Landry 02 Pearl in the Mist (13 page)

Of course, it would have been impossible to keep my invitation a secret, even if I had wanted to. Mrs. Penny was determined to brag about it, and in no time all the girls at the dorm had heard about Mrs. Clairborne's call. Gisselle was annoyed because she thought I had known about it since the tea and kept it from her.
"I have to find out about my sister from strangers," she chided after she had wheeled herself through our doorway. As usual, Samantha was at her side, ready to do her beck and call.
"I just returned from painting all day at the river with Miss Stevens, so I just found out myself, Gisselle."
"Painting all day with Miss Stevens. Peachy."
She gazed at the dresses I had laid out on my bed for Abby and I to consider.
"It looks like you've been planning. You must have known about this."
"I haven't. I just this moment took out my clothes, right, Abby?"
"Yes," she said, eyeing Gisselle, who still fumed. "Well, why did she ask only you?" she demanded. "I don't know," I said.
"It's because her grandson wants you there, right?" Gisselle followed quickly. Sometimes there was no hiding things from her. Her mind wandered through the labyrinths of deceptions and intrigues so often she knew the routes better than a professional spy.
"I guess," I said.
"He can't even see you and he wants you to come back? What did you two do?"
"Gisselle!" I looked from Abby to Samantha and back to my sister. "We didn't do anything. I spoke to him for a few minutes, listened to him play, and left. I'm very nervous about this as it is, so please don't make it any harder. The truth is, I don't even want to go, but Mrs. Penny's made it seem like the event of the century."
"I like the light blue dress," Abby said. "It's elegant but not too formal."
"Oh, it's just perfect for a little dinner with a blind boy," Gisselle quipped, glaring at me. "You'll be up there having a feast and we'll be down here eating dorm rot."
"We don't eat rot," Abby flared.
"Obviously, you're used to it," Gisselle retorted. "Wheel me out of here, Samantha. The air is too rich for our poor nostrils."
Abby whitened and was about to sting Gisselle with some retort when I looked at her and shook my head. "Don't get yourself upset, Abby," I advised. "That's all she wants anyway."
"You're right," Abby said, and we returned to choosing my wardrobe.
The blue dress was elegant. It had a sweetheart collar that revealed just an inch or so of cleavage, but we decided that with my locket and gold chain it still looked discreet. Abby loaned me a pair of gold-leaf earrings and a gold charm bracelet. We decided I should brush my hair and pin it up. I smeared on a trace of lipstick, sprayed myself with the jasmine cologne Mrs. Penny lent me, and finally went out to wait for the car. Mrs. Penny looked me over one final time and placed her stamp of approval on my appearance.
"This is historic," she continued. "Mark every detail in your mind to remember. I can't wait to hear about it. I'll be right here waiting for you, okay?"
"Yes, Mrs. Penny," I said.
Abby smiled at me. "Have a good time," she said. "Thanks, but I'm as nervous as a jackrabbit."
"You've got nothing to worry about," Abby said, and winked. "You've still got your good luck gris-gris."
I laughed. I had hidden the dime in my shoe, but it was there.
"The station wagon's here," Mrs. Penny announced. I hurried out. Buck was waiting at the car, holding the door open for me. When he turned, his eyes widened and took on a glint of appreciation, but he said nothing. I got in and he hurried around to the driver's side. Mrs. Penny stood on the steps and waved as we drove off. After we were away, Buck turned around.
"You look very nice," he said.
"Thank you."
"I've been here only three years," he said, "but this is the first time I've taken a Greenwood girl to the mansion for dinner. Are you related to the
Clairbornes?"
"No," I said, laughing.
When we arrived at the mansion, he hurried around to open the door for me.
"Thank you," I said.
"Have a good time."
I smiled at him and hurried up the steps. The door opened for me before I reached it and Otis nodded.
"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, bowing even deeper than usual.
"Good evening."
I entered and he closed the door.
"Right this way, mademoiselle."
He led me down the corridor and off to the right through another hallway that took us deep into the west wing and the dining room. Unlike the other sections of the house, the west wing was somber. The walls had darker paper, the windows darker drapes, and the floors darker carpet. The pictures that were hung depicted the most eerie settings on the river and in the bayou, swamps with ghostly Spanish moss that was caught swaying in the twilight breeze, and the Mississippi at one of its wider points, with the water rust-colored, the boats and ships drifting shadows of themselves. Whatever portraits I saw were portraits of austere ancestors gazing out with looks of disapproval and condemnation.
The long dark oak table was set for three at one end. Two silver candelabra held long, bone-white lit candles, their tiny flames flickering. Above the table the chandelier was only dimly lit. Otis moved to the chair on my right and pulled it out to indicate that was where I was to sit.
"Thank you," I said.
"Madame Clairborne and Monsieur Clairborne will be in shortly," he told me, and then left me sitting there alone in the solemn room. It was deathly quiet for a long moment, and then I heard what was now the familiar tap, tap, tap of Mrs. Clairborne's cane as she came down the corridor outside and finally turned into the dining room.
She wore a black dress with a hem that reached almost to her ankles. The ebony color of her garment made the stopped watch on a chain more prominent as it rested in the valley between her breasts. There were no changes to her hairdo, but she had replaced her diamond earrings with pearl ones and wore a pearl bracelet. Her fingers were still filled with all her rings.
"Good evening," she said, making her way to her chair at the head of the table.
"Good evening." After Otis had pulled her chair out and she sat down, I added, "Thank you for inviting me to dinner."
"I didn't," she said quickly. This close to her, I thought her nose looked sharper. Her pale skin was so thin it was almost transparent. I could see the tiny blue veins in her cheeks and temples, and the hairline above her lip was more conspicuous, darker. She reeked of jasmine, overpowering my own.
"I don't understand," I said.
"My grandson is the one who insisted. As a rule I don't invite the schoolgirls to dinner. There are just too many who deserve it," she said. "I was unaware that you had gone off and met him while you were at tea here."
"I heard him playing the piano when I went to the bathroom and . . ."
"Mrs. Penny should have made it perfectly clear that I---"
"Grandmother, you're not misbehaving now, are you?" we heard, and I spun around to see Louis standing in the doorway. Unlike Mrs. Clairborne, he carried no cane to help him navigate the corridors and rooms, and from what I could see, apparently no one had brought him here.
He looked rather handsome in his dinner jacket, black tie, and slacks, with his hair brushed neatly back.
"I don't misbehave," Mrs. Clairborne muttered. Louis smiled and walked with perfect precision to his place at the table.
"Don't be impressed, Ruby," he explained as he waited for Otis to pull out his chair. "I've been walking the same paths through this house so long I've worn ditches into the floors, and everyone knows not to change a thing in any of the rooms."
"Which is why I don't permit visitors in this section of the house," Mrs. Clairborne said quickly. "If someone moves a chair or shifts a table . . ."
"Now why would anyone, especially Ruby, do that, Grandmother?" Louis asked. Mrs. Clairborne sighed. She nodded at Otis, who began the dinner service by pouring us some bottled water.
"Aren't we going to have any wine tonight?" Louis inquired.
"I don't serve wine to Greenwood girls," Mrs. Clairborne replied firmly.
Louis held his smile. "At least we have our special dinner tonight, don't we, Grandmother?"
"Unfortunately, yes," she said, and turned to me. "Louis insisted also on having a Cajun menu."
"Let me tell her," Louis said eagerly. "We're beginning with a crawfish bisque and then we're having duck gumbo. But for dessert, I ordered orange creme brittne, a New Orleans favorite."
"Sounds wonderful," I said. Mrs. Clairborne groaned. Then she nodded reluctantly and the meal was begun. During it, Mrs. Clairborne said very little. Louis wanted to hear about my paintings and asked me to describe the ones I had sold from the gallery in the French Quarter. He had never been to the bayou and wanted to hear about life in the swamps. A number of times during our conversation, Mrs. Clairborne clicked her tongue and gave me a look of disapproval, especially when I described Grandmere Catherine and her work as a
traiteur.
"I wonder if a
traiteur
could help me to see again," Louis said aloud. That set Mrs. Clairborne of on a tirade.
"I will not bring these charlatans into this house. The countryside is inundated with fake faith healers and scam artists. Unfortunately, the river has attracted that sort since the colonists arrived. You have the best doctors."
"Who haven't done a thing for me," Louis remarked bitterly.
"They will. We must . . ." She stopped herself.
Louis turned slowly and smiled. "Have faith, Grandmother? Was that what you were about to say?"
"No. Yes. Faith in proven science, in medicine, not in mumbo jumbo. Next thing you know we'll have someone to dinner who believes in voodoo," she said, and I held my breath. There was a moment of silence, and then Louis laughed.
"As you see, my grandmother has definite feelings about everything. It makes things easier," he added sadly. "I don't have to think for myself."
"No one ever said you can't think for yourself, Louis. Didn't I agree to have this young lady to dinner tonight?"
"Yes. Thank you, Grandmother." He turned to me. "Did you enjoy the food?"
"It was delicious."
"It should be. I have the finest cook in Baton Rouge," Mrs. Clairborne said.
"Would you like to hear me play the piano?" Louis asked.
"I'd love to."
"Good. May we be excused now,
Grandmother?"
"I have instructed the school driver to be ready to pick her up at nine sharp. The Greenwood girls have their homework and their curfew."
"I've done all my homework," I said quickly.
"Still, you should be returned early to your dorm," Mrs. Clairborne insisted.
"What time is it now, Grandmother?" Louis asked. "What time is it?" he demanded. I held my breath. Would she say, two-oh-five?
"Otis, what is the time?" she asked the butler standing in the doorway.
"It's seven-forty, madame."
"Oh then, we have plenty of time," Louis said. "Shall we go to the music studio." He stood up. I looked at Mrs. Clairborne, who appeared very unhappy, and then stood up too.
"Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Clairborne." Her thin lips moved into a grotesque mockery of a smile. "Yes, you're very welcome," she said quickly.
Louis held up his arm, and I walked around the table and threaded mine through his.
"Wearing Grandmother's favorite scent, I see," he said, smiling. "Someone prompted you, huh?"
"Mrs. Penny, our housemother," I confessed. He laughed and led me out of the dining room and to his study. He did move through the house as confidently as one who could see, and when we arrived at the study, he went directly to his piano without the slightest hesitation.
"Sit beside me," he suggested, making room on the stool. After I did so, he began to play something soft and sweet. The melody seemed to flow out of his fingers and then into the piano. His torso swayed gently, his shoulder grazing mine. I watched his face as he played and saw the tiny movements in his lips and eyelids. When the piece came to an end, he kept his fingers on the keys as if the music still continued to flow from him.
"That was beautiful," I said softly.
"My piano teacher . . ordinarily a stuffed shirt . . . believes my blindness makes my playing sharper. He sounds almost envious at times. He confessed to me that he has taken to blindfolding himself when he is alone and plays. Can you imagine?'
"Yes," I said.
With his fingers still on the keys, his body postured for him to play another piece, he continued to speak instead. "I've never had a girl. . a young woman. . beside me before," he confessed. "I've never been this close."
"Why not?"
He laughed. "Why not?" His smile faded. "I don't know. I've been afraid, I suppose."
"Afraid?"
"Of being at a great disadvantage. For Grandmother's sake, more than my own, I pretend I'm all right. Of course, she doesn't see me groping about. I make sure of that. She doesn't hear my moans. I can't remember the last time she's seen me cry. We do a lot of pretending here. I'm sure you've noticed. We pretend everything's all right. We pretend nothing's happened.
"But I'm tired of pretending," he said, turning around. "I want . . some reality too. Is that wrong?"
"Oh no."
"I heard something in your voice when you first came in here, something honest and true, something that put me at ease, that gave me hope. It was almost as if . . . as if I could see you," he said. "I know you're beautiful."
"Oh no, I'm not. I'm . , ."
"Yes you are. I can tell from the way
Grandmother speaks to you. My mother was beautiful," he added quickly. I held my breath. My heartbeat started to quicken. Was he going to tell me the tragic tale? "Would you mind if I touched your face, your hair?"
"No," I said, and he brought his fingers up to my temples and slowly, gently, traced the lines of my face, running the tips of his fingers over my lips and down to my chin.
"Beautiful," he whispered. The tip of his tongue swept over his lower lip as he continued down my neck and found my collarbone. "Your skin is so soft. Can I go on?"
My throat felt tight. My heart began to pound. I was confused but afraid to deny him. He seemed so desperate.
"Yes," I said. His fingers moved down to the border of my collar and followed it to my cleavage. I saw his breathing quicken. He ran his hands over my breasts, turning and pressing his fingers as if he were a sculptor shaping them. His hands moved down my ribs to my waist and then back up again so that his palms flowed over my breasts.
Then, suddenly, he pulled them away as if he had touched an uncovered electrical wire. He lowered his head.
"It's all right," I said. Instead of replying, he brought his fingers to the keys again and began to play, only this time his music was loud and hard. A line of sweat broke out along his temple. His breathing quickened. He seemed determined to exhaust himself. Finally he concluded, this time slapping his palms over the keys.