V.C. Andrews - Ruby: the Landry ; tome 1

RUBY BY V. C. ANDREWS

"We're not doing anything special for supper tonight, Ruby,"

Grandmere told

me. "I hope you didn't give the Tate boy that impression." "Oh, no, Grandmere. Besides, Paul isn't that kind of a boy. You wouldn't even know his family was wealthy. He's so different from his mother and sisters.

Everyone in school says they're stuck up, but not Paul." "Maybe, but you don't live the way the Tates live and not get to expect certain things.

It's just human nature. The higher you build him up in your mind, Ruby, the harder the fall of disappointment is going to be," she warned. "I'm not afraid of that, Grandmere," I said with such certainty that she paused to gaze at me. "You've been a good girl, haven't you, Ruby?" "Oh yes, Grandmere." "Don't ever forget what happened to your mother," she admonished

During the first fifteen years of my life, my birth and the events surrounding it were a mystery; as much a mystery as the number of stars

that shone in the night sky over the bayou or where the silvery catfish hid on days when Grandpere couldn't catch one to save his life. I knew my mother only from the stories Grandmere Catherine and Grandpere lack told me and from the few faded sepia photographs of her that we had in pewter frames. It seemed that for as long as I could remember, I always felt remorseful when I stood at her grave and gazed at the simple tombstone that read: Gabrielle Landry Born May 1, 1927

Died October 27, 1947

for my birth date and the date of her death were one and the same.

Everyday

and every night, I carried in my secret heart the ache of guilt when my birthday came around, despite the great effort Grandmere went through to make it a happy

day. I knew it was as hard for her to be joyful as it was for me. But over and above my mother's sad, sad death when I was born, there were dark questions I could never ask, even if I knew how, because I'd be much too scared it would make my grandmother's face, usually so loving, take on that closed, hooded look I dreaded. Some days she sat silently in her rocker and stared at me for what seemed like hours. Whatever the answers were, the truth had torn my grandparents to pieces; it had sent Grandpere Jack into the swamp to live alone in his shack. And from that day forward, Grandmere Catherine could not think of him without great anger flashing from her eyes and sorrow burning in her heart. The unknown lingered over our house in the bayou; it

hung in the spiderwebs that turned the swamps into a jeweled world on moonlit nights; it was draped over the cypress trees like the Spanish moss that dangled over their branches. I heard it in the whispering warm summer breezes and in the water lapping against the clay. I even felt it in the piercing glance of the marsh hawk, whose yellow circled eyes followed my every move. I hid from the answers just as much as I longed to know them. Words that carried enough weight and power to keep two people apart who should love and cherish each other could only fill me with fear. I would sit by my window and stare into the darkness of the swamp on a warm, spring night, letting the breeze that swept in over the swamps from the Gulf of Mexico cool my face; and I would listen to the owl. But instead of his unearthly cry of "Who, Who,

Who," I would hear him call "Why, Why, Why" and I would embrace myself more tightly to keep the trembling from reaching my pounding heart.

Grandmere's Powers A loud and desperate rapping on our screen door echoed through the house and drew both my and Grandmere Catherine's attention from our work. That night we were upstairs in the grenier, the loom room, weaving the cotton jaune into blankets we would sell at the stand in front of our house on weekends when the tourists came to the bayou. I held my breath. The knocking came again, louder and more frantic. "Go down and see who's there, Ruby," Grandmere Catherine whispered loudly. "Quickly. And if it's your Grandpere Jack soaked in that swamp whiskey again, shut the door as fast as you can," she added, but something in the way her dark eyes widened said she knew this was someone else and something far more frightening and unpleasant.

A strong breeze had kicked up behind the thick layers of dark clouds that enclosed us like a shroud, hiding the quarter moon and stars in the April Louisiana sky. This year spring had been more like summer. The days and nights were so hot and humid I found mildew on my shoes in the morning. At noon the sun made the goldenrod glisten and drove the gnats and flies into a frenzy to find cool shade. On

clear nights I could see where the swamp's Golden Lady spiders had come out to erect their giant nets for their nightly catch of beetles and mosquitos.

We had stretched fabric over our windows that kept out the insects but let in whatever cool breeze came up from the Gulf. I hurried down the stairs and through the narrow hallway that ran straight from the rear of the house to

the front. The sight of Theresa Rodrigues's face with her nose against the screen stopped me in my tracks and turned my feet to led. She looked as white as a water lily, her coffee black hair wild and her eyes full of terror. "Where's your Grandmere?" she cried frantically. I called out to my grandmother and then stepped up to the door. Theresa was a short, stout girl three years older than I. At eighteen, she was the oldest of five children. I knew her mother was about to have another. What's wrong, Theresa?" I asked, joining her on the galerie. "Is it your mother?" Immediately, she burst into tears, her heavy bosom heaving and falling with the sobs, her face in her hands. I looked back into the house in time to see Grandmere Catherine come down the stairs, toke one look at Theresa, and crossed herself.

"Speak

quickly, child," Grandmere Catherine demanded, rushing up to the door. "My

mama gave birth to a dead baby," Theresa wailed. "Mon Dieu,"

Grandmere

Catherine said, and crossed herself once more. "I felt it," she muttered, her eyes turned to me. I recalled the moments during our weaving when she had raised her gaze and had seemed to listen to the sounds of the night.

The cry

of a raccoon had sounded like the cry of a baby. "My father sent me to fetch you," Theresa moaned through her tears. Grandmere Catherine nodded and squeezed Theresa's hand reassuringly. "I'm coming right away."

"Thank you,

Mrs. Landry. Thank you," Theresa said, and shot off the porch and into the night, leaving me confused

and frightened. Grandmere Catherine was already gathering her things and filling a split oak basket. Quickly, I went back inside. "What does Mr.

Rodrigues want, Grandmere? What can you do for them now?"

When Grandmere was

summoned at night, it usually meant someone was very sick or in pain. No matter what it was, my stomach would tingle as if I had swallowed a dozen flies that buzzed around and around inside. "Get the butane lantern,"

she

ordered instead of answering I hurried to do so. Unlike the frantic Theresa Rodrigues whose terror had lit her way through the darkness, we would need the lantern to go from the front porch and over the marsh grass to the inky black gravel highway. To Grandmere the overcast night sky carried an ominous meaning, especially tonight. As soon as we stepped out and she looked up, she shook her head and muttered, "Not a good sign. "Behind us and beside us, the swamp seemed to come alive with her dark words. Frogs croaked, night birds cawed, and gators slithered over the cool mud. At fifteen I was already two

inches taller than Grandmere Catherine who was barely five feet four in her moccasins. Diminutive in size, she was still the strongest woman I knew, for besides her wisdom and her grit, she carried the powers of a Traiteur, a treater; she was a spiritual healer, someone unafraid to do battle with evil, no matter how dark or insidious that evil was. Grandmere always seemed to have a solution, always seemed to reach back in her bag of cure alls and rituals and manage to find the proper course of action. It was something unwritten, something handed down to her, and whatever was not handed down, she magically knew herself. Grandmere was left handed, which to all of us Cajuns meant she could have spiritual powers. But I thought her power came from her dark onyx eyes. She was never afraid of anything. Legend had it that one night in the swamp she had come face to face with the Grim Reaper himself