door and into their laughter.
We took our seats and a young girl in a red apron with her hair tied in thick knots came to take our order. Daddy had a chicken and seafood gumbo and I ordered jambalaya.
I saw a poster advertising a
'What is that?' I asked. '
'That's a dance and big feed,' she said with her hand on her hip and her shoulder up. 'You ain't ever been to one?'
'No.'
'Where you from?'
'We're from New Orleans,' Daddy said, smiling.
'Oh. Well, you should come,' she said. 'You can do the two-step.' She leaned toward me and added, her eyes shifting toward the door, 'I know some boys who'd like to see you there.'
'We're not staying,' I said quickly.
Daddy laughed. He ordered a mug of beer for himself and I had iced tea.
'So,' he said 'What do you think of your mother's world so far? You don't remember much, obviously.'
'It's interesting,' I said in a loud whisper. 'But so different.'
Daddy nodded and smiled at a memory. 'When I first set eyes on your mother, I thought she was Gisselle. It was during Mardi Gras, and we were all getting into our costumes. I met her in front of the house, thinking Gisselle had dressed up like a poor girl. I should have realized Gisselle would never do anything like that, even for a costume party. I kept insisting she was Gisselle because I didn't even know Gisselle had a twin. After your mother's continued protests, I realized she was someone else, and I looked at her more closely. She was so fresh and natural, timid, but not afraid to say what she thought. Sometimes,' he said after a long pause, 'I wonder if she wouldn't have been better off if she'd remained here in this world.'
'But what about her grandfather, and the terrible thing he was doing, selling her to a man for his wife?' I reminded him.
'Yes, that's true. Every place has its problems, I guess.'
'Daddy, don't you think we should call or go see Aunt Jeanne?'
'Maybe after we check Cypress Woods,' he said. 'I'm not anxious to run into Gladys Tate.'
'Why does Aunt Jeanne's mother hate us so, Daddy? Is it just because of their losing the trial?'
'No. Gladys blamed your mother for what happened to her son Paul. After his death she started the custody battle even though she knew you weren't Paul's real daughter. She did it for revenge. She never wanted Paul to be with your mother, of course, and from what Ruby has told me, I understand she was never very pleasant to either of you after you moved to Cypress Woods.'
'Aunt Jeanne told me her mother was crippled up with arthritis these days. She doesn't get around much.'
'Yeah, well, hate twists and turns your insides until you become something even you despise,' Daddy said. 'It's best we avoid her.'
So much of Mommy's past was dark and unhappy. I understood why she had resorted to voodoo rituals and good-luck charms and why she believed that old curses followed in her shadow. Poor Mommy, I thought. She was in such torment.
Our food was delicious, but neither Daddy nor I had the appetite we expected. We were both thinking only about Mommy now. I hoped we would find her soon.
The roof of the mansion my uncle Paul had named Cypress Woods rose over the sycamore and cypress trees, looming higher and higher as we approached from the long driveway. The once beautiful grounds were overgrown, the flower beds choked with weeds, the fountains dry and littered with discarded junk here and there, and the gazebos had grass growing through the floorboards, weeds invading everywhere.
Off to the right were the canals and the swamps. A pirogue, tied to the dock, dipped and fell with the water. A large egret stood on the bow, its chest out as if it claimed the canoe. To the west we saw the oil wells and the rigs, and immediately visions from my recurring nightmare flashed in my mind. To me it was a bad omen. I leaned down and touched the good-luck dime Mommy had given me.
'Are you all right?' Daddy asked. He knew the oil rigs were always in my nightmare.
'Yes,' I said after taking a deep breath. I turned to the house. It resembled a Greek temple. Across the upstairs galerie ran a diamond-design iron railing. On both sides of the house, wings had been constructed to echo the predominant elements of the main building.
Daddy stopped at the front and we sat in the car staring up slate steps to the portico and lower galerie. The windows were boarded. The vines that ran along the scrolled gates had gone wild and crisscrossed themselves, choking out the weaker sections so that they draped brown and dead over the iron works.
'Doesn't look like anyone's been here for ages,' Daddy said, discouraged.
We got out of the car and started up the steps. We walked between the great columns, and Daddy tried the front door. It wasn't locked, but it was warped, so he had to push hard to open it. We paused in the Spanish-tiled entryway. The foyer was designed to take away the breath of visitors the moment they set foot in this mansion, for it was not only vast and long but so high-ceilinged that our footsteps and our voices echoed.
Above us hung the once dazzling chandeliers, the teardrop bulbs now as dull as unpolished rock. The furniture had been covered but no one had cleaned or dusted for years. Great cobwebs sailed over us from every corner. Mirrors were caked with dust, and there were rodent droppings everywhere. The interior had a stale, musty odor, especially with the afternoon sun cooking the stagnant air.
Before us was the circular stairway, twice as wide and as elaborate at the one in the House of Dumas. We
