"I like to have a personal relationship with each of my Greenwood girls," she began. "Our school is special in that we do not, as most public schools are prone to do, treat the students as if they were numbers, statistics. And so, I would like each of you," she said, "to introduce yourself to me and tell me a little about yourself. And then I will tell you why I decided a long time ago to ensure that Greenwood continues, and what I hope will be accomplished there now and in the years to follow." She had a firm, hard voice, as deep as a man's at times. "Afterward," she continued, "tea will be served."
She finally softened her expression, even though it was more of a grimace to me than a true warm smile.
"Who would like to begin?" she asked. No one spoke up. Then she fixed her gaze on me. "Well, since we're all so shy, why don't we start with the twins, just so we won't make any mistakes as to who is who."
"I'm the crippled one," Gisselle declared with a smirk. There was an unheard gasp, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Mrs. Clairborne turned to her slowly.
"I hope only physically," she said.
Gisselle's face filled with blood and her mouth fell open. When I looked at Mrs. Penny, I saw she wore an expression of satisfaction. Mrs. Clairborne was heroic in her eyes, and she couldn't be put off balance. I imagined girls a lot smarter than Gisselle had tried and found themselves just as she found herself right now: eating her own words.
"I'm Ruby Dumas and this is my sister, Gisselle." I started quickly so I could fill the embarrassing silence. "We're seventeen years old and we're from New Orleans. We live in what is known as the Garden District. Our father is an investor in real estate."
Mrs. Clairborne's eyes grew small. She nodded slowly, but she studied me so intently I felt I was sitting on a mound of swamp mud and slowly sinking.
"I'm quite familiar with the Garden District, a most beautiful area of the city. There was a time," she said a bit wistfully, "when I used to go to New Orleans quite often." She sighed and then turned to Abby, who described where she and her family now lived and her father's work as an accountant.
"You have no brothers or sisters then?"
"No, madame."
"I see." She sighed again, deeply. "Are you all comfortable in your rooms?"
"They're small," Gisselle complained.
"You don't find them cozy?"
"No, just small," Gisselle insisted.
"Perhaps that's because of your unfortunate condition. I'm sure Mrs. Penny will do everything she can to make you as comfortable as can be while you are attending Greenwood," Mrs. Clairborne said, gazing at Mrs. Penny, who nodded.
"And I'm sure you will find Greenwood a wonderful place in which to be educated. I always say our students come here as little girls and leave as young women, not only highly educated, but morally strengthened.
"I feel," she continued, her face thoughtful, still, "that Greenwood is one of the last bastions of the moral fiber that once made the South the true capital of gentility and grace. Here you girls will get a sense of your tradition, your heritage. In other places, especially in the Northeast and the West, radicals are invading every aspect of our culture, thinning it out, diluting what was once pure cream and turning it into skim milk."
She sighed.
"There is so much immorality and such a lack of respect for what was once sacred in our lives. That comes only when we forget who and what we are, from where we have evolved. Do you all understand?"
None of us spoke. Gisselle looked overwhelmed. I gazed at Abby, who returned my glance quickly with a knowing look.
"Oh well, enough of this deep, philosophical chatter," Mrs. Clairborne said and then nodded toward the doorway, where two maids stood, waiting for the signal to bring in the tea, cakes, and pralines. The conversation became lighter. Gisselle, after a little urging, told the story of her accident, putting the blame entirely on faulty brakes. I described my love of art, and Mrs. Clairborne suggested I look over some of the paintings in the hallways. Abby was the, most reticent to talk about herself, of course, something I saw that Mrs. Clairborne noticed but didn't pursue.
About midway through our tea, I asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, and Otis directed me to the closest one, which was on the west side of the house. As I was coming out, I heard piano music coming from a room farther down the corridor. It was so beautiful I was drawn toward it, and I looked through, a doorway that opened to a beautiful sitting room, behind which was a patio that opened to the gardens. But to the right of the patio door was a grand piano, the top up so that at first I couldn't see much of the young man who was playing. I took a step in and to the right to see more, and I listened.
Dressed in a white cotton shirt with a buttoned-down collar and dark blue slacks was a slim young man with dark brown hair, the strands thin and loose so that they fell over the sides of his head and over his forehead, settling over his eyes. But he didn't seem to mind—or to notice anything, for that matter. He was so lost in his music, his fingers floating over the keys as if his hands were independent creatures and he was just as much an observer and listener as I was.
Suddenly he stopped playing and spun around on the stool to turn toward me. However, his eyes shifted to my right, as if he were looking not at me but at someone behind me. I had to turn around myself to be sure I hadn't been followed.
"Who's there?" he asked, and I realized he was blind.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"My name's Ruby. I'm here for Mrs. Clairborne's tea."
"Oh. One of the greenies," he said disdainfully, the corners of his mouth dipping. Otherwise he had a strong, sensuous mouth, with a perfectly straight nose and a smooth forehead that barely wrinkled even when he smirked.
"I'm not one of the `greenies," I retorted. "I'm Ruby Dumas, a new student."
He laughed, folding his arms across his narrow torso, and sat back.
"I see. You're an individual."
"That's right."
"Well, my grandmother and my cousin Margaret, whom you know as Mrs. Ironwood, will see to it that you lose that independent spirit soon enough and become a proper daughter of the South, stepping only where you should step, saying only what you should say—and saying it properly—and," he added with a laugh, "thinking only what you should think."
"No one will tell me what to say and think," I replied defiantly. He didn't laugh this time, but he held his smile for a moment and then grew serious.
"There's a different sound in your voice, an accent I detect. Where are you from?"
"New Orleans," I said, but he shook his head.
"No, before that. Come on, I can hear things more clearly, more distinctly. Those consonants . . . Let me think . . . You're from the bayou, aren't you?"
I gasped at his accurate ears. He put up his hand. "Wait . . . I'm an expert on regional intonations.″
"I'm from Houma," I confessed.
He nodded. "A Cajun. Does my grandmother know your true background?"
"She might. Mrs. Ironwood knows."
"And she permitted you to enroll?" he asked with sincere surprise.
"Yes. Why wouldn't she?"
"This is a school for pure bloods. Usually, if you're not a Creole from one of the finest Creole families . . ."
"But I am that too," I said.
"Oh? Interesting. Ruby Dumas, huh?"
"Yes. And who are you?" He was hesitant. "You play beautifully," I said quickly.
"Thank you, but I don't play. I cry, I scream, I laugh through my fingers. The music just happens to be my words, the notes my letters." He shook his head. "Only another musician, a poet or an artist, would understand."
"I understand. I'm an artist," I said.
"Oh?"
"Yes. I have even sold some paintings through a gallery in the French Quarter," I added, finding myself bragging. It was not like me, but something about this young man's condescending, skeptical manner put a steel rod in my spine and hoisted my flag of pride. I might not be blueblood enough for the eyes of Mrs. Clairborne and her grandson, but I was Catherine Landry's granddaughter, I thought.