Ruby by V. C. Andrews
"Just like you're selling me to Buster Trahaw, making a deal with him to come up here tomorrow night," I said, crying. "You, my grandfather, someone who should be looking after me, protecting me. . you, you're nothing more than . . . than the swamp animal Grandmere said you were," I shouted.
He seemed to swell up, his shoulders rising so he reached his full height, his crimson face turning darker until his complexion was almost the color of my hair, his eyes so full of anger, they seemed luminous.
"I see these busybodies have filled you with defiance and turned you against me. Well, I'm doin' what's best for you by convincing a man as rich and prosperous as Buster to take interest in you. If I make something on the side, too, you should be happy for me."
"I'm not and I won't marry Buster Trahaw," I cried.
"Yes, you will," Grandpere said. "And you'll thank me for it, too," he predicted. Then he turned and left my room, pounding down the stairs.
A short while later, I heard him turn on the radio and then I heard some beer bottles clank and shatter. He was having one of his tantrums. I decided to wait in my room until he fell into his stupor. Afterward, I would leave.
I started to pack a small bag, being as selective as I could about what I would take because I knew I had to travel light. I had my art money hidden under the mattress, but I decided not to take it out until just before I was ready to leave. Of course, I would take the photographs of my mother and the one photograph of my real father and my sister. As I pondered what else to bring, I heard Grandpere's ranting grow more intense. Something else shattered and a chair was smashed. Shortly afterward, I heard something rattle and then I heard his heavy, unsure steps on the stairs.
I cowered back in my bed, my heart thumping. My door was thrown open again and he stood there, gazing in at me, the flames of anger in his eyes fanned by the whiskey and beer he had consumed. He looked around and saw my little bag in the corner.
"Goin' somewheres, are ya?" he asked, smiling. I shook my head. "Thought you might do that. . . thought you might leave me lookin' the fool."
"Grandpere, please," I began but he stepped forward with surprising agility and seized my left ankle. I screamed as he wrapped what looked like a bicycle chain around it and then ran the chain down and around the leg of the bed. I heard him snap on a lock before he stood up.
"There," he said. "That should help bring you to your senses."
"Grandpere. . . unlock me!"
He turned away.
"You'll be thankin' me," he muttered. "Thankin' me." He stumbled out of the door and left me, terrified, crying hysterically.
"Grandpere!" I screamed. My throat ached with the effort and the tears. When I stopped and listened, it sounded as if he had tripped and fallen down the stairs. I heard him curse and then I heard more banging and more furniture shatter-ing. After a while it grew quiet.
Stunned by what he had done, I could only lie there and sob until my chest felt as if it were filled with stones. Grandpere was worse than a swamp animal; he was a monster, for swamp animals would never be as cruel to their own kind, I thought. And there was just so much to blame on the whiskey and beer.
Out of exhaustion and fear, I fell asleep, eagerly accepting the slumber as a form of escape from the horror I had never dreamed.
When I awoke, I felt as if I had slept for hours, but not even two had passed. I had no chance to think that what had happened was just a bad nightmare either, for the moment I moved my leg, I heard the chain rattle. I sat up quickly and tried to slide it off my ankle, but the harder I tugged, the deeper and sharper it cut into my skin. I moaned and buried my face in my hands for a moment. If Grandpere left me chained up like this all day . . . if I were like this when Buster Trahaw returned, I would be defenseless, helpless.
A cold, electric chill cut through my heart. I couldn't remember ever feeling such terror. I listened. All was quiet in the house. Even the breeze barely made the walls creak. It was as if time stood still, as if I were trapped in the eye of a great storm that was about to break over my head. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down enough to think clearly. Then I studied the chain and followed the line of it to the leg of the bed.
A surge of relief came over me when I realized that Grandpere Jack in his drunken state had merely wound and locked the chain around the leg, forgetting that I could lift the bed and slide the chain down. I twisted my body until I had my other leg off the bed and then lowered myself awkwardly, painfully, until I was far enough to get the leverage I needed. It took all the strength I could muster, but the bed lifted and I began to nudge the chain down until it fell off the bottom of the leg. I worked the chain around until I unraveled it from my ankle, which was plenty red and sore. Carefully, as quietly as I could, I lay the chain on the floor. Then I picked up my little bag of clothes and precious items, dug my money out from under the mattress, and went to the bedroom door. I opened it a crack and listened.
All was quiet. The butane lantern below flickered weakly, casting a dim glow and making the distorted silhouettes dance over the stairs and the walls. Was Grandpere asleep in Grandmere Catherine's room? I decided not to look, but instead, I slipped out of my bedroom and tiptoed to the stairs. No matter how softly I walked, however, the wooden floors creaked. It was as if the house wanted to betray me. I paused, listened, and then continued down the stairs. When I reached the bottom, I waited and listened. Then I went forward and discovered Grandpere Jack sprawled on the floor by the front door. He was snoring loudly.
I didn't want to risk stepping over him and going out the front, so I turned to the back, but I stopped halfway to the kitchen. I had to do one last thing, take one last look at the picture I had painted of Grandmere Catherine that hung on the wall in the parlor. I walked back softly and paused in the doorway. Moonlight pouring through the uncovered window illuminated the portrait, and for a moment it seemed to me that Grandmere was smiling, that her eyes were full of happiness because I was keeping to my promise.
"Good-bye, Grandmere," I whispered. "Someday, I'll return to the bayou and I'll take your picture back with me to wherever I live."
How I wished I could hug her and kiss her one more time. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I had, but Grandpere Jack groaned and turned over on the floor. I didn't move a muscle. His eyes opened and closed. If he had seen me, he must have thought it was a dream, for he didn't wake up. Not wasting another second, I turned away and walked quickly but quietly through the kitchen and out the back door. Then, I hurried around the corner of the house and headed for the front.
When I reached the road, I stopped and looked back. Something sweet and sour was in my throat. Despite all that had happened and all that would, it hurt me to leave this simple house that had known my first steps. Within those plain old walls Grandmere Catherine and I had made many a meal together, sung together, and laughed together. On that galerie, she had rocked and told me story after story about her own youthful days. Upstairs in that bedroom, she had nursed me through my childhood illnesses and told me the bedtime stories that made it easier to close my eyes and sleep contentedly, always feeling safe and secure in the cocoon of promises she wove with her soft voice and soft, loving eyes. Sitting by my bedroom window on hot summer nights, I had fantasized my future, seen my prince come, envisioned my jeweled wedding with the gold dust in the spiderwebs and the music.
Oh, it was more than an old swamp house I was leaving. It was my entire past, my years of growing and developing, my feelings of joy and feelings of sadness, my melancholy and my ecstasy, my laughter and my tears. How hard it was even now, even after all this, to turn away from it and let dark night shut the door of blackness behind me.
And what of the swamp itself? Could I really tear myself away from the flowers and the birds, from the fish and even the alligators who peered at me with interest? In the moonlight on a limb of a sycamore, sat a marsh hawk, his silhouette dark and proud against the white glow. He opened his wings and held them as if he w
On the way into Houma, I passed many of the houses of people I knew, people I thought I might never see again. I almost paused at Mrs. Thibodeau's to say good-bye. She and Mrs. Livaudis were such special friends to me and my grandmere, but I was afraid she would try to talk me out of leaving and try to talk me into staying either with her or Mrs. Livaudis. I pledged to myself that someday, when I was finally settled, I would write to both of them.
Few places were still open in town when I arrived. I went directly to the bus station and bought a one-way ticket to New Orleans. I had nearly an hour to wait and spent most of it on a bench in the shadows, fearful that someone would spot me and either try to stop me or tell Grandpere before I left. Twice, I thought about calling Paul, but I was afraid to talk to him. If I told him what Grandpere Jack had done, he was sure to lose his temper and do something terrible. I decided to write him a good-bye note instead. I bought an envelope and a stamp in the station and dug out a piece of paper from my pocketbook.
.
Dear Paul,
It would take too long to explain to you why I am leaving Houma without saying good-bye. I think the main reason though is I know how much it would break my heart to look at you and then leave. It hurts so much even writing this note. Let me just tell you that more things happened in the past than I revealed that day, and these events are taking me away from Houma to find my real father and my other life. There is nothing I would want more than to spend the rest of my life at your side. It seems like such a cruel joke for Nature to let us fall in love the way we did and then surprise us with the ugly truth. But I know now that if I didn't leave, you would not give up and you would make it painful for both of us.
Remember me as I was before we learned the truth, and I'll remember you the same way. Maybe you're right maybe we'll never love anyone else as much as we love each other, but we have to try. I will think of you often, and I will imagine you in your beautiful plantation.
Love always, Ruby
.
I posted the letter in the mailbox in front of the bus station and then I sat down and choked back my tears and waited. Finally, the bus arrived. It had come from St. Martinville and had made stops and picked up passengers at New Iberia, Franklin, and Morgan City before arriving at Houma, so the bus was nearly filled when I stepped up and gave the driver my ticket. I made my way toward the rear and saw an empty seat on the right next to a pretty caramel skinned woman with black hair and turquoise eyes. She smiled when I sat down, revealing milk white teeth. She wore a bright pink and blue peasant skirt with black sandals, a pink halter, and she had rings and rings of different bracelets on both her arms. She had her hair tied with a white kerchief, a tignon with seven knots whose points all stuck straight up.
"Hello," she said. "Going to the wet grave, too?"
"Wet grave?" I sat down beside her.
"New Orleans, honey. That's what my grandmere called it because you can't bury anyone in the ground. Too much water."
"Really?"
"That's true. Everyone's buried in tombs, vaults, ovens above the ground. You didn't know that?" she asked, holding her smile. I shook my head. "First time to New Orleans then, huh?"
"Yes, it is."
"You picked the best time to visit, you know," she said. I saw how bright her eyes were, how full of excitement she was.
"Why?"
"Why? Why, honey, it's Mardi Gras."
"Oh . . . no," I said, thinking to myself that it was the worst time to go, not the best. I had read and heard about New Orleans at Mardi Gras. I should have realized that was why she was all dressed up. The whole city would be festive. It wasn't the best time to arrive on my real father's doorstep.
"You act like you just stepped out of the swamp, honey."
I took a deep breath and nodded. She laughed.
"My name's Annie Gray," she said, offering her slim, smooth hand. I took it and shook. She had pretty rings on all her fingers, but one ring, the one on her pinky, looked like it was made out of bone and shaped like a tiny skull.
"I'm Ruby, Ruby Landry."
"Pleased to meet you. You got relatives in New Orleans?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "But I haven't seen them . . . ever."
"Oh, ain't that somethin'?"
The bus driver closed the door and started the bus away from the station. My heart began to race as I saw us drive by stores and houses I had known all my life. We passed the church and then the school, moving over the road I had walked almost every day of my life. Then we paused at an intersection and the bus turned in the direction of New Orleans. I had seen the road sign many times, and many times dreamt of following it. Now I was. In moments we were flying down the highway and Houma was falling farther and farther behind. I couldn't help but look back.
"Don't look back," Annie Gray said quickly. "What? Why not?"
"Bad luck," she replied.
I spun around to face forward.
"What?"
"Bad luck. Quick, cross yourself three times," she prescribed. I saw she was serious and so I did it.
"I don't need any more of that," I said. That made her laugh. She leaned forward and picked up her cloth bag. Then she dug into it and came up with something to place in my hand. I stared at it.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Piece of neck bone from a black cat. It's grisgris," she said. Seeing I was still confused, she added, "a magical charm to bring you good luck. My grandmere gave it to me. Voodoo," she added in a whisper.
"Oh. Well, I don't want to take your good luck piece," I said, handing it back. She shook her head.
"Bad luck for me to take it back now and worse luck for you to give it," she said. "I got plenty more, honey. Don't worry about that. Go on," she said, forcing me to wrap my fingers around the cat bone. "Put it away, but carry it with you all the time."
"Thank you," I said, and slipped it into my bag.
"I bet these relatives of yours are excited about seeing you, huh?"
"No," I said.
She tilted her head and smiled with confusion. "No? Don't they know you're comin'?"
I looked at her for a moment and then I looked forward again, straightening myself up in the seat.
"No," I said. "They don't even know I exist," I added.
The bus shot forward, its headlights slicking through the night, carrying me onward toward the future that awaited, a future just as dark and mysterious and as frightening as the unlit highway.
Book Two
.
10
An Unexpected
Friend
.
Annie Gray was so excited about arriving in
New Orleans during the Mardi Gras, she talked incessantly during the remainder of the trip. I sat with my knees together, my hands nervously twisting on my lap, but I was grateful for the conversation. Listening to her descriptions of previous Mardi Gras celebrations she had attended, I had little time to feel sorry for myself and worry about what would happen to me the moment I stepped off the bus. For the time being at least, I could ignore the troubled thoughts crowded into the darkest corners of my brain.
Annie came from New Iberia, but she had been to New Orleans at least a half-dozen times to visit her aunt, who she said was a cabaret singer in a famous nightclub in the French Quarter. Annie said she was going to live with her aunt in New Orleans from now on.
"I'm going to be a singer, too," she bragged. "My aunt is getting me my first audition in a nightclub on Bourbon Street. You know about the French Quarter, don'tcha, honey?" she asked.
"I know it's the oldest section of the city and there is a lot of music, and people have parties there all the time," I told her.
"That's right, honey, and it has the best restaurants and many nice shops and loads and loads of antique and art galleries."
&nb
"Uh-huh."
"Did you ever hear of Dominique's?"
She shrugged.
"I wouldn't know one from the other. Why?" "I have some of my artwork displayed there," I
said proudly.
"Really? Well, ain't that somethin'? You're an
artist." She looked impressed. "And you say you ain't
ever been to New Orleans before?"
I shook my head.
"Oh," she squealed, and squeezed my hand.
"You're in for a bundle of fun. You've got to tell me
where you'll be and I'll send you an invitation to come
hear me sing as soon as I get hired, okay?"
"I don't know where I'll be yet," I had to
confess. That slowed down her flood of excitement. She pulled herself back in her seat and scrutinized me
with a curious smile on her face.
"What do you mean? I thought you said you're
going to visit relatives," she said.
"I am. . . I . . . just don't know their address." I
allowed my eyes to meet hers briefly before they fled
to stare almost blindly at the passing scenery, which
right now was a blur of dark silhouettes and an
occasional lit window of a solitary house.
"Well, honey, New Orleans is a bit bigger than
downtown Houma," she said, laughing. "You got their
phone number at least, don'tcha?"
I turned back and shook my head. Numbness
tingled in my fingertips, perhaps because I had my
fingers locked so tightly together.
Her smile wilted and she narrowed her
turquoise eyes suspiciously as her gaze shifted to my
small bag and then back to me. Then she nodded to
herself and sat forward, convinced she knew it all. "You're runnin' away from home, ain'tcha?" she
asked. I bit down on my lower lip, but I couldn't stop
my eyes from tearing over. I nodded.
"Why?" she asked quickly. "You can tell Annie
Gray, honey. Annie Gray can keep a secret better than