I couldn’t have discovered a more American boy than Clifford Lalande. He was good-looking, earnest and energetic in that way only Americans can be. When he showed me into his family home, leading the way with a springy gait, it was like being escorted towards a festive Christmas tree by an excited child.
‘Come in! Welcome!’ he said, giving me less than a second to admire the ornately carved front door with its lion’s head knocker. The entrance hall was a combination of oak floors and mahogany panelling. A marble bust of the Venus de Milo was perched on a pedestal in one corner, while a chalkware plaster statue of Jesus sat between two Boston ferns. The air was filled with a rich, buttery aroma. Someone had been baking.
‘I hope you don’t mind me taking off my jacket,’ said Clifford, opening a door to a closet under the stairs and placing it on a hanger. ‘The weather’s cooling, but it’s still humid for this time of year.’
Before he shut the closet again I caught a glimpse of tennis racquets, baseball mitts and golf clubs spilling over the shelves.
‘Hello!’
I looked up to see a young woman coming down the stairs. With her pixie haircut and outdoorsy good looks, I knew that she was Clifford’s sister even before he introduced us. Her grey eyes and dimples were a perfect match to his and her smile radiated the same vivacity.
‘Oh, there you are, Kitty,’ said Clifford, ushering her towards me. ‘This is Miss Vivienne de Villeray, the charming tour guide I was telling you about.’
Despite her petite size, Kitty grabbed my hand like a man and shook it vigorously. ‘I’m Cliff’s sister. He’s been watching you from his window with a pair of binoculars.’
‘Oh, come on, Kitty, don’t say that,’ Clifford chided her. ‘You make me sound like a spy with the House Un-American Activities Committee.’
‘Or you’re a sandwich short of a picnic,’ Kitty quipped.
Clifford winked at me. ‘Sisters! Do you have one yourself? If not, you can have mine.’
He and Kitty led me into a parlour with a carved wooden mantelpiece and a Régence-style gold-leaf mirror above it and two orderly oak bookshelves on either side.
‘This house has been in our family since 1890,’ Clifford said. ‘I’ve travelled all around Europe and I’ve never found anywhere as wonderful as home.’
Everything I laid eyes on — the cluster of family photographs in gilt carved frames on the mantelpiece, the monogrammed stationery and the Montblanc pen and stand on the writing desk, the long silk curtains at the windows — radiated wealth. But not shallow wealth. Rather the house had an air of quiet prosperity that created ease and suggested it valued good books and conversation more than it did showiness. It was as lovely on the inside as it was on the outside.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, offering me a place on the carved walnut sofa. ‘I can smell that Mother has made her famous chocolate cake.’ He turned to Kitty. ‘Go ask Philomena to make us some tea and let Mother know that we have a guest.’
Although the apartment I shared with my mother and Mae was crumbling around us, the atmosphere at home was always formal. At Maman’s insistence, we all dressed before leaving our rooms, and had our meals at set times. Visitors only came by invitation, which were issued on cream-coloured cards with the family crest at the top. Although there was nothing in the Lalandes’ home that was shabby or in need of repair or painting, the mood was decidedly informal. I had a sense that anything could happen.
And it did. Having completed her errands, Kitty returned wearing a white dress and veil.
‘Mother is on her way,’ she told Clifford. ‘I want to show off my wedding dress. It was finished today.’
Clifford grinned at me. ‘I do believe my sister has taken a liking to you. It’s a compliment. She’s usually harshly judgemental, especially of other women.’
Although being asked to view the wedding dress of a woman I’d just met was an unfamiliar experience for me, I stood up to admire the floral lace of the tea-length skirt.
‘The portrait neckline is so sweet on you,’ I told Kitty. ‘When are you getting married?’
‘In March,’ she said, smoothing her lace sleeves. ‘Here in the house. My parents were married in this room, and I hope Eddie and I will be as happy.’
‘I’m sure you will be,’ I told her.
A Labrador retriever ran in and around the room before stopping in front of each of us in turn to sniff at our feet. His wagging tail knocked a bowl of wrapped candies to the floor, but neither Clifford nor Kitty batted an eye. The dog disappeared back into the hall, panting excitedly, and returned a few minutes later at the side of a tall woman in a teal blue dress.
‘I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to come down,’ said the woman, smoothing her hair. ‘I’ve been on the telephone all afternoon.’
Clifford and I stood as he introduced us. ‘Mother, this is Vivienne de Villeray.’
Mrs Lalande’s gaze fell to the voodoo charm around my neck. I’d forgotten about it. I was tempted to cover it with my hand, but to my surprise Mrs Lalande smiled.
‘You’re a Creole!’ she said. ‘How positively charming.’
Mrs Lalande wasn’t as attractive as her children. Her ash-brown hair was unkempt, and although the wing-collared dress she wore was made of expensive silk, the flared skirt was crushed and the sleeves were rolled up as if she’d been involved in manual work. Yet when she smiled, her eyes lit up and her face shone in a way that made her captivating.
‘Well, do sit down, Miss de Villeray,’ she said, seating herself on the sofa and patting the place next to her. ‘I’ve been speaking with the Mayor this afternoon and I’m bored of it. I want to know how an adorable young lady like you has come to grace us with her lovely presence.’
Mrs Lalande was catching me in her spell. I wasn’t used to being spoken to so kindly, except by Maman of course. Most of the women in our circle had always been cold to me, seeing my beauty as a threat to their daughters’ marriage prospects. Since my debut of course, they merely gloated.
‘Call me Ruby, please,’ I told her. Although I was brought up to always use proper names except between family and close friends, the immediate intimacy with which the Lalande family had embraced me made it seem natural to drop that formality and let her address me as Ruby.
‘Ruby leads walking tours around the Garden District,’ Kitty explained to her mother. ‘She’s been stopping by our house on the way.’
‘Is that so?’ said Mrs Lalande, glancing at her daughter and not seeming in the least perturbed that Kitty was wearing her wedding dress. She turned back to me. ‘Well, then we must give you a history of this house. It has a rather fascinating past. It was built in 1890 by my husband’s grandfather who wanted to create a charming house for his equally charming wife, Amandine. We have some pictures from that period that we must show you one day when you have a lot of time. My husband loves history and will talk your ear off if you let him.’
A coloured maid wearing horn-rimmed glasses arrived pushing a trolley holding teacups and a teapot and a rich-smelling chocolate cake on a crystal platter. After the mini-feast was served, we all fell quiet as we delighted in the decadent moist cake.
‘This is certainly the best chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten,’ I told Mrs Lalande sincerely.
‘The coffee and vanilla elevate the flavour of the chocolate,’ she explained. ‘And I use only the best-quality chocolate. If you use the best of anything, you don’t need to eat so much to be satisfied.’
After we’d finished our slices of cake, Mrs Lalande insisted that Clifford and Kitty give me a tour of the rest of the house.
‘I’ll have to excuse myself, Ruby,’ she told me. ‘I have many letters to write this evening. We are trying to convince the Latter Memorial Library to integrate and it’s taking some persuasion to convince the board that giving coloured folks inferior libraries means they can’t get the same quality of education as white people do.’
‘Mother and Kitty are members of the Urban League
,’ Clifford said proudly.
I’d heard about the organisation. They were a mixed-race group working towards improving opportunities for coloured people.
‘Well, I wish you the best of luck,’ I told her. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’
‘The pleasure has been all mine, I assure you,’ said Mrs Lalande. She turned to the Labrador who was chewing on a ball in the corridor. ‘Come, Theodore, we have some work to do.’
The rest of the Lalande home was as beautifully appointed as the parlour. Clifford and Kitty showed me the elegant dining room with its twelve-foot-long table and Prince of Wales chairs, a sitting room with two fireplaces, and a breakfast room with lace curtains and a view of the garden.
‘The furnishings have come from all over the United States and Europe,’ Kitty explained. ‘Each generation adds something of their own to the mix.’
‘Our present generation’s contribution is the Frigidaire and our television set!’ said Clifford, grinning.
Indeed the kitchen, where the Frigidaire was located, was the only room that had been modernised, with enamelled steel cabinets and an electric range.
We returned to the parlour for another round of tea and chocolate cake.
‘Have you been guiding long, Ruby?’ Kitty asked me. ‘I think it’s marvellous that young women like yourself show visitors around our special city and raise funds for civic causes. I’ve often thought of taking it up.’
I realised that Kitty had assumed I was a volunteer guide, like the socialite women who ran tours at the Louisiana State Museum. I wished that were the case. I was the descendant of a family who had once been favourites of the French king: a woman of my distinguished bloodline did not tramp around the streets for money. But that was exactly what I was doing.
It was too awkward to tell the truth so I went along with Kitty’s assumption. ‘It is very rewarding, but I haven’t been doing it long.’
‘Well, I think Cliff and I should join you one afternoon. It would be most entertaining.’
While I was wondering how I was going to prevent that ever happening, the grandfather clock struck five thirty and I seized the opportunity.
‘Goodness me, is that the time?’ I said, checking my watch. ‘I’d better be getting home. My mother will be expecting me.’
‘I’ll escort you to the streetcar,’ said Clifford, standing. ‘But first let me quickly show you the garden.’
‘Gosh, it is late,’ said Kitty. ‘Eddie’s coming over for dinner and I can’t let him see me in my wedding dress. I’d better hurry and get changed.’ She shook my hand again with the same vigour as when she’d greeted me. ‘Cliff’s really taking you out into the garden because he wants to impress you with the gymnasium he’s set up for himself,’ she said with a parting wink.
‘You have a gymnasium?’ I asked as I followed him into the garden.
‘Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ he said, leading me past beds of gardenias and azaleas towards a potting shed. He opened the door for me to look inside. ‘I’ve commandeered this from the gardener for my own purposes.’
Inside the shed was a stand with weights and a set of parallel bars. A punching bag was suspended from one of the roof beams.
‘That’s a fine set-up,’ I said. ‘You must be fit.’
‘I used to be a scrawny kid and uncoordinated too,’ Clifford explained. ‘When a boy pushed Kitty over at a children’s party, I took him on and got myself hammered. I learned right then that if I intended to be chivalrous in life I needed to back it up with physical strength. I tried baseball, football and basketball and was hopeless at all of them. Then I tried boxing and discovered that I was surprisingly good at it. It’s the only thing I do with any sort of grace.’
On one wall was a shelf filled with trophies and ribbons, a testament to his skills.
‘Are you a professional boxer now?’ I asked him. ‘Surely you can’t be an amateur. Look at all your awards!’
He grinned. ‘I guess in a way I am a professional boxer. I’m a lawyer. I used to work in the district attorney’s office, but now my father is planning to retire I’ve taken over his practice.’
My only experience of lawyers had been with those representing the creditors who had made Maman divide our house into apartments after my father’s death in order to pay off his debts. I didn’t have a high opinion of them.
‘But doesn’t that mean you end up defending the strong against the weak?’ I asked. ‘A lawyer always represents his client’s best interests, even if that client is guilty of causing harm to another party.’
Clifford’s face turned serious when he answered me. ‘I served in the war. Believe me, what I experienced in Nazi Germany left an impression on me. You’ve got to do what’s right, even if it hurts you, otherwise the human race is headed for disaster.’
I remembered the day in Avery’s Ice Cream Parlor when I hadn’t helped the coloured man whose suit was ruined by the white people attacking him.
‘It takes a courageous person to stand up for others,’ I said. ‘When I was eight years old, my mother took me for a trip to Avery Island. We stopped at a drugstore along the way and the sales clerk offered Maman postcards showing pictures of lynchings. Most of them seemed historical, but you could tell from the clothing of the spectators in one of them that it was recent. “There’s a discount if you buy more than ten,” the clerk told her. Maman left the things she was going to purchase on the counter and hurried out of the store, pulling me after her. It was the first time I heard the term “nigger lover” — that’s what the clerk shouted at Maman as we ran away.’
Clifford was thoughtfully quiet as he guided me around a pond towards the summerhouse.
‘I know you don’t have much time, Ruby,’ he said, indicating for me to take a seat with him in the summerhouse, ‘but do you mind if I ask you a question? I’m curious about something.’
Oh dear, here it comes, I thought. He’s going to ask me if I’m really a volunteer guide, or why I’m wearing black, or why I have a voodoo charm around my neck. But Clifford didn’t ask any of those things.
‘When Mother said she was writing letters to integrate the Latter Memorial Library . . . well, you didn’t look at all surprised.’
I hesitated at the unexpected question. ‘Why should I have been surprised?’
‘You do understand what she meant, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘She wants coloured people to be able to use the same facilities we do.’
Now it was my turn to be curious. What was Clifford trying to say?
‘I didn’t act surprised because your mother is right. Coloured people should be able to use the same facilities we do.’
Clifford’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Forgive my questions, but you see, women like my mother and Kitty are rare . . . and well, I’ve never met another young woman before who supports integration. May I ask how you came to form that opinion?’
I considered his question a moment. ‘Perhaps it’s my heritage. Unlike the American planters, Creoles didn’t treat their slaves like livestock. They didn’t separate children from their parents or husbands from wives. The slaves were allowed to read and write if they wanted to, and could eventually buy their own freedom. Taking away someone’s freedom was a terrible thing to do no matter who was the owner, but the slaves of Creoles were at least regarded as human. Perhaps that’s why I’m more open to the idea of equality than American women my age — it’s something that’s come down the generations to me.’
Clifford’s already beaming face became still more radiant. ‘I think it’s also got something to do with your character,’ he said. ‘I’ve listened to a lot of arguments for and against integration, but you’ve expressed the situation in the simplest terms. Coloured or white, we are all human beings.’
It would be an odd person who didn’t like Clifford Lalande, I thought. His heart was in the right place, and he embodied the finest traits of the Constitution: not only in his zest for life but also in his desire that the world
be a fair place.
A twinge of guilt at my deceitful tales pained me and I pointed to the live oak tree where Mr Parkinson’s head was supposed to appear. ‘I hope I haven’t offended you with my ghost stories. Your home is charming. Your mother and sister too. It’s just that . . . I had to spice things up a bit. That’s what tourists want.’
Clifford threw back his head and laughed. ‘A good entertainer gives her audience exactly what they want. And besides, you’re raising money for a civic cause.’ He stood up and offered me his hand. ‘Now, I’ve detained you long enough. I’d better get you on that streetcar and back to your mother.’
Something about Clifford’s easy manner made me want to confess that I’d been guiding to make money for myself, not for a civic organisation, but I decided against it. What would he think of me? Instead I let him walk me to the streetcar stop on St Charles Avenue.
‘Ruby, it’s been a pleasure talking with you,’ he said, as the streetcar appeared in the distance. ‘Your next tour is on Thursday, isn’t it? Please do come by when you finish. I’d certainly like to talk with you more, and I know Mother and Kitty would feel the same.’
I had never met anyone like Clifford before. I was taken by him, and couldn’t imagine anything more pleasurable than visiting him again and seeing Kitty and his mother too. They were so utterly different in a refreshing way.
The streetcar arrived and I climbed on board. I could feel Clifford’s eyes on me. He was giving me the same admiring appraisal the Creole boys had at the debutante ball and I couldn’t say I didn’t like it. But as wonderful as his mother was, what would she say when she discovered that I didn’t have any money?
I took a seat by the window and waved to Clifford. He beamed a smile at me. Oh my, he is nice-looking, I thought. And smart too.
‘See you Thursday!’ he called out as the streetcar pulled away.
‘Till Thursday!’ I called back, fully believing that I would be spending another delightful afternoon with Clifford and his family.
But ‘Thursday’ never happened.
I knew something was wrong as soon as I entered the courtyard of our building. There were no familiar cooking smells wafting from our kitchen, and the lamp in the window of the sitting room where Maman liked to read before dinner wasn’t lit. I climbed the stairs to our apartment with mounting anxiety.
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