"Anyone in there?" I whispered through the crack between the door and the jamb. There was no response. I knocked again and waited. Still nothing. I was about to turn away when I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun around with a gasp to look into my father's face.
"Ruby," he said, smiling. "Anything wrong?"
"I . . . I thought I heard someone sobbing in this room so I knocked," I said. He shook his head.
"Just your imagination at work, honey," he said. "There hasn't been anyone in that room for years. Where's Gisselle?"
"She just went to sleep," I said quickly. "But I'm almost certain I heard someone," I insisted. He shook his head.
"No. You couldn't have." He smiled. "Gisselle went to bed this early? Must be your good habits are rubbing off already. Well, I'm heading for sleep myself. I've got a busy day tomorrow. Don't forget," he said, "your art instructor will be stopping by at two. I'll be here to meet him also."
I nodded.
"Good night, dear," he said, and kissed me on the forehead. Then he started for the master bedroom. I looked back at the closed door. Could I have imagined it? Was it something that happened because of all the rum I had drunk?
"Daddy?" I said before I crossed to go to my room. He stopped and turned.
"Yes?"
"Whose room was that?" I asked.
He looked at the room and then rolled his dark, shining eyes my way and I saw why they shone—they were full of tears.
"My brother's," he said. "Jean's."
With a sigh he turned and walked away. As if on the legs of a spider, a chill crept up my spine and made me shudder. Fatigued and drowning in many emotions, I returned to my room and got ready for bed. My mind was cluttered with so many different thoughts, my heart full of different feelings. I was so dizzy and tired, I was eager to lay my head upon the soft pillow. When I closed my eyes, a potpourri of the day's images rolled on the backs of my eyelids taking me up and down like a roller coaster. I saw the New Orleans sights I had seen with my father, the myriad of fashions I had waded through with Daphne, my wonderful new art studio, Gisselle's face as she plotted her silly prank and once again, I felt Beau's electrifying kiss when we were in the cabana.
That kiss had frightened me because I had been unable to stop myself from wanting to kiss him back. That unexpected touch of his lips, his tongue forcing my lips to open, shot through me with a jolt of excitement that tore down all my resistance. Did that mean I was bad, that I had too much of the evil Landry blood running through my veins?
Or was it just that Beau had touched something tender and lonely in me, his soft voice whispering to me in the darkness, his assurances restoring a calm to my bedazzled and bewildered soul? Would any young man's kiss have done that or was it just Beau's?
I tried to remember Paul's kisses, but all those memories were clouded and polluted by the discovery of our real relationship. It was impossible to think of him now as my first love and not feel guilty about it, even though it was neither of our faults.
What a long, complex, and troubling day this had been, and yet what a wonderful one, too. Was this the way my life would be from now on?
The questions tired me out. I longed for sleep. As the drowsiness took over and my mind settled, I heard the faint sound of the sobbing again. It came from the darkest corners of my mind and before I fell asleep, I wasn't sure if it was my own sobbing or the sobbing of someone I had yet to meet.
I was surprised at how late I had slept into the next morning. When I finally awoke, I was sure everyone had gone down and had breakfast without me. Ashamed, I shot out of bed and hurriedly washed and dressed, tying my hair in a bandanna rather than spend the time to brush it out properly. But when I bounced quickly down the stairs and popped into the dining room, I found it empty. Edgar was just cleaning away some cups and dishes.
"Is breakfast over?" I asked.
"Breakfast over? Oh, no, mademoiselle. Monsieur Dumas has eaten and gone to work, but you're the first of the ladies to appear," he replied. "What would you like this morning? Some of Nina's eggs and grits?"
"Yes, thank you," I said. He smiled warmly and said he would bring me some fresh orange juice and a pot of hot coffee. I sat down and waited, expecting to hear either Daphne's or Gisselle's footsteps in the hallway at any moment, but I was still the only one at the table by the time Edgar brought me my complete breakfast. He looked in on me every once in a while to see if there was anything else I wanted.
When I was finished, he was there immediately to clear away my dishes. How long would it take, I wondered, for me to get used to being waited on and looked after like this? I couldn't help having the urge to pick up my own dirty dishes and take them into the kitchen. Edgar smiled down at me.
"And how are you enjoyin' New Orleans, mademoiselle?" he asked.
"I love it," I said. "Have you lived here all your life, Edgar?"
"Oh, yes, mademoiselle. My family's been workin' for the Dumas as far back as the Civil War. Of course, they were slaves then," he added, and started for the kitchen. I got up and followed him in to tell Nina how much I had enjoyed her cooking. She looked up with surprise, but was very pleased. She was happy to tell me she had definitely concluded I was no spirit.
"Otherwise, I would be killing a black cat in the cemetery at midnight," she told me.
"My goodness, why?"
"Why? You've got to once a spirit comes haunting. You kill the cat, remove the guts, and cook it all in hot lard with salt and eggs. You eat it as soon as it's lukewarm," she instructed. My stomach started to churn.
"Ugh," I said. "How horrible."
"Then you return to the cemetery the next Friday night and call the cat." Her eyes widened. "When the cat answers, call out the names of the dead people you know and tell the cat that you believe in the devil. When you've seen a spirit once, you'll be sure to see them all the time, so it's best you get to know them and they get to know you.
"Of course," she added as an aside, "this works best in October."
Her talk of spirits made me think about the sobbing I felt sure I had heard in what had been Jean's room.
"Nina, have you ever heard sobbing upstairs coming from what was once my uncle Jean's room?" I asked.
Her eyes, which I thought had become as wide as possible, grew even wider, only now they were full of terror, too.
"You heard that?" she replied. I nodded and she crossed herself quickly. Then she reached out and seized my wrist. "Come with Nina," she commanded.
"What?"
I let her pull me through the kitchen and out the back way. "Where are we going, Nina?"
She hurried us through the hallway to the rear of the house.
"This is my room," she told me, and opened the door. I hesitated, gasping at the sight.
The walls of the small room were cluttered with voodoo paraphernalia: dolls and bones, chunks of what looked like black cat fur, strands of hair tied with leather string, twisted roots, and strips of snakeskin. The shelves were crowded with small bottles of multicolored powders, stacks of yellow, blue, green, and brown candles, jars of snake heads, and a picture of a woman sitting on what looked like a throne. Around her picture were white candles.
"That be Marie Laveau," Nina told me when she saw I was looking at the picture, "Voodoo Queen."
Nina had a small bed, a nightstand, and a rattan dresser.
"Sit," she said, pointing to the one and only chair. I did so, slowly. She went to her shelves, found something she wanted, and turned to me. She put a small ceramic jar in my hands and told me to hold it. I smelled the contents.
"Brimstone," she said when I grimaced. Then she lit a white candle and mumbled a prayer. She fixed her eyes on me and said, "Someone put a spell on you for sure. You need to keep the evil spirits away." She brought the candle to the ceramic jar and dipped the flame toward the contents so the brimstone would burn. A small stream of smoke twisted its way up. The stench was unpleasant, but Nina looked relieved that I held onto the jar anyway.