I reread Paul's letter, made a list of things I wanted to do before Daddy and Beau's visits, completed my homework, and went to sleep. I lay there with my eyes open, staring up into the dark ceiling and imagining I was in the pirogue with Paul, drifting. I thought I could even see the first star.
In the morning I awoke filled with all sorts of plans for pictures I wanted to do under Miss Stevens's guidance. Her love of nature was as strong as mine, and I knew she would appreciate my visions. I washed and dressed eagerly and was one of the first at the breakfast table, something else that seemed to annoy Gisselle. I saw she was becoming more and more intolerant and impatient with Samantha too, snapping at her for not doing things fast enough for her.
Our quad had cleanup duty again. Gisselle, of course, was excused from the chores, but she made it more difficult for me and the others by lingering at the table. It nearly made us all late for school, and I had an English test to take.
I was ready for the test and eager to take it, but right in the middle of the exam, a messenger came into the room. She went right to Mr. Risel and whispered in his ear. He nodded, then looked out at the class and announced that I was wanted at Mrs. Ironwood's office.
"But my exam . . . ″ I muttered.
"Just bring up what you've completed," he said. "But . . . ″
"You'd better go quickly," he added, his eyes dark. What could she want now? I wondered. What could she possibly accuse me of doing this time?
Filled with rage, I pounded through the corridor and walked into the principal's office. Mrs. Randle looked up from her desk, but this time she didn't look annoyed or upset with me. She looked sympathetic.
"Go right in," she told me. My fingers trembled a bit on the doorknob. I turned it and entered, surprised to discover Gisselle sitting there in her wheelchair, her handkerchief clutched in her hand, her eyes bloodshot.
"What is it?" I cried, looking from her to Mrs. Ironwood, who was standing by her window.
"It's your father," she replied. "Your stepmother has just called me."
"What?"
"Daddy's dead!" Gisselle screamed. "He had a heart attack!"
Somewhere deep inside myself, a scream became a cry, the sort of cry that lingered over the water, that wove itself around the trees and bushes, that made day turn into night, that made sunny skies turn gray, and that turned raindrops into tears.
Behind my eyelids, slammed shut to lock out the faces and the moment, I recalled an old nightmare I had often had as a child. In it I was running over the marshland, chasing after a pirogue that was picking up speed to round a turn in the bayou and carrying away the mysterious man I wanted to call Daddy.
The word got stuck in my throat, and a moment later he was gone.
And once again I was all alone.
10
Orphaned Again
As far as I was concerned, Daddy's funeral began with our ride back to New Orleans. Even Gisselle became dark and quiet just before we were to leave, her usual banter of complaints reduced to a few grievances about the speed with which she had to get her things together and the manner in which she was transferred from her wheelchair to the limousine Daphne had sent. The driver hadn't been told that one of his passengers was handicapped and was quite unprepared for the experience. He didn't know how to fold the chair and get it as well as our luggage into the trunk. Fortunately, Buck Dardar came by to help, which immediately cheered up my sister and, for the moment, returned a look of flirtatious delight to her eyes.
"Thank goodness your Mr. Mud happened by," she declared loud enough for Buck to hear as he assisted with the folding of the wheelchair. "Otherwise poor Daddy would be buried a week before we left here."
I flashed a furious gaze at her, but she rolled it away with one of her flighty little laughs and then poked her head out of the window to flutter her eyelashes at Buck as she thanked him profusely for coming by.
"I can't thank you properly just now," she told him. "We have to leave right away, but when we come back . . ."
Buck glanced toward me and then hurried back to his tractor to continue his work on the grounds. The chauffeur got in and we were off. All of the other students were in class. Gisselle had managed to tell her clique about Daddy and then sponge up their condolences and sympathy. Miss Stevens was the only person I had told. She was very upset, her eyes actually filling with tears when she gazed into my devastated face.
"Now I'm really an orphan, just like you," I told her.
"But you have your stepmother and your sister."
"It's the same as being an orphan," I replied.
She bit down on her lower lip and nodded without challenging my declaration. "You'll always have family here," she said, hugging me. "Be strong."
I thanked her and returned to the dorm to pack my things.
Now the limousine was carrying us off on a journey that seemed more like a nightmare, a trip through what, to me at least, was an endlessly dark tunnel whose walls were woven from the fabric of my most dreaded fears, the foremost of which was the-fear of being alone. From the moment I was old enough to understand that my mother had died and my father had, I was told, deserted me, I felt this cavernous pit in my heart, this great sense of being tethered to the shore by only a slim line of woven hemp. More than one night I was awakened by the nightmarish vision of myself being tossed about while I slept at the bottom of my pirogue. The storm that whipped through the bayou lashed at the slim line of hemp until it ripped it in two and sent me rushing downstream into the night and the unknown.
Of course, Grandmère Catherine's reassuring embrace and soothing words put me at ease. She was my slim line of hemp, she was my only sense of security; and when she died, I would have felt lost and at the mercy of these terrible winds of Fate had she not given me new hope just before her passing by telling me my father's name and encouraging me to go to him. Like a hobo looking for a handout of love, I went knocking on his door, but my heart was cheered by the overwhelming manner in which he had accepted and welcomed me into his home and his own heart. Once again I felt secure, and my dreams of being lost in a raging storm all but disappeared.
Now Daddy was gone too. Those prophetic paintings I had done as a young girl, paintings in which I envisioned my mysterious father drifting away, had all unfortunately come true. The dark shadows were rushing back, the wind began its howling. Numb to the very core of my soul, I sat in the limousine and stared out at the scenery that flowed by with a gray fluidity that made it seem as if the dreary world were draining down behind us and we would soon be left dangling in empty space.
Finally, unable to keep silent a moment longer, Gisselle poured forth a new stream of complaints.
"Daphne's going to really lord it over us now," she moaned. "Anything we've inherited will be in trust. We'll have to do whatever she says, whatever she wants." She waited for me to join her with my own rendition of grievances, but I remained silent, gazing out, listening to her ramble on, but barely acknowledging her presence. "Didn't you hear what I said?"
"I don't care, Gisselle. It's not important right now," I muttered.
"Not important?" She laughed. "Just wait until we get home and you find out how right I am. Then we'll see how important it is," she declared. "How could he die?" she screamed shrilly, not because she was saddened by our daddy's death but because she was angry at him for succumbing to it. "Why didn't he see he wasn't well and go to a doctor? Why wasn't he well anyway? He wasn't old."
"He had more heartache to contend with than a man twice his age," I said sharply.
"Oh, and what's that supposed to mean, Ruby? Huh? What exactly is Miss Goody Two-Shoes saying now?"
"Nothing," I said with a sigh. "Let's not argue today. Please, Gisselle."