Ruby l-1 Read online

I swallowed my tears and vanquished my throat lump so I could tell her about Grandmère Catherine, her death, Grandpère Jack's moving in and his quickly arranging for my marriage to Buster. She listened quietly, her eyes sympathetic until I finished. Then they blazed furiously.

  "That old monster," she said. "He be Papa La Bas," she muttered.

  "Who?"

  "The devil himself," she declared. "You got anything that belongs to him on you?"

  "No," I replied. "Why?"

  "Fixin'," she said angrily. "I'd cast a spell on him for you. My great-Grandmère, she was brought here a slave, but she was a mamaloa." Voodoo queen, and she hand me down lots of secrets," she whispered, her eyes wide, her face close to mine. "Ya, ye, ye Ii konin tou, gris-gris," she chanted. My heart began to pound.

  "What's that mean?"

  "Part of a voodoo prayer. If I had a snip of your Grandpère's hair, a piece of his clothing, even an old sock . . . he never be bothering you again," she assured me, her head bobbing.

  "That's all right. I'll be fine now," I said, my voice no more than a whisper either.

  She stared at me a moment. The white part of her eyes looked brighter, almost as if there were two tiny fires behind each orb. Finally, she nodded again, patted my hand reassuringly and sat back.

  "You be all right, you just don't lose that black cat bone I gave you," she told me.

  "Thank you." I let out a breath. The bus bounced and turned on the highway. Ahead of us, the road became brighter as we approached more lighted and populated areas en route to the city that now loomed before me like a dream.

  "I tell you what you do when we arrive," Annie said. "You go right to the telephone booth and look up your relatives in the phone book. Besides their telephone number, their address will be there. What's their name?"

  "Dumas," I said.

  "Dumas. Oh, honey, there's a hundred Dumas in the book, if there's one. Know any first names?"

  "Pierre Dumas."

  "Probably at least a dozen or so of them," she said, shaking her head. "He got a middle initial?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  She thought a moment.

  "What else do you know about your relatives, honey?"

  "Just that they live in a big house, a mansion," I said. Her eyes brightened again.

  "Oh. Maybe the Garden District then. You don't know what he does for a living?"

  I shook my head. Her eyes turned suspicious as one of her eyebrows lifted quizzically.

  "Who's Pierre Dumas? Your cousin? Your uncle?"

  "No. My father," I said. Her mouth gaped open and her eyes widened with surprise.

  "Your father? And he never set eyes on you before?"

  I shook my head. I didn't want to go through the whole story, and thankfully, she didn't ask for details. She simply crossed herself and muttered something before nodding.

  "I'll look in the phone book with you. My Grandmère told me, I have a mama's vision and can see my way through the dark and find the light. I'll help you," she added, patting my hand. "Only, one thing must be to make it work," she added.

  "What's that?"

  "You've got to give me a token, something valuable to open the doors. Oh, it ain't for me," she added quickly. "It's a gift for the saints to thank them for help in the success of your gris-gris. I'll drop it by the church. Whatcha got?"

  "I don't have anything valuable," I said.

  "You got any money on you?" she asked.

  "A little money I've earned selling my artwork," I told her.

  "Good," she said. "You give me a ten dollar bill at the phone booth and that will give me the power. You lucky you found me, honey. Otherwise, you'd be wanderin' around this city all night and all day. Must be meant to be. Must be I be your good gris-gris."

  And with that she laughed again and again began describing how wonderful her new life in New Orleans was going to be once her aunt got her the opportunity to sing.

  When I first saw the skyline of the city, I was glad I had found Annie Gray. There were so many buildings and there were so many lights, I felt as if I had fallen into a star laden sky. The traffic and people, the maze of streets was over-whelming and frightening. Everywhere I looked out the bus window, I saw crowds of revelers marching through the streets, all of them dressed in bright costumes, wearing masks and hats with bright feathers and carrying colorful paper umbrellas. Instead of masks, some had their faces made up to look like clowns, even the women. People were playing trumpets and trombones, flutes and drums. The bus driver had to slow down and wait for the crowds to cross at almost every corner before finally pulling into the bus station. As soon as he did so, our bus was surrounded by partygoers and musicians greeting the arriving passengers. Some were given masks, some had ropes of plastic jewels cast over their heads and some were given paper umbrellas. It seemed if you weren't celebrating Mardi Gras, you weren't welcome in New Orleans.

  "Hurry," Annie told me as we started down the aisle. As soon as I stepped down, someone grabbed my left hand, shoved a paper umbrella into my right, and pulled me into the parade of brightly dressed people so that I was forced to march around the bus with them. Annie laughed and threw her hands up as she started to dance and swing herself in behind me. We marched around as the bus driver unloaded the luggage. When Annie saw hers, she pulled me out of the line and I followed her into the station. People were dancing everywhere, and everywhere I looked, there were pockets of musicians playing Dixieland Jazz.

  "There's a phone booth," she said, pointing. We hurried to it. Annie opened the fat telephone book. I had never realized how many people lived in New Orleans. "Dumas, Dumas," she chanted as she ran her finger down the page. "Okay, here be the list. Quickly," she said, turning back to me. "Fold the ten dollar bill as tightly as you can. Go on."

  I did what she asked. She opened her purse and kept her eyes closed.

  "Just drop it in here," she said. I did so and she opened her eyes slowly and then turned to the phone book again. She did look like someone who had fallen into a trance. I heard her mumble some gibberish and then she put her long right forefinger on the page and ran it down slowly. Suddenly, she stopped. Her whole body shuddered and she closed and then opened her eyes. "It's him!" she declared. She leaned closer and nodded. "He does live in the Garden District, big house, rich." She tore off a corner of the page and wrote the address on it. It was on St. Charles Avenue.

  "Are you sure?" I asked.

  "Didn't you see my finger stop on the page? I didn't stop it; it was stopped!" she said, eyes wide. I nodded.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "You welcome, honey. Okay," she said, picking up her suitcase. "I got to get me going. You be all right now. Annie Gray said so. I'll send for you when I start singing somewhere," she said, backing away.

  "Annie don't forget you. Don't forget Annie!" she cried. Then she spun around once with her right hand high, the colorful bracelets clicking together. She threw me a wide smile as she danced her way off, falling in with a small group of revelers who marched out the door and into the street.

  I gazed at the street address on the tiny slip of paper in the palm of my hand. Did she really have some kind of prophetic power or was this incorrect, an address that would get me even more lost than I imagined? I looked back at the opened telephone book, thinking maybe I should know where the addresses for any other Pierre Dumas were, and was shocked to discover, there was only one Pierre Dumas. What sort of magic was required for this? I wondered.

  I laughed to myself, realizing I had paid for my company and entertainment. But who knew how much of what Annie had told me was true and how much wasn't? I wasn't one to be skeptical about supernatural mysteries, not with a traiteur for a grandmother.

  Slowly, I walked to the station entrance. For a moment, I just stood there gaping out at the city. I looked around and floundered, filled with trepidation. Part of me wanted to march right back to the bus. Maybe I'd be better off in Houma living with Mrs. Thibodeau or Mrs. Livaudis, I thought.
But the laughter and music from another group of revelers coming off a different bus interrupted my thoughts. When they reached me, one of them, a tall man wearing a white and black wolf mask paused at my side.

  "Are you all alone?" he asked.

  I nodded. "I just arrived."

  A light sprang into his light blue eyes, the only part of his face not hidden by the mask. He was tall with wide shoulders. He had dark brown hair and a young voice causing me to think he was no more than twenty-five.

  "So did I. But this is no night to be all alone," he said. "You're very pretty, but it's Mardi Gras. Don't you have a mask to go with that umbrella?"

  "No," I said. "Someone gave me this as soon as I got off the bus. I didn't come for the Mardi Gras. I came—"

  "Of course you did," he interrupted. "Here," he said, digging into his bag and coming up with another mask, a black one with plastic diamonds around its edges. "Put on this one and come along with us."

  "Thank you, but I've got to find this address," I said. He looked at my slip.

  "Oh, I know where this is. We won't be far from it. Come along. Might as well enjoy yourself on the way," he added. "Here, put on the mask. Everyone must wear a mask tonight. Go on," he insisted, resting his sharp gaze on me. I saw a smile form around his eyes and I took the mask.

  "Now you look like you belong," he said.

  "Do you really know this address?" I asked.

  "Of course, I do. Come on," he said, taking my hand. Perhaps Annie Gray's voodoo magic was working, I thought. I found a stranger who could take me right to my father's door. I took the stranger's hand and hurried out with him to catch up with the group. There was music all around us and people hawking food and costumes and other masks as well. The whole city had been turned into a grand fais dodo, I thought. There wasn't a sad face anywhere, or if there was, it was hidden behind a mask. Above us, people were raining down confetti from the scrolled iron balconies. Columns and columns of revelers wound around every corner. Some of the costumes the women wore were scant and very revealing. I feasted visually on everything, turning and spinning at this carnival of life: people kissing anyone who was close enough to embrace, obvious strangers hugging and clinging to each other, jugglers juggling colorful balls, sticks of fire, and even knives!

  As we danced down the street, the crowds began to swell in size. My newly found guide spun me around and threw his head back with laughter. Then he bought some sort of punch for us to drink and a poor boy shrimp sandwich for us to share. It was filled with oysters, shrimp, sliced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and sauce piquante. I thought it was delicious. Despite my nervousness and trepidation on arriving in New Orleans to meet my real family, I was having a good time.

  "Thank you. My name's Ruby," I said. I had to shout even though he was next to me. That's how loud the laughter, the music, and the shouts of others around us were. He shook his head and then brought his lips to my ear.

  "No names. Tonight, we are all mysterious," he said in a loud whisper. He followed that with a quick kiss on my neck. The feel of his wet lips stunned me for a moment. I heard his cackle and then I stepped back.

  "Thank you for the drink and the sandwich, but I've got to find this address," I said. He nodded, swallowing the rest of his drink quickly.

  "Don't you want to see the parade first?" he asked.

  "I can't. I've got to find this address," I emphasized.

  "Okay. This is the way," he told me, and before I could object, he seized my hand again and led me away from the procession of frolickers. We hurried down one street and then another before he told me we had to take a shortcut.

  "We'll go right through this alley and save twenty minutes at least. There's a mob ahead of us."

  The alley looked long and dark. It had ash cans and discarded furniture strewn through it, and there was the acrid stench of garbage and urine. I didn't move.

  "Come on," he urged, and pulled me behind him, ignoring my reluctance. I held my breath, hoping now to get through it quickly. But less than halfway through the alley, he stopped and turned to me.

  "What's wrong?" I asked, a chill so cold in my stomach it was as if I had swallowed an ice cube whole.

  "Maybe we shouldn't hurry so. We're losing the best of the night. Don't you want to have fun?" he asked, stepping closer. He put his hand on my shoulder. I stepped back quickly.

  "I've got to get to my relatives and let them know I've arrived," I said, now feeling foolish for allowing myself to be pulled into a dark alley with a stranger who wouldn't show me his face nor tell me his name. How could I have been so desperate and trusting?

  "I'm sure they don't expect you so soon on a Mardi Gras night. Tonight is a magical night. Everything is different," he said. "You're a very pretty girl." He lifted the mask from his face, but I couldn't see him well in the shadows. Before I could flee, he embraced me and pulled me to him.

  "Please," I said, struggling. "I must go. I don't want to do this."

  "Sure you do. It's Mardi Gras. Let yourself loose, abandon yourself," he told me, and pressed his lips to mine, holding me so tightly, I couldn't pull away. I felt his hands move down my back and begin to scoop up my skirt. I turned and struggled, but his long arms had mine pinned against my sides. I started to scream and he squelched it by pressing his mouth into mine. When I felt his tongue jet out and rub over mine, I gasped. His hands had found my panties and he was tugging them down as he swung me about. I felt myself growing faint. How could he keep his mouth over mine so long? Finally, he pulled his head back and I gulped air. He turned me around, pressing me toward what looked like an old, discarded mattress on the alley floor.

  "Stop!" I cried, twisting and turning to break free. "Let me go!"

  "It's party time!" he cried, and laughed that dry cackle again. But this time, as he brought his face toward me, I managed to pull my right hand out from under his arm and claw his cheeks and nose. He screamed and threw me back in a rage.

  "You bitch!" he cried, wiping his face. I cowered in the dark as he lifted his head and released another sick laugh. Had I fled from Buster Trahaw only to put myself into a worse predicament? Where was Annie Gray's magical protection now? I wondered as the stranger started toward me, a dark, dangerous silhouette, a character who had escaped from my worst nightmares to invade my reality.

  Fortunately, just as he reached out for me, a group of street celebrants turned into our alley, their music reverberating off the walls. My attacker saw them coming, lowered his mask over his face, and ran in the opposite direction, disappearing into the darkness as if he had fled back to the world of dark dreams.

  I didn't waste a moment. I scooped up my bag and ran toward the revelers, who shouted and laughed, trying to hold me back so I would join them.

  "NO!" I cried and broke loose to tear through them and out of the alley. Once onto a street, I ran and ran to get myself as far away from that alley as I could, my feet slapping the pavement so hard, my soles stung. Finally, out of breath, my shoulders heaving, my side aching, I stopped. When I looked up I was happy to see a policeman on the corner.

  "Please," I said, approaching him. "I'm lost. I just arrived and I've got to find this address."

  "Some night to come to New Orleans and get lost," he said, shaking his head. He took the slip of paper. "Oh, this is in the Garden District. You can take the streetcar. Follow me," he said. He showed me where to wait.

  "Thank you," I told him. Shortly afterward, the streetcar arrived. I gave the driver my address and he told me he would let me know when to get off. I sat down quickly, wiped my sweaty face with my handkerchief, and closed my eyes, hoping my heartbeat would slow down before I stood in my father's doorway. Otherwise, the excitement over what had already happened, and my actually confronting him would cause me to simply faint at his feet.

  When the streetcar entered what was known as the Garden District of New Orleans, we passed under a long canopy of spreading oaks and passed yards filled with camellias and magnolia trees. Here there wer
e elegant homes with garden walls that enclosed huge banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine. Each corner sidewalk was embedded with old ceramic tiles that spelled out the names of the streets. Some of the cobblestone sidewalks had become warped by the roots of old oak trees, but to me this made it even more quaint and special. These streets were quieter, fewer and fewer street revelers in evidence.

  "St. Charles Avenue," the streetcar operator cried. An electric chill surged through my body turning my legs to jelly, and for a moment, I couldn't stand up. I was almost there, face-to-face with my real father. My heart began to pound. I reached for the hand strap and pulled myself into a standing position. The side doors slapped open with an abruptness that made me gasp. Finally, I willed one foot forward and stepped down to the street. The doors closed quickly and the streetcar continued, leaving me on the walk, feeling more stranded and lost than ever, clutching my little cloth bag to my side.

  I could hear the sounds of the Mardi Gras floating in from every corner of the city. An automobile sped by with revelers hanging their heads out the windows, blowing trumpets and throwing streamers at me. They waved and cried out, but continued on their merry way while I remained transfixed, as firmly rooted as an old oak tree. It was a warm evening, but here in the city, with the streetlights around me, it was harder to see the stars that had always been such a comfort to me in the bayou. I took a deep breath and finally crossed down St. Charles Avenue toward the address on the slip of paper I now clutched like a rosary in my small hand.

  St. Charles Avenue was so quiet in comparison to the festive sounds and wild excitement on the inner city streets. I found it somewhat eerie. To me it was as if I had entered a dream, slipped through some magical doorway between reality and illusion, and found myself in my own land of Oz. Nothing looked real: not the tall palm trees, the pretty streetlights, the cobblestone walks and streets, and especial-ly not the enormous houses that looked more like small palaces, the homes of princes and princesses, queens and kings. These mansions, some of which were walled in, were set in the middle of large tracts of land. There were many beautiful gardens full of swelling masses of shining green foliage and heavy with roses and every other kind of flower one could think of.