After the funeral most of Gisselle's old friends returned with us to the house. The first hour was quiet, but I saw how heavily Bruce was drinking and how angrily he was muttering to his few friends while he eyed Gisselle and me with a growing fury. I had explained the reason to Paul.
Suddenly Bruce dropped the glass in his hand and it shattered on the floor. The crowd of mourners stopped talking. He smiled and wobbled forward.
"What are you all looking at?" he demanded. "You don't have to whisper behind my back anymore. I know what you're thinking. I served my purpose and now I'm to be discarded, is that it?"
"Bruce," I said, stepping forward. "This isn't the time."
"No, La Ruby, this isn't the time. But if you and your sister have your way, there'll never be the time, will there? Well, all right. Enjoy what you've got now, because you won't have it forever. I've got my rights. I know I do, no matter what your high-paid attorneys say," he assured us. Everyone was speechless. Then he smiled and bowed.
"I will take my leave of this fine, upper-class gathering, for I have been informed that I am persona non grata. In short, my presence is no longer appreciated. Not that it ever was. So be it," he said, "for now." He pivoted so sharply, he almost toppled, and then started for the door, followed by two of his associates who took his arms quickly.
The chatter started again. I looked at Gisselle.
"Good riddance to him," she flared, her face red and very angry. "I don't know what he's complaining about. He got more than he deserves anyway. Beau," she suddenly cried weakly. He rushed to her side. "Wasn't that just awful?"
"Yes," he said. "He's just drunk."
"This on top of everything else. I can't stand a moment more. Please, Beau. Help me to my room," she pleaded, and he guided her out, her head on his shoulder as she muttered her apologizes to the people who had stopped by. After that, people began to leave.
"I want to go home tonight, Paul," I declared suddenly.
"Really? But I thought . ."
"I don't care about any financial arrangements, anything. I just want to go home."
He nodded. He had flown into New Orleans from Baton Rouge, so we would drive back in my car. I went up to my room to pack my suitcase. While I was doing so, I heard a gentle knock on the partially opened door.
"Yes?"
Beau stepped in. "You're going home tonight?"
"Yes, Beau. I can't stay here any longer. It's the longest I've been away from Pearl," I added.
"I'm sorry that I haven't asked you more about her. I just felt. . . like I had no right to ask," he said.
"She
is
your daughter," I reminded him.
He nodded. "I know. Paul seems to have accepted everything completely. I mean, from the short conversations we've been able to have, I think so."
"He loves Pearl, yes."
"And he loves you," Beau said.
I looked down at my suitcase without replying for a moment. "Gisselle tries to be different when she's with you. I can see that," I said. "Maybe you are good for her."
"Ruby," he said, coming closer. "The only reason I started with her again was that when I looked at her, I could pretend, imagine, I was looking at you. I have this dream that I can make her into you, but it's a foolish dream. There can't be another you and I can't stand the thought that I've lost you and the life we might have had together."
Tears came to my eyes, but I didn't turn around so he could see them. I swallowed down the throat lump and completed my packing, only muttering, "Don't, Beau. Please."
"I can't help it, Ruby. I'll never stop loving you, and if it means I have to live forever with an illusion, then that's what do."
"Beau, illusions die quickly and leave us far worse off than if we had faced reality," I warned.
"I can't face a reality without you, Ruby. I know that now."
We heard footsteps on the stairway. I snapped my suitcase closed just as Paul came to the door.
"The car's ready," he said, looking suspiciously from Beau to me.
"Good. Good-bye, Beau. You must try to come to the bayou soon."
"Yes, I will."
"I'll just say good-bye to Gisselle, Paul."
"Fine," he said, and took my suitcase.
"I'll go down with you, Paul," Beau said. As the two of them headed for the stairway, I went to Gisselle's room. She was lying on the bed with a damp washcloth over her forehead.
"I'm leaving now, Gisselle," I said.
Her eyes fluttered open as if she weren't sure she had heard a real voice. "What? Is that you, Ruby?"
"Yes. I'm leaving for Cypress Woods tonight."
"Why?" she asked sitting up, suddenly rejuvenated. "We'll have a big breakfast tomorrow and maybe the four of us will do something that's fun for a change."
"I've got to get back to Pearl, and Paul has a lot of business to tend to," I said.
"Oh, pooh on all that. You just want to run away from all this sadness and ugliness with Bruce," she accused.
"Yes, that, too," I admitted.
Her expression softened and then her lips quivered. "What will become of me?" she cried.
"You have Beau now," I said. "You will do just fine."
"Yes," she said, pulling her face into a full, gleeful smile. "I guess I will."
I turned and hurried away, my heart pounding. How she enjoyed reminding me I had lost Beau again.
8
From Bad to Worse
.
During our ride back to the bayou, Paul tried to
make small talk and then he tried to get me excited about some new things that were happening not only in our business, but also in politics. I listened with half an ear, filling every silence between us with the sound of Beau's voice, and filling every dark mile along the way with the images of Beau smiling, talking, gazing at me with that look of anguish in his eyes and yes, that look of love.
I tried to keep myself busy and not think about him during the days immediately following our New Orleans trip, but for the first few days I couldn't get myself to draw a line. I would just stare at the blank paper and think about my studio in New Orleans and Beau. I tried sketching and painting animals, flowers, trees, everything and anything but people, for I knew that every man I would envision would be a man who had Beau's hair, Beau's eyes, Beau's mouth.
What made it even worse was gazing at Pearl, who had developed more distinct facial features and had begun to look more like Beau. Maybe it was just that I was seeing him everywhere since the funeral, but when Pearl laughed and smiled, I heard Beau's laugh and saw his smile.
One afternoon a few weeks after we had returned from Daphne's funeral, I sat on the patio and tried to read a book while Mrs. Flemming played with Pearl on the grass. It was one of those rare days in the bayou when there was barely a breeze and the clouds looked pasted against the soft blue sky. It made everyone feel lazy. Even the birds barely flitted from tree to tree. They sat quietly on branches, looking more like stuffed animals. From off in the distance, I could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of one of our oil drills and occasionally the voices of the men shouting things to each other. But other than that, it was very quiet so that Pearl's laughter rippled over the grass toward the canals, a tiny tinkle of a laugh, making me feel we were all in a toy world.
Suddenly James came rushing out of the house carrying a large envelope.
"This was just brought special delivery for you, madame," he said excitedly, and handed it to me.
"Thank you, James."
He nodded and left while I undid the fastener and pulled a newspaper out of the envelope. Mrs. Flemming gazed at me curiously and I shrugged.
"It's just a New Orleans newspaper, two days old," I said. I gazed at it, wondering why it had been sent special delivery, when I saw that an inside page had been marked with a bright red clip. I opened to the page and gazed at a circled story. It was a wedding announcement, describing the marriage of Beau Andreas to Gisselle Dumas. They had eloped.
I reread the story to confirm that the words actually said what I thought they said, and for a moment it felt as if the air around me had been sucked away. I couldn't breathe; I couldn't swallow, and I was afraid if I tried too hard, I would gag and turn blue. My heart seemed to sink deeper into my chest, making me feel empty and cold inside.
"Something not unpleasant, I hope," Mrs. Flemming said.
I stared at her for a moment and then found my voice. "My sister . . . she eloped," I said.
"Oh. With a nice young man?"
"Yes. A very nice young man," I said. "I have to go upstairs for a moment," I added, and rose quickly so I could turn and walk away before any tears showed themselves on my cheeks. I charged through the house and up the stairs and threw myself on my bed, where I buried my face in my pillow. Of course, I knew that this might happen, but I had lived with the wish that Beau would come to his senses and not succumb. Now some of his last words spoken to me returned, words that had suggested otherwise.
I can't help it, Ruby. I'll never stop loving you, and if it means I have to live forever with an illusion, then that's what I'll do.
Apparently he had decided to do it. Could I be happy knowing that every time he kissed my sister's lips, he closed his eyes and made himself believe he was kissing mine? That every time he woke in the morning and gazed at her face, he convinced himself he was gazing at me? He was in love with me; he would always be in love with me. I knew that Gisselle thought she had achieved some sort of victory by winning him back and getting him to marry her, although in her heart she must know that it was a shallow victory, and that he was using her like some magic mirror into which he could gaze and see the woman he really loved.
But Gisselle didn't care. She didn't care about anything but making me unhappy even if it meant marrying someone she didn't really love, not that she could love anyone but herself, I thought. I tried to be more angry than sad, but my broken heart wouldn't permit it. I cried so hard, my ribs ached and my tears soaked my pillow. When I heard a knock on my doorjamb, I choked back my sobs and turned to see Paul standing there, his face dark and troubled.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing. I'll be fine," I said, and quickly wiped the tears away with the back of my hand. He stood there staring.
"It was this, wasn't it?" he said, bringing the newspaper around from behind his back. "I found it where you dropped it in the hallway. You don't have to answer," he followed quickly, his face red with frustration and fury. "I know how much you still love him."
"Paul. . ."
"No, I realize it's not something I can make disappear with my money. I can build you a house twice as big as this one on twice as much acreage and fill it with things ten times as expensive and you will still mope about, dreaming of Beau Andreas." He sighed, his shoulders lifting and falling. "I thought I could substitute devotion and security for romantic love, but I was a fool to think so. Mother was right after all," he moaned.
"I'm over it, Paul," I said determinedly. "He's married my sister and that's that."
His face brightened. "That's the way you should feel," he said, nodding. "He didn't come for you and the baby while you were living here in your grandmere's shack, did he?"
"No," I said sadly.
"And he never even inquired about your wellbeing afterward. He's just as self-centered as your sister. They belong together. I'm right, aren't I?"
I nodded reluctantly.
He smirked. "But that doesn't mean you don't love him, does it?" he asked in a tired and defeated tone of voice.
"Love is something . . . you can't control sometimes," I said.
"I know," he replied. "I'm glad you think so, too." We stared at each other for a moment. Then he put the newspaper on the dresser and left.
I sat by my window thinking that Paul and I had more in common now than ever before. Both of us were in love with people we couldn't love the way we wanted to, the way we should love. I sighed just as deeply as he had sighed and then I took the newspaper and threw it in the nearest garbage can.
Despite Paul's and my desperate attempts to cheer each other up, a pall fell over Cypress Woods during the days that followed. The shadows seemed darker and longer, and the rain more persistent, heavier, gloomier than ever. I retreated to my work. I wanted to leave the real world and live in the world I was creating with my paintings. I continued painting the series of pictures of the Confederate soldier and his lover, but my next painting was a very melancholy one. In it I depicted the soldier being carried out of the wooded battlefield on a stretcher. He looked like Beau, of course, and on his lips one could almost read his call for me. . . Ruby. He had that far-off, dreamy look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who had focused on the woman he loved with all his strength, knowing that in moments the light would go out and he would lose her face, her voice, the scent of her hair and the touch of her lips, in the darkness forever and ever.
I actually sobbed while I painted, the tears dripping off my cheeks, and when I was finished, I sat in the window seat and gazed out at the canals, embracing myself and crying like a baby.
My next picture depicted his lover getting the terrible news. Her face was twisted with agony, her hands wrenching a handkerchief in them while a pocket watch he had given her dangled from her fingers. The messenger looked just as sad as she did, with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.
I did both pictures in darker shades and had the Spanish-moss-laden cypress either in the background or off to the side. I decided to paint the outline of gleeful Death in the cobweblike strands.
When Paul saw the pictures the first time, he said nothing. His eyes narrowed and then he walked to the window and gazed out over our beautifully landscaped gardens and hedges toward the canals where we used to pole in a pirogue together and talk about the sort of man and woman we wanted to be when we were adults living on our own.
"I've put you in a different sort of prison," he said sadly. "I've done a terrible thing."
"No you haven't, Paul. You've only tried to do the best things for Pearl and me. Don't blame yourself for anything. I won't hear of it."
He turned around, his face darker and more despondent than I had ever seen it.
"I wanted only for you to be happy, Ruby."
"I know that," I said, smiling.
"But I feel like the man who captured the beautiful mockingbird and put it in a cage in his house, giving it the best things to eat and the most loving attention he could. Even so, he woke up one morning and found it had died of a broken heart, its eyes turned toward the window and the freedom it had known and needed. It's true, you can love too much."
"I don't mind being loved too much," I said. "Please, Paul, I don't want you to be sad because of anything I say or do. I'll throw these pictures away."
"Oh no. They are some of your best work. Don't you dare!" he exclaimed. "You're going to become famous because of this series."
"It's almost more important to you than it is to me that I become a well-known artist, isn't it?" I asked.
"Of course. 'Wild Cajun artist captures the minds and imaginations of the sophisticated art world," " he announced, and drew the headlines in the air.
I laughed.
"Let's have a nice dinner tonight, a special dinner, and then go listen to some zydeco music. We haven't done that for quite a while," he suggested.
"Fine."
"Oh," he said on the way out, "did I tell you? I bought some more property this morning."
"What property?"
"All the land south of us to the canals. We're now the biggest landowners in all Terrebone Parish. Not bad for two swamp rats, huh?" he said proudly. He laughed and went down to tell Letty to do something special for us for dinner. Just before I went down to dinner, however, I received a phone call from Gisselle.
"I've been waiting for you to call me," she began, "to congratulate me on my marriage."
"Congratulations," I said.
"Sounds like sour grapes."
"It's not. If Beau wanted to marry you and you wanted to marry him, then I wish you both health and happiness."
"We're the most exciting couple in New Orleans again, you know. Everyone's inviting us to dinner parties, and when we walk into restaurants, everyone stops eating to watch us take our seats. We're a very handsome couple and quite famous. Our names and pictures are always in the society pages. Beau says we should attend as many charity functions as we can. It looks good and he feels he's doing something important. I don't mind, although I can't remember one from the other, so don't ask me."
"What is Beau doing?" I asked as casually as I could.
"Doing? What do you mean?"
"With his life. He once wanted to be a doctor, remember?"
"Oh, he's too busy looking after my affairs now. He's a businessman and he'll make more money than he would being a doctor anyway. And don't say he's too young. Look at how well Paul has done," she added quickly.
"He used to talk about helping people, healing people, and how rewarding he thought that might be," I said sadly.
"So? Now he's helping and healing me, and that's quite rewarding for him, too," Gisselle responded. "Well, I've got to go. We have so many affairs to attend, I'm running out of clothes to wear. I have an appointment with a designer later. I think I should be wearing originals, don't you? Of course, you're lucky. The only place you have to go is some shack bar and restaurant, so you don't have to worry about looking stylish. Say hello to Paul. 'Bye," she sang, and hung up the phone.
I felt like smashing my receiver against the wall, but swallowed back the knot of frustration in my throat and hung up gently. Then I took a deep breath and went to join Paul, driving Gisselle's voice and words as far down into the basement of my thoughts as I could.
But a week later, Paul came up to my studio to tell me Beau had just phoned.
"He says your attorneys have completed all the work on the estate and he would like to meet with us to go over everything. I thought it would be convenient to have them come here."
"Here? You invited them to Cypress Woods?"
"Yes. Why? Are you upset about it?"
"No, I'm not upset. I . . Wait until he mentions it to Gisselle," I said. "He'll be calling back," I assured him.
But Beau didn't call back. He and Gisselle were coming and Beau would finally set eyes on his own daughter.
They drove up in Daddy's Rolls-Royce. I was pruning in the rose garden, doing everything and anything I could to keep busy and keep from thinking. Mrs. Flemming was on the other side of the house with Pearl. I had made sure that Pearl was dressed in one of her prettiest outfits and her hair was brushed and tied with a little pink bow. Of course, Mrs. Flemming didn't know who Beau really was, but she could tell from my excitement and nervousness that he was a special visitor.
Paul had gone to the cannery for what he promised was only a short visit, but he had not yet returned when I heard the car horn and turned to see the familiar luxurious automobile make its way up our long driveway. I took off my gloves and walked out to greet them.
"Where are your servants?" Gisselle demanded haughtily. "They should be right here when a guest arrives."
"Things aren't as formal in the bayou, Gisselle," I said. I turned to Beau. "Hello, Beau, how are you?"
"Fine," he said. "This is . . . magnificent. Gisselle's descriptions didn't do it justice," he added, looking around and nodding. "It's one of those places you have to see for yourself to really appreciate. I can see why you're happy here, Ruby," he added.
"Of course she's happy. She has a modern home and yet she lives in her beloved swamp," Gisselle said. James appeared in the doorway. "That's your butler, right? What's his name?"
"James," I said.
"James," she called immediately. "Will you get our bags from the trunk? I need to freshen up as soon as possible. The long ride and the swamp heat has turned my hair into steel wool."
James gazed at me and I nodded.
"Very well, madame," he said. I had already told him which guest room they would be using.
"I can't wait to be shown around," Beau said, his eyes fixed on me.
"I've seen the place," Gisselle said. "So I'll go right to our suite. We do have a suite, don't we?"
"Of course," I said. "Right this way."
"We'll be here just one night. Beau has brought all the paperwork and documents for you to sign, right, Beau?" "Yes," he said, his eyes still fixed on me.
"I want to get it over with as soon as possible so I don't have to make any more trips out to the swamps," she added, reprimanding Beau with a sharp look.
"We'll do whatever we have to do to move things along to everyone's satisfaction, I'm sure," I said.
"You sound just like Daphne. Doesn't she, Beau? Don't become a snobby rich woman, dear sister," she warned, and then threw her head back to laugh. I looked at Beau, who smiled softly and shook his head.
"All right, James. Lead the way," Gisselle commanded, and we all walked into the house.
Beau exclaimed his awe at the size of the foyer, the woodwork and the chandeliers. The more he complimented me on the house, the more irritated Gisselle grew.
"You have been in finer houses in the Garden District, Beau. I don't know why you're pretending to be so impressed."
"I'm not pretending,
cherie,"
he said softly. "You must give Ruby and Paul credit for building a very dramatic house in the bayou."
"Don't you just love it when he uses French?" Gisselle squealed. "All right. I'll admit this is quite a shack," she said, and laughed. "James? Where is he?"
"Waiting for you with your things at the top of the stairway, Gisselle," I said, nodding toward it.
"Oh. Don't you have a maid, too?"
"All of my servants will be at your beck and call," I assured her. She smirked and started up the stairway.