"The table," he said again, nodding at it.

"I thought . . . I would be brought to a hospital," I said.

"Hospital?" He looked at the nurse, who shook her head without speaking. She didn't look up, nor did she look at me. "This is your first time, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, my voice cracking. My heart was pounding, and I felt the beads of sweat forming on my neck and brow.

"Well, it won't take long," he said. His nurse picked up an instrument that looked like Grandpère Jack's hand drill. I felt my stomach do a flip-flop.

"This is a mistake," I said. "I'm supposed to go to a clinic."

I backed away, shaking my head. Neither the doctor nor the nurse had even introduced themselves.

"This can't be right," I said.

"Now look here, young lady. I'm doing your mother a favor. I left my house, rushed my dinner to come down here. There's no time for foolishness."

"Foolishness is what got you here," the heavy woman said, scowling. "You play, you pay," she added. "Get on the table."

I shook my head.

"No. This isn't right. No," I said again. I backed myself to the door and found the knob. "No."

"I have no time for this," the doctor warned.

"I don't care. This isn't right." I turned around to pull open the door. In an instant I was down the dingy corridor and out the rear entrance. My driver was still sitting in the car behind the wheel, his cap over his eyes, his head back, sleeping. I rapped on the window and he jumped.

"Take me home!" I screamed.

He got out quickly and opened the rear door.

"Madame told me it would be awhile," he said, confused.

"Just drive," I screamed. He shrugged but got back into the car and pulled away. Moments later we were back on the highway. I looked back at the dark, murky town. It was as if I had gone in and out of a nightmare.

But when I turned and looked ahead, the reality of what awaited me hit me like a gust of hurricane wind. Daphne would be furious; she would make my life even more miserable. We approached a fork in the road. The arrow on the sign pointed left to indicate the direction of New Orleans, but it also had an arrow pointing right, toward Houma.

"Stop!" I ordered.

"What?" The driver pressed his foot down on the brake and turned around. "What now, mademoiselle?" he asked.

I hesitated. My whole life seemed to flash by me: Grandmère Catherine waiting for me when I returned from school, running up to her with my pigtails flying, embracing her and trying to tell her as fast as I could about all the things that I had learned and done at school. Paul in a pirogue coming out from a bend and waving to me, and me rushing down to the shore to join him, a picnic lunch under my arms. Grandmère Catherine's last words, my promises, walking off to get on the bus to New Orleans. Arriving at the mansion in the Garden District. Daddy's soft, loving eyes, the excitement in his face when he realized who I was.. All of it rushed by in moments.

I opened the car door.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Just go back to New Orleans, Charles," I told him.

"What?" he said in disbelief.

"Tell Madame Dumas . . . tell her she is finally rid of me," I said, and started walking toward Houma.

Charles waited, confused. But when I disappeared in the darkness, he pulled away and the sleek limousine went on without me, its rear lights growing smaller and smaller until it was completely gone, and I was alone on the highway.

A year before I had left Houma thinking I was going home.

The truth was that right now I was returning to the only home I had ever known.


18

  Why Me?

The tears streamed down my face faster and harder as I continued walking through the darkness. Cars and trucks rushed by me, some honking their horns, but I walked on and on until I came to a gas station. It was closed, but there was a telephone booth beside it. I dialed Beau's number and prayed with all my heart that Beau had talked his family into permitting him to stay in New Orleans. As the phone rang, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and caught my breath. Garton, the Andreas family butler, answered.

"May I speak with Beau, please, Garton?" I said quickly. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but Monsieur Beau is not here," he said.

"Do you know where he is or when he will return?" asked with desperation in my voice.

"He's on his way to the airport, mademoiselle." "Tonight? He's going away tonight?"

"Oui, mademoiselle. I am sorry. Is there a message, mademoiselle?"

"No," I said weakly. "No message. Merci beaucoup, Garton."

I cradled the receiver slowly and let my head fall against the phone. Beau was leaving before we had even had a chance to say goodbye. Why didn't he just run away and come to me? I asked myself but then realized how unreasonable and foolish such an act would have been. What good would it have done for him to give up his family and his future?

I sighed deeply and sat back. The dark clouds that had covered the moon slipped off and the pale white light illuminated the road, making it look like a trail of bones that led into yet deeper darkness. I had made a decision back there, I thought. There was nothing to do now but carry it out. I started to walk again.

The sound of a truck horn blaring behind me spun me around just as the driver of a tractor-trailer slowed it down to a stop. He leaned out the passenger-side window and gazed down at me.

"What in all tarnation are you doin' walking along this highway in the dead of night?" he demanded. "Don't you know how dangerous that is?"

"I'm going home," I said.

"And where's that?"

"Houma."

He roared. "You're planning on walking to Houma?"

"Yes sir," I said in a sorrowful voice. The realization of just how many miles I had to go set in when he laughed at me.

"Well, you're in luck. I'm passing through Houma," he said, and swung the door open. "Git yourself up and in here. Come on," he added, when I hesitated, "fore I change my mind."

I stepped up and into the truck and closed the door. "Now how is it a girl your age is walkin' all by herself on this highway?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the road. He looked like a man in his fifties and had some gray hair mixed in with his dark brown.

"I just decided to go home," I said,

He turned and looked at me, then nodded with understanding. "I got a daughter about your age. She run off once. Got about five miles away before she realized people want money for food and lodging, and strangers don't usually give a tinker's damn about you. She high-tailed it back as fast as she could when a skunk of a man made her a nasty offer. Git my meaning?"

"Yes sir."

"Same could have happened to you tonight, walking this lonely road all by yerself. Your parents are probably out of their mind with worry too. Now don't you feel foolish?"

"Yes sir, I do."

"Good. Well, fortunately, no harm come of it, but before you go runnin' off to what you think are greener pastures next time, you better sit yourself down and count the blessings you have," he advised.

I smiled. "I certainly will do that," I said.

"Well, no harm done," he said. "Truth is, when I was about your age . . . no," he added, looking at me again, "I guess younger . . . I done run off myself." He laughed at the memory and then began to tell me his story. I realized that driving a truck for long distances was a lonely life, and this kind man had picked me up for the company as much as to do a good deed.

By the time we'd pulled into Houma, I had learned how he and his family had left Texas, where he had gone to school, why he'd married his childhood sweetheart, how he'd built his own home, and how he'd become a truck driver. He wasn't aware of how much he had been talking until he brought the truck to a stop.

"Tarnation! We're here already and I didn't even ask you your name, did I?"

"It's Ruby," I said. And then, as if to symbolically emphasize my return, I added, "Ruby Landry," for I was a Landry again as far as the people of Houma were concerned. "Thank you," I said.

"All right. You think twice 'fore you go running off to be a big-city girl, hear?"

"I will." I got out of the truck. After I had watched him pull away and disappear around a turn, I started to walk home. As I ambled down the familiar streets, I recalled the many times Grandmère Catherine and I came into town together or went visiting one of her friends together. I recalled the times she took me with her on one of her traiteur missions, and I remembered how much the people loved and respected her. Suddenly the thought of returning to that toothpick-legged shack of ours without her being there seemed terrifying, and then there was the prospect of confronting Grandpère Jack. Paul had told me so many sad stories about him.

I paused at another pay phone and dug some more change out of my purse, this time to call Paul. His sister Jeanne answered.

"Ruby?" she said. "My gosh! It's been so long since I've spoken to you. Are you calling from New Orleans?"

"No," I said.

"Where are you?"

"I'm . . . here," I said.

"Here? Oh, that's wonderful. Paul!" she screamed. "Come to the phone. It's Ruby, and she's here!"

A moment later I heard his warm and loving voice, a voice that I needed so desperately to give me comfort and hope.

"Ruby? You're here?"

"Yes, Paul. I've come home. It's too long a story to tell you on the phone, but I wanted you to know."

"You're returning to the shack?" he asked incredulously. "Yes." I explained where I was and he told me not to take another step.