Southern Ruby (22 page)

Kitty linked arms with me. ‘I'll walk with you to the streetcar stop.'

I lingered a moment, hoping against hope that Clifford might offer to come with us, and on the way say something that revealed I'd misunderstood the situation. Perhaps it was a joke between him and Jackie to pretend they were engaged. We
would laugh about it and things would go back to how they were before. But when, after saying goodbye to me, Clifford and Jackie put their arms around each other, I knew there had been no misunderstanding.

The afternoon was turning cloudy and threatening rain. The magnolia blooms that had smelled so magical that morning were closing up under the overcast sky.

‘I'm so glad you came today,' said Kitty when we reached the streetcar stop. ‘Jackie's a strong player, but you're much better company.'

I squeezed my fists so hard my nails pierced the skin of my palms. Kitty had wanted me to come today, not Clifford — I should have realised that. She was the one who had invited me.

‘But Jackie is Clifford's fiancée,' I said wearily. ‘You have to like her because he's going to marry her.'

‘It's impossible to like her!' Kitty whined. ‘She's got a degree from Newcomb College but she's as shallow as a puddle.' She squeezed my arm and grinned. ‘Anyways, today was such fun I hope Jackie's wrist stays broken forever! We'll get together for another match soon, won't we?'

I was relieved when the streetcar arrived at that moment and I had an excuse not to answer her question. I would not be playing tennis with the Lalandes again; those rich, happy-go-lucky Americans had toyed with me enough.

I sat in the dining room of our apartment in the Quarter in the fading twilight. The scratched mahogany dining table and the musty smelling velvet-upholstered chairs, which I'd managed to buy back from the pawn shop, were a world away from the Lalandes' immaculate house in the Garden District. I stared at the portraits of my ancestors on the walls, with their fine French features and their elaborate nineteenth-century clothes. The
decadence of the de Villerays was a thing of the past now and I was the one who had to deal with the harsh reality of it.

Mae came in and served me a vegetable stew with rice. ‘Are you all right, Miss Ruby? You're a little peaky in the face. I don't see how you can play tennis all day, then expect to work tonight.'

She was right, of course. But I couldn't afford not to work.

‘I'll be all right after I've eaten,' I told her, blinking hard to keep the tears from my eyes.

Mae went back to the kitchen, and I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I was trying to live too many different lives. There was Ruby the B-girl, Ruby the fallen Creole aristocrat, and Ruby the young woman who was in love with someone who didn't want her.

I picked up the threadbare table napkin and wiped my face, then turned my attention to the stew. Mae had made it the way I liked it — smoky and spicy with a liberal amount of cayenne pepper and paprika. I could hear her moving about in the kitchen, washing saucepans and getting ready to sit down for her own meal.

‘This sure is good okra, Mae,' I called. ‘Where'd you find it?'

‘Down at the French Market as usual,' she called back. ‘But now you're bringing in money from your job at the telephone exchange, I don't have to get the scraggly bits no more. “Only the freshest,” I tell Mr Goines.'

I savoured a few mouthfuls of the stew. It was the kind of comforting food I needed, as if Mae had sensed my melancholic mood and made the right meal to remedy it.

‘Mae,' I said, ‘why don't you come sit with me?'

In the kitchen, she didn't make a sound, like a little mouse that was afraid of being discovered.

‘Mae?'

‘I can't do that, Miss Ruby,' she said finally. ‘You know that. That's not my place.'

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. It was too absurd. Here I was sitting in this grand dining room by myself while Mae sat by herself in the kitchen, with only a door between us. I opened my eyes again and discovered Mae looking at me from the threshold.

‘You sure you're all right, Miss Ruby? Did something unpleasant happen today?'

Unpleasant? Well, that was one way to describe having my heart snapped into two.

Mae was wearing her black uniform and starched apron as usual. Why did she continue to dress so formally? Couldn't she see that all those rituals had collapsed around us?

I longed to unburden myself to her, to confess what I'd really been doing for work and to confide in her about Clifford. But as she couldn't bring herself to eat with me in the dining room, I couldn't bring myself to share anything with her that might cause her concern. Yet if there was one good thing that had come out of my association with the Lalandes, it was a better understanding of what coloured people had to put up with.

‘Mae, please come sit with me,' I said. ‘I feel lonely, and this is a far more pleasant place to eat than the kitchen.'

She wavered, then went back into the kitchen to return a few moments later with her stew in a plain white bowl. She would have eaten it standing up in the corner of the room if I hadn't gotten up and pulled out a chair for her. I took some silver cutlery from the sideboard and she obediently allowed me to place a linen napkin on her lap, the whole time looking as uncomfortable as a cat in a Mardi Gras outfit.

‘You know the city of New Orleans is going to desegregate soon,' I told her. ‘You're going to have to get used to it.'

‘Who's desegregating?' she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on her food. ‘I don't see how that can happen with so many folks against it.'

‘Well, Loyola Law School desegregated and they have some coloured students going there now.'

‘Hmph!' she said, taking hurried spoonfuls of her food as if she couldn't wait to finish and get out of the room. ‘All that will happen is the white students and professors will leave to go to other universities, so the coloured students may as well have stayed at a coloured college anyway. Then after all that studying, the white students will work for fancy law firms, while the coloured ones are going to end up clerks at the post office.'

Mae had accurately described how things were and I was pleased she could express herself with me. If Maman was home, she would have pretended everything was wonderful as it was.

‘But it won't stay that way,' I told her. ‘Change takes time, that's all. Sometimes you've got to start with little things. Like us now, sitting here together, no longer segregated.'

She looked at me and narrowed her eyes. ‘What nonsense you're talking tonight, Miss Ruby! This ain't a bus. I hope you don't expect me to eat with you every night? I'm a maid, and a maid's got a place.'

‘You're not a maid,' I told her. ‘Maids get a wage. I know you've been using what I've been paying you to buy me new underwear, and those rosewater soaps in the bathroom didn't come from nowhere.'

‘Figure you deserve it,' she said, turning back to her food, ‘the way you've been helping your mama.'

‘Well, don't you see, Mae? If you won't take a wage from me, then we aren't a maid and a mistress.'

She took a mouthful of stew. ‘What are we then?'

‘We're family.'

‘Hmph,' she responded, stirring her stew.

‘That's right, Mae,' I said, sitting back in my chair. ‘You're my aunt.'

Mae turned to me incredulously. Then the grooves around her mouth tightened and her eyes crinkled. She slapped her knee
and let out a laugh that was half a yelp. ‘Your aunt! Oh Lord Almighty, Miss Ruby, you kill me sometimes! You going to tell people that this Negro lady is your aunt?'

I nodded. ‘That's exactly what I'm going to tell them.'

She laughed harder and used her napkin to dry her eyes. ‘'Cause you and me, Miss Ruby, we look so much alike!' She laughed a while longer, then calmed herself and told me, ‘You'll do no such thing. People will either think you've got some colour in you and they'll shun you, or they'll think you've got a hole in your bag of marbles and put you in the nuthouse.'

I reached over and touched her arm. Her skin was warm and dry and smelled of oatmeal. She could indeed be my aunt if I closed my eyes — she was so familiar to me. ‘Aunt Mae,' I said, leaning in close, ‘truth be known, I'm a little tired of worrying about what other people might think.'

A
good entertainer gives her audience exactly what they want
, Clifford had said when he caught me making up stories as a tour guide. That evening at the Havana Club, I put on a smile and attended to my customers with as much charm as I could muster for a young woman who couldn't see a promising future for herself.

A stripped named Melody was on stage doing her mermaid number, blowing bubbles seductively at the audience while shimmying and wiggling her costume tail like a siren of the sea.

‘Why don't you perform on stage?' my customer, Earl, asked me. He was a regular at the club and always good to me. With his hooded eyes, grey sideburns and well-cut suits I imagined he was a banker who lived Uptown with a blonde wife who looked like Grace Kelly.

‘Me?' I asked, taking the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and pouring him another glass.

‘Yes, you, Miss Ruby! You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen and you've got class. You'd make a lot more money dancing than you do being a hostess.'

I looked at Melody. Out of all the dancers, she fascinated me the most. Not only did she have the most beautiful costumes, which she sewed herself; when she showed up backstage, she was the proverbial wallflower, with thick-rimmed glasses, a checked shirt-dress and plain brown court shoes. Watching her dress for her act was like watching a caterpillar morph into a butterfly. I was mesmerised by the way she painted a beautiful face onto her plain one: creating arched eyebrows above her natural ones; expanding her thin lips into a seductive pout; and winging out her eyeliner to turn herself into a goddess. The addition of a blonde wig over her mousy hair and she went from being Melody, who no-one would notice in the street, to the luminescent Golden Delilah before us on stage.

‘Earl, tell me honestly, do you look down on dancers like Golden Delilah?' I asked.

His eyebrows shot up with surprise. ‘Look down on her? That lady up there is an artist!'

‘An artist? Now that is a new way of seeing things.'

The music changed tempo and Melody wiggled her hips as she unzipped her tail and revealed her green fishnet-stockinged legs. The audience cheered her on.

‘Ruby, look around the room.' Earl waved his arm at the men who were gazing at Melody with rapture on their faces. ‘Those ladies on stage inspire us. Most of us have given up on our dreams — to be adventurers, famous sports heroes, even just to be admired by our wives. For the short time we come here, we can watch the dancers and forget our quotidian existence. You don't look down on a lady who can do that; you revere her!'

I considered what he was telling me. I knew Melody had the same mundane problems as the other strippers who performed at the club: lack of money, a husband who'd shot through, young
children and elderly parents to support. The other night, Lola had been hauled off stage and arrested for bills she hadn't paid. Her undignified exit had sent chills down my spine. As for the men in the audience, who knew what was going on in their lives? It was as if they and Melody were participating in a moment of magic, where life was fun, beautiful, cheeky and carefree. The magic was an illusion, of course. Burlesque had its erotic element, but the nudity was a trick of the eye, created by net bras and body suits. Although I'd heard that in other, bawdier clubs the girls ‘flashed', sticking pieces of fur or wool onto their net panties to make the men think they were catching a glimpse of something more.

‘Tell me you'll think about it?' Earl said to me. ‘It's a pity that a beautiful girl like you doesn't get her full due.'

‘I'll think about it,' I replied to humour him. Even though things were tamer at the Havana Club than they were at Poodle's Patio and the Hotsy Totsy, if I did any sort of suggestive or scantily clothed dancing and my mother found out, she would die of shame. In fact, I was sure that would kill her faster than her diabetes would.

‘Miss Ruby, a letter came for you yesterday,' Mae told me, leaving the envelope next to my bowl of cornmeal, which I was eating at my new breakfast time of two in the afternoon.

The sender's address and logo were printed in the top left-hand corner:
The River Road Sanatorium
. I'd been expecting the bill, and was proud of myself for having put aside five hundred dollars for the exact purpose of paying it.

‘I told you I'd look after you, Maman, and I have,' I said quietly.

As our fancy bronze letter-opener had been pawned years ago, I used a butter knife to open the envelope, took out the bill and unfolded it.

‘Holy Mother of Mercy!' I cried when I saw the amount. Stars floated up around me as if I'd received a blow to the head. Rather than the five hundred dollars I'd been expecting, the bill totalled two thousand, five hundred dollars. That was more than half the average American family's total yearly income! Even a five-star hotel wouldn't have charged that.

The cornmeal I'd eaten burned in my throat. I covered my mouth and tried to stand, but instead found myself sinking to my knees. There was no way I was going to be able to pay that amount. There were no more days left in the week that I could work, and there weren't enough customers at the Havana Club who spent big bucks on champagne. I'd milked that job for every cent I could already.

An image of Maman being dragged from her toile de Jouy–wallpapered room at the sanatorium and deposited unceremoniously at Charity Hospital stabbed at my mind. Then I pictured myself being hauled off by the police like Lola for not paying the bill.

My thoughts raced to find a solution. I could ask Doctor Monfort to use his persuasive powers to let me pay the amount in instalments, as he had with Doctor Emory for Maman's operation. But even if I did pay in instalments, I'd still have to find the money somewhere. I returned to my seat and gulped my coffee, trying to slow down my thoughts. We had one thing left to sell: the apartment. It was the final piece of de Villeray property that we owned, but what else was to be done? I'd sell it, find somewhere else for us to live, and then bring Maman home so Mae could take care of her.

Having come to that decision, I calmed down. I imagined us renting a charming Creole cottage by the river and living a simpler life. All I had to do now was find the deed to the apartment and get Maman to sign the title over to me so I could sell it.

Maman kept her important papers in the locked drawer of the escritoire, and the key in her jewellery box. There was only
one piece of jewellery left in the box — a green Peking-glass necklace that wasn't worth much — so it was easy for me to find the key. The deed was the first document I spotted after my parents' marriage certificate, but there was an attachment to it. I sat on Maman's bed and read the document carefully. Twelve months after the death of my father, Maman had transferred the title of the apartment over to Uncle Rex. Why had she done that? I'd have to see her to find out.

When I arrived at the River Road Sanatorium, Maman was in the library, reading Faulkner's
Light in August
. Her hair had been set and although the navy silk jacquard afternoon dress she wore was one she'd had for years, it still fitted her girlish figure perfectly. All those elements, along with her smooth hands and the soft afternoon light through the window that gave her a rosy glow, made her a vision of loveliness. I prayed my asking about the deed wouldn't upset her equilibrium.

‘Ruby,' she said, smiling at me. ‘Go and smell those roses by the window.'

I did as she told me, leaning out the open window and breathing in the air.

‘The scent was even stronger this morning,' she said, ‘but you can still smell them. Doesn't the fragrance remind you of apple blossoms?'

Dear Maman, every little piece of beauty gave her delight. I had no time to smell roses, or appreciate wine, or feel the texture of different fruits in my hands. I'd been working so hard that all my senses were dead. But I couldn't let her know that; I couldn't let her worry.

‘Maman, I've been getting our affairs in order before you come home. I wanted to check all our documents were together, and I noticed the deed to our apartment was signed over to Uncle Rex after Papa's death. I was wondering why you did that.'

There
, I thought,
I've said it calmly
; and without a tense note in my voice betraying the panic that was making my heart race.
For why, if Maman had entrusted him with a valuable piece of property, had Uncle Rex been unwilling to help her when she'd had her life-threatening operation?

‘Precisely because of that look on your face,' she said, taking off her reading glasses and reaching out her hands to take mine.

‘What look?' I asked, lowering myself into the seat next to her.

She touched her finger to my forehead. ‘So I'd never have to see that frown there. So you would never have to worry about money. I handed over our property to Uncle Rex because it's not right for women to concern themselves with such things. It taxes our systems. And hasn't he done a fine job, Ruby, putting me in such a lovely place until my health is restored?'

Not tax our systems? Surely my mother couldn't be serious? A faint buzzing noise started up in my head.

‘What was Uncle Rex supposed to do in exchange for the title?' I asked as casually as I could.

‘Exactly what he has been doing,' she said firmly. ‘Paying our expenses. I gave him the apartment on the agreement that he was to support us until the time of your marriage.'

I stood up and walked slowly to the window, pretending to smell the roses again so Maman wouldn't see my face twitching. All this time I'd thought Uncle Rex was being generous leaving that housekeeping money in the jar on the mantelpiece, when all he'd been doing was meagrely doling out our own money to us while we were selling things left and right to keep food on the table! What right had Aunt Elva to stop him? Surely she knew the money was ours — or did she?

‘Maman, one more question,' I said, picking a rose and bringing it to her. ‘Did you make the agreement with Uncle Rex in writing? I don't mean the transfer of title, but what he was supposed to do in return for it?'

‘Of course not,' she said indignantly, straightening her spine. ‘You don't need written documents between family.'

My stomach tightened. Could Maman really believe that? Could she be so naive?

Working as a bar girl had knocked all the Creole-belle naivety out of me. When the haughtier strippers called me a B-girl, they meant it as a put-down, but I told myself it meant ‘business girl'. And when it concerned money these days, I meant business.

A puzzled look came to Maman's face. ‘Is everything all right, Ruby?'

I smiled brightly. ‘Of course it is, Maman,' and I put my arm around her shoulders. ‘It's as I said: I wanted to make sure that everything's in order before you come home.'

‘But why the rush for me to come home?' she asked, patting my hand. ‘I'd only be a burden to you and Mae, and here they give me physiotherapy twice a day to strengthen my remaining lung. I'm more than happy to stay until the end of the year.'

Clifford's father had said his friend had survived stomach cancer because of the care at the sanatorium. How I wished I could afford the best care for Maman too. But if I didn't find a solution quickly, she was going to be out of there faster than a hot knife through butter. How could I tell her that?

Instead, I squeezed her tighter and said, ‘Maman, you know you could never be a burden to me.'

Uncle Rex and Aunt Elva lived in a 1920s Mediterranean mansion with a sweeping front lawn and a fountain garden. The house had been a wedding gift from Aunt Elva's father, who had made his money on the river. With determination tinged by a sense of uneasiness, I pressed the doorbell.

Melodious chimes rang through the air. A maid in a crisp uniform and with her hair oiled back into a tight bun answered the door. I recognised her straight away as Aunt Elva's
housekeeper, Millie. She was thicker around the hips than I remembered, but her skin was still smooth and tight.