"I'd love it. Thank you," I said.
After breakfast, we got into his Rolls Royce and drove down the long driveway. I had never been in so luxurious an automobile before and sat gaping stupidly at the wood trim, running the palm of my hand over the soft leather.
"Do you drive?" my father asked me.
"Oh, no. I haven't even ridden in cars all that much. In the bayou we get around by walking or by poling pirogues."
"Yes, I remember," he said, beaming a broad smile my way. "Gisselle doesn't drive either. She doesn't want to be bothered learning. The truth is she likes being carted around. But if you would like to learn how to drive, I'd be glad to teach you," he said.
"I would. Thank you."
He drove on through the Garden District, past many fine homes with grounds just as beautiful as ours, some with oleander-lined pike fences. There were fewer clouds now which meant the streets and beautiful flowers had fewer shadows looming over them. Sidewalks and tiled patios glittered. Here and there the gutters were full of pink and white camellias from the previous night's rain.
"Some of these houses date back to the eighteen-forties," my father told me and leaned over to point to a house on our right. "Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederacy, died in that house in 1899. There's a lot of history here," he said proudly.
We made a turn and paused as the olive green streetcar rattled past the palm trees on the esplanade. Then we followed St. Charles back toward the inner city.
"I'm glad we had this opportunity to be alone for a while," he said. "Besides my showing you the city, it gives me a chance to get to know you and you a chance to get to know me. It took a great deal of courage for you to come to me," he said. The look on my face confirmed his suspicion. He cleared his throat and continued.
"It will be hard for me to talk about your mother when someone else is around, especially Daphne. I think you understand why."
I nodded.
"I'm sure it's harder for you to understand right now how it all happened. Sometimes," he said, smiling to himself, "when I think about it, it does seem like something I dreamt."
It was as though he were talking in a dream. His eyes were glazed and far away, his voice smooth, easy, relaxed.
"I must tell you about my younger brother, Jean. He was always much different from me, far more outgoing, energetic, a handsome Don Juan if there ever was one," he added, breaking into a soft smile. "I've always been quite shy when it came to members of the genteel sex.
"Jean was athletic, a track star and a wonderful sailor. He could make our sailboat slice through the water on Lake Pontchartrain even if there wasn't enough breeze to nudge the willows on the bank.
"Needless to say, he was my father's favorite, and my mother always thought of him as her baby. But I wasn't jealous," he added quickly. "I've always been more business minded, more comfortable in an office crunching numbers, talking on the telephone, and making deals than I have been on a playing field or in a sailboat surrounded by beautiful young women.
"Jean had all the charm. He didn't have to work at making friends or gaining acquaintances. Women and men alike just wanted to be around him, to walk in his shadow, to be favored with his words and smiles.
"The house was always full of young people back then. I never knew who would be encamped in our living room or eating in our dining room or lounging at our pool."
"How much younger than you was he?" I asked.
"Four years. When I graduated from college, Jean had begun his first year and was a track star in college already, already elected president of his college class, and already a popular fraternity man.
"It was easy to see why our father doted on him so and had such big dreams for him," my father said, and he made a series of turns that took us deeper and deeper into the busier areas of New Orleans. But I wasn't as interested in the traffic, the crowds, and the dozens and dozens of stores as I was in my father's story.
We paused for a traffic light.
"I wasn't married yet. Daphne and I had really just begun to date. In the back of his mind, our father was already planning out Jean's marriage to the daughter of one of his business associates. It was to be a wedding made in Heaven. She was an attractive young lady; her father was rich, too. The wedding ceremony and reception would rival those of royalty."
"How did Jean feel about it?" I asked.
"Jean? He idolized our father and would do anything he wanted. Jean thought of it all as inevitable. You would have liked him a great deal, loved him, I should say. He was never despondent and always saw the rainbow at the end of the storm, no matter what the problem or trouble."
"What happened to him?" I finally asked, dreading the answer.
"A boating accident on Lake Pontchartrain. I rarely went out on the boat with him, but this time I let him talk me into going. He had a habit of trying to get me to be more like him. He was always after me to enjoy life more. To him I was too serious, too responsible. Usually, I didn't pay much attention to his complaints, but this time, he argued that we should be more like brothers. I relented. We both drank too much. A storm came up. I wanted to turn around immediately, but he decided it would be more fun to challenge it and the boat turned over. Jean would have been all right, I'm sure. He was a far better swimmer than I was, but the mast struck him in the temple."
"Oh no," I moaned.
"He was in a coma for a long time. My father spared no expense, hired the best doctors, but none of them could do anything. He was like a vegetable."
"How terrible."
"I thought my parents would never get over it, especially my father. But my mother became even more depressed. Her health declined first. Less than a year after the tragic accident, she suffered her first heart attack. She survived, but she became an invalid."
We continued onward, deeper into the business area. My father made one turn and then another and then slowed down to pull the vehicle into a parking spot, but he didn't shut off the engine. He faced forward and continued his remembrances.
"One day, my father came to me in our offices and closed the door. He had aged so since my brother's accident and my mother's illness. A once proud, strong man, now he walked with his shoulders turned in, his head lowered, his back bent. He was always pale, his eyes empty, his enthusiasm for his business at a very low ebb.
" 'Pierre,' he said, 'I don't think your mother's long for this world, and frankly, I feel my own days are numbered. What we would like most to see is for you to marry and start your family.'
"Daphne and I were planning on getting married anyway, but after his conversation with me, I rushed things along. I wanted to try to have children immediately. She understood. But month after month passed and when she showed no signs of becoming pregnant, we became concerned.
"I sent her to specialists and the conclusion was she was unable to get pregnant. Her body simply didn't produce enough of some hormone. I forget the exact diagnosis.
"The news devastated my father who seemed to live only for the day when he would rest his eyes on his grandchild. Not long after, my mother died."
"How terrible," I said. He nodded and turned off the engine.
"My father went into a deep depression. He rarely came to work, spent long hours simply staring into space, took poorer and poorer care of himself. Daphne looked after him as best she could, but blamed herself somewhat, too. I know she did, even though she denies it to this day.
"Finally, I was able to get my father interested in some hunting trips. We traveled to the bayou to hunt duck and geese and contracted with your Grandpère Jack to guide us, That was how I met Gabrielle."
"I know," I said.
"You have to understand how dark and dreary my life seemed to me during those days. My handsome, charming brother's wonderful future had been violently ended, my mother had died, my wife couldn't have children, and my father was slipping away day by day.