. Why, Pierre doesn't even know how much
money we have or where it's located."
"I don't believe you," I said, but not with as
much confidence as I had at first. She laughed. "Believe what you like. Go on. She stepped
back. "Go up to him and tell him about the horrible
thing I tried to do to you," she said, and then stepped
toward me again, lowering her voice sharply and
narrowing her eyes into hateful slits. "And I'll explain
to him and to everyone who wants or has to know
how you've been so disruptive since you arrived, you
nearly caused a fatal family crisis. I'll force the
Andreas boy to confess to your sexual games in the
art studio and have Gisselle testify to your friendship
with that whore from Storyville." Her eyes widened
and then hardened to rivet on me as she continued. "I'll have people believing you were a teenage
prostitute in the bayou. For all I know, you were." "That's a lie, a dirty, horrible lie," I cried, but
she didn't soften. Her face, the face with the alabaster
complexion and those beautiful eyes, turned into the
cold visage of a statue as she gazed down at me. "Is it?" She smiled again, a small, tight smile
that drew her lips into thin lines. "I already have Dr.
Cheryl's preliminary findings. He thinks you're obsessed with sex and will so testify if I like. And now you've gone and run away from the institution,
embarrassing us even further."
I shook my head, but there was no denying her
vicious determination to overcome my defiance. "I'm going to see Daddy," I said in almost a
whisper. "I'm going to tell him everything."
"Go on." She lunged forward and grabbed my
shoulders to turn me to the stairway. "Go on, you little
Cajun fool. Go tell your Daddy." She pushed me
toward the steps. I threw her an angry look and then
charged up the stairs, my tears flying off my cheeks. When I got to the upstairs landing, I saw the
door to Uncle Jean's room was shut tight, but I had to
get Daddy to see me; I had to get him to let me in. I
approached slowly and knocked and then pressed my
cheek to the door and sobbed.
"Daddy, please . . please, open up and let me in.
Please, let me talk to you and tell you what Daphne
did to me. I saw Uncle Jean, Daddy. I was with him.
Please," I begged. I continued to sob softly. Finally,
when he didn't open the door, I sank to the floor and
embraced myself, my shoulders heaving with my
deeper sobs. After all that had been done to me and
after my great effort to return, I was still shut out; Daphne was still victorious. I sucked in some air and let my head fall back against the door. Then I let it fall back again and again until finally the door was pulled
open and I looked up at Daddy:
His eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled.
His shirt was out of his pants and his tie was loose. He
looked like he had slept in his clothes. He had an
unshaven face.
I struggled to my feet and ground the tears out
of my eyes quickly.
"Daddy, I must talk to you," I said. He threw
me a quick glance of deepest despair. Then his
shoulders slumped and he backed into the room to let
me enter.
The candles were nearly burned out around
Uncle Jean's pictures so the room was very dimly lit.
Daddy retreated to a chair by the pictures and sat
down. His face was shadowed and hidden in the
deepening gloom.
"What is it, Ruby?" he said, speaking as though
it took all of his strength to pronounce the four words.
I rushed to him and seized his hand, falling to my
knees at his feet.
"Daddy, she took me to the institution this
morning, supposedly to see Uncle Jean for his birthday, but when we get there, she had them lock me up. She tried to have them keep me there. It was
horrible, but a nice young man helped me escape." He raised his head and gazed at me with his sad
eyes showing just a hint of surprise. He shook his
head in a bewildered fashion, the tears still eking from
beneath his lids.
"Who did this?"
"Daphne," I said. "Daphne."
"Daphne?"
"But I got to see Uncle Jean, Daddy. I sat with
him and spoke
to him."
"You did?" he asked, his interest growing.
"How is he?"
"He looks very good," I said, wiping the tears
off my cheeks with the back of my hand. "But he's
afraid of people and doesn't talk to anyone." Daddy nodded and lowered his head again. "Except, I got him to say something, Daddy." "You did?" he replied, his interest quickly
returning. "Yes. I told him to tell me something I
could bring back to you and he said 'jib.' What did he
mean, Daddy?"
"Jib? He said that?"
I nodded. Then I had to tell him the rest. "Afterward, he started to scream and held his
head in his hands. They had to take him back to his
room."
"Poor Jean," Daddy said. "My poor brother.
What have I done?" he asked in a heavy, flat voice.
One of the candles went out and a shadow came to
darken his eyes even more.
"What do you mean, Daddy? Why did he, say
'jib'? Is it what this young man sitting beside me
thought . . something to do with sailing?"
"Yes," Daddy said. He sat back, his gaze far-off
now. He looked like he could see into the past. And
then he began to speak like one in a trance. "It was a
nice day when we started out. I wasn't anxious to go at
first. Jean kept taunting me, making fun of me for
being so unathletic. 'You're as pale as a bank teller,' he
said. 'No wonder Daphne would rather spend her time
with me. Come on, get yourself into the fresh air.
Let's test those muscles and limbs.'
"Finally, I gave in and accompanied him to the
lake. The sky had already begun to change. There
were storm clouds hovering along the horizon. I
warned him about it, but he laughed and said I was
just trying to find another excuse. We started sailing. I
wasn't as ignorant about it as I pretended and I didn't like my younger brother telling me to do this or that
like some galley slave.
"He seemed particularly arrogant to me that
day. How I hated his self-confidence. Why didn't he
have any doubts about himself like I had? Why was
he so secure in the presence of women, especially
Daphne?
"The clouds mounted, expanding,
mushrooming, darkening, and the wind grew fiercer.
Our sailboat rose and fell as the water became rougher
and rougher. Every time I urged Jean to turn us back
to shore, he laughed at me for not being adventurous
enough.
"This is where we test our manhood,' he
declared. 'We look Nature in the eye and we don't
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