"Relax," she said, wrapping her towel around her nude body. "After you have your art lesson, we'll meet Beau and Martin and go down to the French Quarter. We'll have fun, I promise."
"But . . . what am I to do with this? I don't know where the liquor cabinet is."
"It's in the study. I'll show you," she said. "Come help me pick out something to wear."
I shook my head and sighed.
"What a morning this has been already. I told Nina about the sobbing I heard and she hurried me off into her room to burn brimstone and then this?'
"The sobbing?"
"Yes," I said, following her out to her closet. "I thought it came from the room that was Jean's."
"Oh," she said as if it were nothing.
"Have you heard it, too?"
"Of course I have," she said. "What about this skirt?" she asked, plucking one off its hanger and holding it against her. "It's not as short as your skirts, but I like the way it fits my hips. And so does Beau," she added, smiling licentiously.
"It's nice. What do you mean, of course you have heard the sobbing? Why of course?"
"Because it's something Daddy often does."
"What? What does he do?"
"He goes into Uncle Jean's room and cries about him. He's done that for . . . for as long as I can remember. He just can't accept the accident and the way things are."
"But he told me no one was crying in there," I said.
"He doesn't like anyone to know. We all pretend it doesn't happen," she explained. I shook my head sadly.
"It was tragic," I said. "He told me about it. Jean sounded like such a wonderful person, and to die that young with everything ahead of you—"
"Die? What do you mean, die? Did he say Uncle Jean died?"
"What? Well, I just . . . he said he was struck by the mast of the sailboat and. ." I thought for a moment, recalling the details. "And he became a vegetable, but I just assumed he meant . . ."
"Oh, no," she said. "He's not dead."
"He's not? Well, what happened to him then?"
"He's a vegetable, but he's still quite good-looking. He just walks around without a thought in his head and looks at everyone and everything as though he never saw them or remembered them."
"Where is he?"
"In an institution outside of the city. We only see him once a year, on his birthday. At least, that's all I see him. Daddy might go more often. Mother never goes," she said. "How about this blouse?"
She held it up but I was looking right through it. I waited as she put it on.
"Why aren't there any pictures of Jean around?" I asked.
"Will you stop talking about it? Daddy can't stand it normally. I'm surprised he told you anything. There are no pictures because it's too painful for Daddy," she said. "Now, for the last time, what about this blouse?" She turned to look at herself in the mirror.
"It's very nice," I said.
"Oh, I hate that word," she cried. "Nice. Is it sexy?" I looked at it seriously this time.
"You forgot to put on your bra," I said.
She smiled. "I didn't forget. A lot of girls are doing that these days."
"They are?"
"Of course. Boy, do you have a lot to learn. Lucky you got out of the swamps," she added.
But right now, I wasn't so sure I was so lucky.
15
A Tour of Storyville
I sat with Gisselle on the patio and ate some lunch while she nibbled at her breakfast, complaining how sore her stomach still was from all the vomiting she had done last night. She blamed everyone but herself.
"Beau should have stopped me from drinking too much. I was so busy making sure everyone else had a good time, I didn't notice," she claimed.
"I warned you before we began," I reminded her. She smirked.
"It's never done this to me before," she said, but she grimaced in agony.
She had to wear her wide, thick sunglasses because the tiniest light sent ripples of pain up and down her forehead. She had dabbed gobs of rouge on her cheeks and painted her lips thick with lipstick once she saw how pale and wan her complexion was.
The long gray clouds that had made most of the morning dreary had come apart on the journey from one horizon to the other, and a soft sea of blue appeared to accompany the sunshine that rained down upon us to brighten the blossoms of the magnolias and camellias. The blue jays skittered from branch to branch with more spirit and energy, their songs more melodious.
In such a warm, beautiful setting, it was hard to feel unhappy or discouraged, but I couldn't keep the dark foreboding from inching its way into my thoughts. It moved slowly but surely like the shadow of a cloud. Daphne was very disappointed in me. Soon my father would be too, and Gisselle thought it was good for us to lie to both Daphne and him. I felt like going to Nina to ask her to find me a magical solution, some powder or enchanted bone to erase the bad things that had happened.
"Stop sitting there and pouting," Gisselle ordered. "You worry too much."
"Daphne is furious at me, thanks to you," I replied. "And soon Daddy will be, too."
"Why do you keep calling her Daphne? Don't you want to call her Mother?" she wondered. I shifted my gaze away from her and shrugged.
"Of course I do. It's just . . . hard right now. Both of our parents seem like strangers to me. I haven't been living here all my life," I replied, and looked at her. She chewed on my answer as she chewed on her croissant and jam.
"You just called Daddy, Daddy," she said. "Why should that be easier?"
"I don't know," I said quickly, and dropped my gaze so she couldn't see the dishonesty. I couldn't stand living with all this deception. Somehow, someday, it was bound to make our lives more miserable. I felt certain of that.
Gisselle sipped her coffee but continued to stare at me as she chewed lazily.
"What?" I asked, anticipating some question or suspicion.
"What did you do with Beau in the cabana before I came back and knocked on the door?" she demanded. I couldn't help but flush red. Her voice was filled with accusation.
"Nothing. It was Beau's little joke in response to what you did. We just. . . stood there and talked."
"In the dark, Beau Andreas just stood there and talked?" she asked, a wry smile on her face.
"Yes."
"You're not a good liar, sister dear. I'll have to give you lessons."
"That's not something I want to excel at doing," I responded.
"You will. Especially if you want to live in this house," she said nonchalantly.
Before I could reply, Edgar stepped through the French doors and approached us.
"What is it, Edgar?" Gisselle asked petulantly. Because of her hangover, every little noise, every little interruption annoyed her this morning.
"Monsieur Dumas has arrived. He and Madame Dumas want to see you both in the study," he said.
"Tell them we'll be there in a moment. I'm just finishing my croissant," she said, and turned her back on him.
Edgar threw a glance my way, his eyes showing his unhappiness at Gisselle's tone of voice. I smiled at him and his expression softened.
"Very good, mademoiselle," he said.
"Edgar is such a stuffed shirt. He creeps around the house as if he owns if and everything in it," Gisselle complained. "If I put a vase on a table, he'll return it to where it was originally. Once, I changed all the pictures around in the living room just to annoy him. The next day, they were all back in their original places. He's memorized where everything belongs, down to a glass ashtray. If you don't believe me, try moving something."
"I'm sure he's just taking pride in things and how well they're kept," I said. She shook her head and gobbled down her last piece of croissant.
"Let's go get this over with," she declared, and stood up. As we approached the study, we could hear Daphne complaining.