Landry 02 Pearl in the Mist (23 page)

hand and closing her eyes. "Beau, get out. I used to
think a great deal more of you, but obviously you're
just like any other young man.. . . You can't pass up
the promise of a good time, no matter what the
circumstances."
"That's not so. We were just talking, making
plans."
She smiled icily. "I wouldn't make any plans
that included my daughter," she said. "You know how
your parents feel about your being with her anyway,
and when they hear about this . . ."
"But we didn't do anything," he insisted. "You're lucky I didn't wait a few more
moments. She might have had you with your clothes
off, pretending to be drawing you again," she said.
Beau flushed so crimson I thought he would have a
nosebleed.
"Just go, Beau. Please," I begged him. He
looked at me and then started for the door. Daphne
stepped aside to let him pass. He turned to look back
once more and then shook his head and hurried away
and down the stairs. Then Daphne turned back to me. "And you almost broke my heart down there
before, pleading to have me let you attend the wake . .
. like you really cared," she added, and closed the
door between us, the click sounding like a gunshot
and making my heart stop. Then it started to pound
and was still pounding when Gisselle opened the door
a few moments later.
"Sorry," she said. "I just turned my back for a
moment to get something, and the next thing I knew,
she was charging up the stairs and past me." I stared at her. It was on the tip of my tongue to
ask if the truth wasn't that she really had made herself
quite visible so Daphne would know she and Beau
had come up, but it didn't matter. The damage was
done, and if Gisselle was responsible or not, the result
was the same. The distance between Beau and me had
been stretched a little farther by my stepmother, who
seemed to exist for one thing: to make my life
miserable.
Daddy's funeral was as big as any funeral I had
ever seen, and the day seemed divinely designed for
it: low gray clouds hovering above, the breeze warm
but strong enough to make the limbs of the sycamores
and oaks, willows and magnolias wave and bow along
the route. It was as if the whole world wanted to pay
its last respects to a fallen prince. Expensive cars lined
the streets in front of the church for blocks, and there
were droves of people, many forced to stand in the
doorway and on the church portico. Despite my anger
at Daphne, I couldn't help but be a little in awe of her,
of the elegant way she looked, of the manner in which
she carried herself and guided Gisselle and me through the ceremony, from the house to the church to
the cemetery.
I wanted so much to feel something intimate at
the funeral, to sense Daddy's presence, but with
Daphne's eyes on me constantly and with the
mourners staring at us as if we were some royal
family obligated to maintain the proper dignity and
perform according to their expectations, I found it
hard to think of Daddy in that shiny, expensive coffin.
At times, even I felt as if I were attending some sort of
elaborate state show, a public ceremony devoid of any
feeling.
When I did cry, I think I cried as much for
myself and for what my world and life would now be
without the father Grandmere Catherine had brought
back to me with her final revelations. This precious
gift of happiness and promise had been snatched away
by jealous Death, who always lingered about us,
watching and waiting for an opportunity to wrench us
away from all that made him realize how miserable
his own destiny was eternally to be. That was what
Grandmere Catherine had taught me about Death, and
that was what I now so firmly believed.
Daphne shed no tears in public. She seemed to
falter only twice: once in the church, when Father McDermott mentioned that he had been the one to marry her and Daddy; and then at the cemetery, just before Daddy's body was interred in what people from New Orleans called an oven. Because of the high water table, graves weren't dug into the ground, as they were in other places. People were buried above ground in cement vaults, many with their family crests
embossed on the door.
Instead of sobbing, Daphne brought her silk
handkerchief to her face and held it against her mouth.
Her eyes remained focused on her own thoughts, her
gaze downward. She took Gisselle's and my hand
when it was time to leave the church, and once again
when it was time to leave the cemetery. She held our
hands for only a moment or two, a gesture I felt was
committed more for the benefit of the mourners than
for us.
Throughout the ceremony, Beau remained back
with his parents. We barely exchanged glances.
Relatives from Daphne's side of the family stayed
closely clumped together, barely raising their voices
above a whisper, their eyes glued to our every move.
Whenever anyone approached Daphne to offer his or
her final condolences, she took his hands and softly
said
"Merci beaucoup."
These people would then turn to us. Gisselle imitated Daphne perfectly, even to the point of intoning the same French accent and holding their hands not a split second longer or shorter than
Daphne had. I simply said "Thank you," in English. As if she expected either Gisselle or me to say
or do something that would embarrass her, Daphne
observed us through the corner of her eye and listened
with half an ear, especially when Beau and his parents
approached us. I did hold onto Beau's hand longer
than I held onto anyone else's, despite feeling as if
Daphne's eyes were burning holes in my neck and
head. I was sure Gisselle's behavior pleased her more
than mine did, but I wasn't there to please Daphne; I
was there to say my last goodbye to Daddy and thank
the people who really cared, just as Daddy would
have wanted me to thank them: warmly, without
pretension.
Bruce Bristow remained very close by,
occasionally whispering to Daphne and getting some
order from her. When we had arrived at the church, he
offered to take my place and wheel Gisselle down the
church aisle. He was there to wheel her out and help
get her into the limousine and out of it at the
cemetery. Of course, Gisselle enjoyed the extra
attention and the tender loving care, glancing up at me
occasionally with that self-satisfied grin on her lips. The highlight of the funeral came at the very
end, just as we were approaching the limousine for
our ride home. I turned to my right and saw my half
brother, Paul, hurrying across the cemetery. He broke
into a trot to reach us before we got into the car. "Paul!" I cried. I couldn't contain my surprise
and delight at the sight of him. Daphne pulled herself
back from the doorway of the limousine and glared
angrily at me. Others nearby turned as well. Bruce
Bristow, who was preparing to transfer Gisselle from
her chair into the car, paused to look up when Gisselle
spoke.
"Well, look who's come at the last moment,"
she said.
Even though it had only been months, it seemed
ages since Paul and I had seen each other. He looked
so much more mature, his face firmer. In his dark blue
suit and tie, he appeared taller and wider in the
shoulders. The resemblances in Paul's, Gisselle's, and
my face could be seen in his nose and cerulean eyes,
but his hair, a mixture of blond and brown--what the
Cajuns called
chatin--was
thinner and very long. He
brushed back the strands that had fallen over his
forehead when he broke into a trot to reach me before
I got into the limousine.
Without saying a word, he seized me and
embraced me.
"Who is this?" Daphne demanded. The final
mourners who were leaving the cemetery turned to
watch and listen, too.
"It's Paul," I said quickly. "Paul Tate." Daphne knew about our half brother, but she
refused to acknowledge him or ever make any
reference to him. She had no interest in hearing about
him the one time he had come to see us in New
Orleans. Now she twisted her mouth into an ugly
grimace.
"I am sorry for your sorrow, madame," he said.
"I came as quickly as I could," he added, turning back
to me when she didn't respond. "I didn't find out until
I called the school to speak with you and one of the
girls in your dorm told me. I got into my car right
away and drove straight to the house. The butler gave
me directions to the cemetery."
"I'm glad you've come, Paul," I said.
"Can we all get into the car and go home,"
Daphne complained, "or do you intend to stand in a
cemetery and talk all day?"
"Follow us to the house," I told him, joining Gisselle. "He looks very handsome," she whispered after we were seated. Daphne just glared at the two of
us.
"I don't want any more visitors in the house
today," Daphne declared when we turned into the
Garden District. "Visit with your half brother outside
and make it short. I want the two of you to start
packing your things to return to school tomorrow." "Tomorrow?" Gisselle cried.
"Of course, tomorrow."
"But that's too soon. We should stay home at
least another week out of respect for Daddy." Daphne smiled wryly. "And what would you do
with this week? Would you sit and meditate, pray and
read? Or would you be on the telephone with your
friends, having them come over daily?"
"Well, we don't have to turn into nuns because
Daddy died," Gisselle retorted.
"Precisely. You'll go back to Greenwood
tomorrow and resume your studies. I've already made
the arrangements," Daphne said.
Gisselle folded her arms under her breasts and
sat back in a sulk. "We should run away," she
muttered. "That's what we should do."
Daphne overheard and smiled. "And where would you run to, Princess Gisselle? To your halfwitted uncle Jean in the institution?" she asked, glancing at me. "Or would you join your sister and return to the paradise in the swamps, to live with
people who have crawfish shells stuck in their teeth?" Gisselle turned away and gazed out the
window. For the first time all day, tears flowed from
her eyes. I wished I could think it was because she
really missed Daddy now, but I knew she was crying
simply because she was frustrated with the prospect of
returning to Greenwood and having her visit with her
old friends cut short.
When we arrived at the house, she was too
depressed even to visit with Paul. She let Bruce put
her into the chair and take her in without saying
another word to me or to Daphne. Daphne gazed back
at me from the doorway when Paul drove in behind
us.
"Make this short," she ordered. "I'm not fond of
all sorts of Cajuns coming to the house." She turned
her back on me and went inside before I could
respond.
I went to Paul as soon as he emerged from his
vehicle and threw myself into his comforting arms.
Suddenly, all the sorrow and misery I had been containing within the confines of my battered heart broke free. I sobbed freely, my shoulders shaking, my face buried in his shoulder. He stroked my hair and kissed my forehead and whispered words of consolation. Finally I caught my breath and pulled back. He had a handkerchief ready and waiting to
wipe my cheeks, and he let me blow my nose. "I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't help it, but I
haven't really been able to cry for Daddy since I came
home from school. Daphne's made things so hard for
all of us. Poor Paul," I said, smiling through my tearsoaked eyes. "You have to be the one to endure my
flood of tears."
"No. I'm glad I was here to bring you any
comfort. It must have been horrible. I remember your
father well. He was so young and vibrant when I last
saw him, and he was very kind to me, a real Creole
gentleman. He was a man with class. I understood
why our mother would have fallen in love with him so
deeply."
"Yes. So did I." I took his hand and smiled. "Oh
Paul, it's so good to see you." I looked at the front
door and then turned back to him. "My stepmother
won't let me have visitors in the house," I said,
leading him to a bench over which was an arch of roses. "She's sending us back to Greenwood
tomorrow," I told him after we had sat down. "So soon?"
"Not soon enough for her," I said bitterly. I took
a deep breath. "But don't let me focus only on myself.
Tell me about home, about your sisters, everyone." I sat back and listened as he spoke, permitting
myself to fall back through time. When I lived in the
bayou, life was harder and far poorer, but because of
Grandmere Catherine, it was much happier. Also, I
couldn't help but miss the swamp, the flowers and the
birds, even the snakes and alligators. There were
scents and sounds, places and events I recalled with
pleasure, not the least of which was the memory of
drifting in a pirogue toward twilight, with nothing in
my heart but mellow contentment. How I wished I
was back there now.
"Mrs. Livaudais and Mrs. Thirbodeaux are still
going strong," he said. "I know they miss your
grandmere." He laughed. It sounded so good to my
ears. "They know I've kept in contact with you,
although they don't come right out and say so. Usually
they wonder aloud in my presence about Catherine
Landry's Ruby."
"I miss them. I miss everyone."
"Your grandpere Jack is still living in the house
and still, whenever he gets drunk, which is often,
digging holes and looking for the treasure he thinks
your grandmere buried to keep from him. I swear, I
don't know how he stays alive. My father says he's
part snake. His skin does look like he's been through a
tannery, and he comes slithering out of shadows and
bushes when you least expect him."
"I almost ran away and returned to the bayou," I
confessed.
"If you ever do . . . I'll be there to help you,"
Paul said. "I'm working as a manager in our canning
factory now," he added proudly. "I make a good
salary, and I'm thinking of building my own house." "Oh Paul, really?" He nodded. "Have you met
someone then?"
His smile faded. "No."
"Have you tried?" I pursued. He turned away.
"Paul?"
"It's not easy finding someone to compare to
you, Ruby. I don't expect it to happen overnight." "But it has to happen, Paul. It should. You
deserve someone who can love you fully. You deserve
a family of your own someday too."