Page 165

"My stomach," I said quickly. She smirked, but looked a bit more believing.

"They're not drinking liquor over there, are they?" she asked. I shook my head. "You wouldn't tell me if they were, would you?"

I. . .

"You don't have to answer. I know what it's like when a group of teenage girls get together. What surprises me is your letting a mere stomachache stop you from having fun," she said.

"I didn't want to spoil anyone else's," I said. She pulled her head back and nodded softly.

"Okay then, go to bed. If you get any sicker . . ."

"I'll be all right," I said quickly.

"Very good." She started to turn away.

"Why are all those candles lit in there?" I risked asking. Slowly, she turned back to me.

"Actually," she said, suddenly changing her tone of voice to a more reasonable and friendlier one, "I'm glad you saw all that, Ruby. Now you have some idea what I have to put up with from time to time. Your father has turned that room into a. . . into a. . . shrine. What's done is done," she said coldly. "Burning candles, mumbling apologies and prayers won't change things. But he's beyond reason. The whole thing is rather embarrassing, so don't discuss it with anyone and especially don't discuss it in front of the servants. I don't want Nina sprinkling voodoo powders and chanting all over the house.

"Is he in there now?"

She looked at the door.

"Yes," she said.

"I want to talk to him."

"He's not in the talking mood. The fact is, he's not himself. You don't want to talk to him or even see him like this. It would upset him afterward more than it would upset you now. Just go to sleep. You can talk to him in the morning," she said, and narrowed her eyes as a new thought crossed her suspicious mind. "Why is it so important for you to talk to him now anyway? What is it you want to tell him that you can't tell me? Have you done something else that's terrible?"

"No," I replied quickly.

"Then what did you want to say to him?" she pursued.

"I just wanted . . to comfort him."

"He has his priests and his doctors for that," she said. I was surprised she didn't say he had her, too. "Besides, if your stomach's bothering you so much you had to come home, how can you sit around talking to someone?" she followed quickly like a trial lawyer.

"It feels a little better," I said. She looked skeptical again. "But you're right. I'd better go to sleep," I added. She nodded and I walked to my room. She remained in the hallway watching me until I went inside.

I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to describe not only what had happened tonight, but the truth about the night with the rum and all the nasty things Gisselle had said and done at school, but I thought once I had drawn so sharp and clear a battle line between us, Gisselle and I would never be the sisters we were meant to be. She would hate me too much. Despite all that had already happened between us, I still clung to the hope that we would bridge the gap that all these years and different ways of living had created. I knew that right now I wanted that to happen more than Gisselle did, but I still thought she would eventually want it as much. In this hard and cruel world, having a sister or a brother, someone to care for you and love you was not something to throw away nonchalantly. I felt confident that someday, Gisselle would understand that.

I went to bed and lay there listening for my father's footsteps. Some time after midnight, I heard them: slow, ponderous steps outside my door. I heard him pause and then I heard him go on to his own room, exhausted, I was sure, from all the sorrow he had expressed in the room he had turned into a memorial to his brother. Why was his sorrow so long and so deep? I wondered. Did he blame himself?

The questions lingered in the darkness waiting for a chance to leap at the answers, like the old marsh hawk, patiently waiting for its prey.

I closed my eyes and rushed headlong into the darkness within me, the darkness that promised some relief.

The next morning it was my father who woke me, knocking on my bedroom door and poking his head in, his face so bright with smiles I wondered if I had dreamt the events of the night before. How could he move from such deep mental anguish to such a jolly mood? I wondered.

"Good morning;" he said when I sat up and ground the sleep out of my eyes with my small fists.

"Hi."

"Daphne told me you came home last night because you didn't feel well. How are you this morning?"

"Much better," I said.

"Good. have Nina prepare something soothing and easy to digest for you to have for breakfast. Just take it easy today. You've made quite a beginning with your art instructor, your schoolteachers. . . you deserve a day off, a day to do nothing but indulge yourself. Take a lesson from Gisselle," he added with a laugh.