Daphne's tone was always critical and harsh. Instead of showing him compassion and understanding, she complained about her own new problems and insisted that he was only making things more difficult for her. Never did she first consider him and how he was suffering.

So it came as no surprise to me that she wouldn't waste a moment telling him about what she had found in my art studio and what it meant. I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself, for I knew how devastating this would be on top of what had already occurred. Whipped about by what he considered divine retribution for some past sins, he absorbed Daphne's revelations like a condemned man hearing that his final appeal for mercy had been denied. He offered no resistance to her decision to shut up my art studio and end my private art lessons, nor did he utter a single word of protest when she sentenced me to what amounted to practically house arrest.

Naturally, I was not to see or speak to Beau. In fact, I was forbidden to use the telephone. I was to return home directly from school each and every day and either assist Mrs. Warren with Gisselle's needs or do my homework. To reinforce her ironclad hold over me and Daddy, Daphne called me into the study and cross-examined me in his presence, just to prove to him that beyond a doubt, I was as bad as she had predicted I would be.

"You have conducted yourself like a little tramp," she declared, "even using your art talents as a way to be sexually promiscuous. And in my house!

"Most embarrassing of all, you have corrupted the son of one of the most highly respected Creole families in New Orleans. They are beside themselves with grief over this.

"Have you anything to say in your own defense?" she asked like some high court judge.

I raised my eyes and gazed at Daddy who sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes glassy. The way he was, it made no sense for me to speak. I didn't think he would hear or understand a word and Daphne was sure to belittle and destroy anything I would offer as an excuse or justification. I shook my head and looked down again.

"Then go to your room and be sure you do exactly what I have told you to do," she ordered, and I left.

Beau was punished as well. His parents took away his car and restricted his social activities for a month. When I saw him in school, he looked broken and subdued. His friends had heard he had gotten in trouble, but they didn't know the details.

"I'm sorry," he told me. "This is all my fault. I got you and myself into a pot of boiling water."

"I didn't do anything I didn't want to do, Beau, and you and I do care for each other, don't we?"

"Yes," he said. "But there's not much I can do about it now. At least until everyone calms down, if they ever do. I never saw my father this angry. Daphne really got to him. She put most of the blame on you," he said, quickly adding,

But my father thinks you're some kind of seductress. He called you a femme fatale, whatever that means." He gazed about us nervously. "If he even hears I'm talking to you . . ."

"I know," I said sadly, and described my punishments, too. He apologized again and hurried off.

Gisselle was ecstatic. When I saw her after Daphne had told her the details, she was positively buoyant with glee. Even Mrs. Warren said Gisselle was more exuberant and energetic than ever, performing her rituals of therapy without complaint.

"I begged Mother to let me see the drawing," she said. "But she told me she had already destroyed it. You sit right down here and tell me every detail," she ordered. "How did you get him to take off all his clothes? What position was he in when he posed? What did you draw . . . everything?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Gisselle," I said.

"Oh yes you do," she snapped. "I'm stuck in here doing stupid exercises with that grouchy nurse all day or doing the homework the tutor prescribes while you're out there having loads of fun. You have to tell me everything. When did this happen? Recently? After you drew him, what did you do? Did you take off your clothes, too? Answer me!" she screamed.

How I wished I could sit down and talk to her. How I wished I had a sister in whom I could confide, a sister who would give me loving advice and be compassionate and caring. But Gisselle just wanted to be titillated and relish my discomfort and pain.

"I can't talk about it," I insisted, and turned away.

"You'd better!" she screamed after me. "You'd better or I'll tell them about the voodoo queen. Ruby! Ruby, get back in here this instant!"

I knew she would go through with her threat, and that on top of everything else at this point would surely drive poor Daddy into a depression from which he would never emerge. Trapped, chained by my own honest confessions to Gisselle, I returned and let her pump me for the details.

"I knew it," she said, smiling with satisfaction. "I knew he would seduce you some day."

"He didn't seduce me. We care about each other," I insisted, but she just laughed.

"Beau Andreas cares about Beau Andreas. You're a fool, a stupid little Cajun fool," she said. Then she smiled again. "Go get me my bedpan. I have to pee."

"Get it yourself," I retorted, and jumped up.

"Ruby!"

I didn't stop. I ran out of her room this time and into my own where I sprawled on my bed and buried my face in my pillow. Would I have been any more abused by Buster and Grandpère Jack? I wondered.

A few hours later, I was surprised by a knock on my door. I turned, ground away any lingering tears, and called out, "Come in." I was expecting Daddy, but it was Daphne. She stood there with her arms folded, but she didn't look angry this time.

"I've been thinking about you," she said in a calmer tone of voice. "I haven't changed my opinion of you and the things you have done, nor do I intend to lessen your punishments, but I have decided to give you an opportunity to repent for your evil ways and especially make things up to your father. Are you interested?"

"Yes," I said, and held my breath. "What do I have to do?"

"This Saturday is your uncle Jean's birthday. Normally, Pierre would go visit him, but Pierre is not in a state of mind to visit anyone, especially not his mentally handicapped younger brother," she said. "So, as usual, the difficult tasks fall to me. I will be going and I thought it might be decent of you to accompany me and represent your father.

"Of course, Jean won't understand who you really are, but—"

"Oh, yes," I said, hardly containing my excitement. "I've always wanted to do that anyway."

"Have you?" She held me in her critical gaze for a moment, pressing her lips together. "Fine then. We'll leave early in the morning Saturday. Wear something appropriate. expect you understand what I mean when I say that now," she added.

"Yes, Mother. Thank you."

"Oh, one more thing," she said before turning. "Don't mention this to Pierre. It will only make him feel worse. We'll tell him when we return. Do you understand?'

"Yes," I said.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," she concluded, and left.

Right thing? Of course she was doing the right thing. Finally, I would be able to make a significant contribution toward my father's happiness. As soon as I returned from the institution, I would run right to him and describe every moment I had spent with Jean in detail. I went right to my closet to decide what would be appropriate to Daphne.

When I told Gisselle about my accompanying Daphne to visit Uncle Jean, she looked very surprised. "Uncle Jean's birthday? Only Mother would remember something like that."

"I think it's nice she asked me," I said.

"I'm glad she didn't ask me to go. I hate that place. It's so depressing. All those disturbed people and young people our age, too."

Nothing she could say would diminish my excitement. When Saturday morning finally arrived, I was dressed hours earlier than I had to be and took extra care with my hair, returning to the mirror a half-dozen times to be sure every strand was in place. I knew how critical Daphne could be.

I was disappointed to discover that Daddy hadn't come down to breakfast. Even though we weren't supposed to tell him where we were going, I wanted him to see how nice I looked.

"Where's Daddy?" I asked Daphne.

"He knows what day it is," she explained after looking me over from head to toe. "It's left him in one of his deeper melancholic states. Wendy will bring a tray up to him later."

We ate and then a short time afterward left for the institute. Daphne was quiet for most of the trip, except when I asked her questions.

"How old is Uncle Jean today?" I queried.

"He's thirty-six," she replied.

"Did you know him before?"

"Of course I knew him," she said. I thought I detected a slight smile on her lips. "I daresay there wasn't an eligible young woman in New Orleans who didn't."

"How long has he been in the institution?"

"Almost fifteen years."

"What's he like? I mean, what's his condition like now?" I pursued. She looked like she wasn't going to reply.

Finally, she said, "Why don't you just wait and see. Save your questions for the doctors and nurses," she added, which I thought was a strange thing to say.

The institute was a good twenty miles out of the city. It was off the highway, up a long, winding driveway, but it had beautiful grounds with sprawling weeping willows, rock gardens, and fountains, as well as little walkways that had quaint little wooden benches all along the way. As we approached, I saw some older people being escorted by attendants.

After she pulled our car into a parking space and shut off the engine, Daphne turned to me.