'I'm afraid it's not.' I told him about my painting trip off campus and he smirked.
'That was it?'
I wanted to tell him more—how his cousin Mrs. Ironwood had it in for me for meeting him—but I decided not to add fuel to the fire. He looked relieved.
'So I pulled a little rank, so what? My cousin will get over it. I've never asked her for anything before. Grandmother wasn't overjoyed, of course.'
'I bet you did more than pull a little rank,' I said, stepping closer to the piano. 'I bet you pulled a little tantrum of your own.'
He laughed. 'Just a little.' He was silent a moment, and then he handed me a few pages of notes. 'Here,' he said. 'It's your song.'
At the top of the page was the title 'Ruby.'
'Oh. Thank you.' I put it into my purse.
'Would you like to take a walk through the gardens?' he asked. 'Or rather, I should say, take me for a walk?'
'Yes, I would.'
He stood up and offered me his hand.
'Just go through the patio doors and turn right,' he directed. He scooped his arm through mine and I led him along. It was a warm, partly cloudy morning, with just a small breeze. With amazing accuracy, he described the fountains, the hanging fern and philodendron plants, the oaks and bamboo trees and the trellises erupting with purple wisteria. He identified everything because of their scents, whether it be camellias or magnolias. He had the surroundings memorized according to aromas and knew just when we had reached a set of patio doors on the west side of the house that, he said, opened to his room.
'No one but the maids, Otis, and my grandmother have ever been in my room since my parents died,' he said. 'I'd like you to be the first outsider, if you like.'
'Yes, I would,' I said. He opened the patio door and we entered a rather large bedroom, which contained a dresser, an armoire, and a bed made of mahogany. Everything was very neat and as clean and polished as it would be had the maid just left. A portrait of a pretty blond woman was hung over the dresser.
'Is that a painting of your mother?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'She was very beautiful.'
'Yes, she was,' he said wistfully.
There were no pictures of his father or any pictures of his father and mother together. The only other paintings on the walls were of river scenes. There were no photographs in frames on the dresser either. Had he had all pictures of his father removed?
I gazed at the closed door that connected his room with the room I knew must have been his parents' bedroom, the room in which I had seen him curl up in emotional agonythat night.
'What do you think of my self-imposed cell?' he asked.
'It's a nice room. The furniture looks brand-new. You're a very neat person.'
He laughed.
And then he turned serious, letting go of my arm and moving to his bed. He ran his hand over the footboard and the post. 'I've slept in this bed since I was three years old. This door,' he said, turning around, 'opens to my parents' bedroom. My grandmother keeps it as clean and polished as any of the bedroom is still in use.'
'This must have been a nice place to grow up in,' I said. My heart had begun to pitter-patter, as if it sensed something my eyes had missed.
'It was and it wasn't,' he said. His lips twisted as he struggled with his memories. He moved to the door and pressed his palm against it. 'For years and years, this door was never locked,' he said. 'My mother and I . . . we were always very close.'
He continued to face the door and speak as if he could see through it into the past. 'Often in the morning, after my father had gotten up to get to work, she would come in and crawl up beside me in my bed and hold me close so I could wake up in her arms. And if anything ever frightened me . . . no matter how late or early, she would come to me or let me come to her.' He turned slowly. 'She was the only woman I have ever laid beside. Isn't that sad?'
'You're not very old, Louis. You'll find someone to love,' I said.
He laughed a strange, thin ugh.
'Who would love me? tt not only blind . . I’m twisted, as twisted and ugly as the Hunchback of Notre Dame?'
'Oh, but you're not. You're good-looking and you're very talented.'
'And rich, don't forget that.'
He walked back to the bed and took hold of the post. Then he ran his hand over the blanket softly.
'I used to lie here, hoping she would come to me, and if she didn't come on own, I would pretend to have been frightened by a bad dream just to bring her here,' he confessed. 'Is that so terrible?'
'Of course not.'
'My father thought it was,' he said angrily. 'He was always bawling her out for spoiling me and for lavishing too much attention on me.'
