"But I can't stand your not liking me, your hating me and thinking I wanted to hurt you anymore, Paul. I die every time you look at me furiously at school. Still, almost every night, I go to sleep crying over you. Of course, we can't be in love, but I can't stand our being enemies."
"I never thought of you as an enemy. I just . . ."
"Hated me. Go on, you can say it now. It doesn't hurt for me to hear it now, now that I have suffered through it," I said and smiled through my tears.
"Ruby," Paul said, shaking his head, "I can't believe what you're telling me; I can't believe that my father . . . that your mother . . ."
"You're old enough now to know the truth, Paul. Maybe I'm being selfish by telling it to you. Grandmère Catherine warned me not to, warned me that you would eventually hate me for causing any rift in your family, but I can't stand the lies between us anymore, and especially now, on top of my losing her and my realization that I'm all alone."
Paul stared at me a moment and then he got up and walked down to the edge of the water. I watched him just stand there, kicking some stones into the water, thinking, realizing, coming to terms with what I had told him. I knew that the same sort of tumult that was going on in his heart had gone on in mine, and the same sort of confusion was whirling around in his head. He shook his head again, more vigorously this time, and turned back to me.
"We have all these photographs, pictures of my mother when she was pregnant with me, pictures of me right after I was born, and—"
"Lies," I said. "All pretend, deceptions to hide the sinful acts."
"No, you're wrong. It's all a terrible, stupid mistake, don't you see?" he said, folding his hands into fists. "And we're being made to suffer for it. I'm sure it can't be true." He nodded, convincing himself. "I'm sure," he said, walking back to me.
"Grandmère Catherine wouldn't lie to me, Paul."
"No, your Grandmère wouldn't lie to you, but maybe she thought by telling you this story, she could keep you from getting involved with me and that was good because my family would make such a stink and you and I would suffer. Sure, that's it," he said, comfortable with the theory. "I'll prove it to you. I don't know how I will right now, but I will and then . . . then we'll be together just as we dreamed we would."
"Oh, Paul, how I wish you were right," I said.
"I am," he said confidently. "You'll see. I'll get beat up over you at another fais dodo yet," he added, laughing. I smiled but turned away.
"What about Suzzette?" I asked.
"I don't love Suzzette. I never did. I just had to have someone to . . . to . . ."
"To make me jealous?" I asked, turning back quickly.
"Yes," he confessed.
"I don't blame you for doing that, only you did it very convincingly," I said, smiling.
"Well, I'm . . . good at it."
We laughed. Then I grew serious again and reached up for his hand. He helped me stand. We were inches apart, facing each other.
"I don't want you to be hurt, Paul. Don't put too much hope in your disproving the things Grandmère Catherine told me. Promise me that when you find out the truth . . ."
"I won't find out the lie," he insisted.
"Promise me," I pursued, "promise that if you find out that what Grandmère told me is true, you will accept it as I have and go on to love someone else as much. Promise me."
"I can't," he said. "I can't love anyone else as much as I love you, Ruby. It's not possible."
He embraced me and I buried my face in his shoulder for a moment. He drew me closer. Beneath his shirt, I could feel his steady heartbeat. Then I felt his lips on my hair and I closed my eyes and dreamed we were far away, living in a world where there were no lies and deceit, where it was always spring and where the sunshine touched your heart as well as your face and made you forever young.
The screech of a marsh hawk made me lift my head quickly. I saw it seize a smaller bird, one that might have just learned how to fly, and then go off with its prize, unconcerned that it left some mother bird destroyed, too.
"Sometimes I hate it here," I said quickly. "Sometimes, I feel like I don't belong."
Paul looked at me with surprise.
"Of course you belong here," he said. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the rest of it, to tell him about my twin sister and my real father who lived in a big house somewhere in New Orleans, but I shut the lid on the truth. Enough had been revealed for one day.
"I'd better get back inside and continue to greet the people," I said, starting toward the house.
"I'll come with you and stay with you as long as I can," he said. "My parents sent over some food. I gave it to Mrs. Livaudis. They send their regards. They would have come themselves but . . ."
He stopped in the middle of his explanation and smirked. "I'm not making any excuses for them. My father doesn't like your Grandpère," he said.
I wanted to tell him why; I wanted to go on and on and give him all the details Grandmère Catherine had given me, but I thought enough was enough. Let him discover as much of the truth as he was able to himself, as much of it as he was able to face. For truth was a bright light and just like any bright light, it was hard to look into it.
I nodded. He hurried to join me, to thread his arm through mine, and return to the wake to sit beside me where he didn't fully realize or yet believe he belonged. After all, it was his grandmother, too, who had died.
8
It's Hard to Change
Grandmère Catherine's funeral was one of the biggest ever held in Terrebone Parish, for practically all of the mourners who had come to the wake and then some came to the services in church and at the cemetery. Grandpère Jack was on his best behavior and wearing the best clothes he could get. With his hair brushed, his beard trimmed, and his boots cleaned and polished, he looked more like a responsible member of the community. He told me he hadn't been in church since his mother's funeral, but he sat beside me and sang the hymns and recited the prayers. He stood at my side at the cemetery, too. It seemed like as long as he didn't have any whiskey flowing through his veins, he was quiet and respectful.
Paul's parents came to the church, but not to the cemetery. Paul came to the graveside by himself and stood on the other side of me. We didn't hold hands, but he made his close presence known with a touch or a word.
Father Rush began his prayers and then delivered his last blessing. And then the coffin was lowered. Just when I had thought my sorrow had gone as deeply as it could into my very soul; just when I had thought my heart could be torn no more, I felt the sorrow go deeper and tear more. Somehow, even though she was dead, with her body still in the house, with her face in quiet repose, I had not fully understood how final her death was, but now, with the sight of her coffin going down, I could not remain strong. I could not accept that she would not be there to greet me in the morning and to comfort me before bed. I could not accept that we wouldn't be working side by side, struggling to provide for ourselves; I could not accept that she wouldn't be singing over the stove or marching down the steps to go on one of her treater missions. I didn't have the strength. My legs became sticks of butter and collapsed beneath me. Neither Paul nor Grandpère could get to me before my body hit the earth and my eyes shut out the reality.
I awoke on the front seat of the car that brought us to the cemetery. Someone had gone to a nearby brook and dipped a handkerchief into the water. Now, the cool, refreshing liquid helped me regain consciousness. I saw Mrs. Livaudis leaning over me, stroking my hair, and I saw Paul standing right behind her, a look of deep concern on his face.