Ruby

by V. C. Andrews

  won't bother you. To the left of the rest room is a

  short stairway which goes down to the basement. The

  second door on the right is the laundry room. They've

  already done their laundry work for today. They do it

  in the morning. So there won't be anyone there." "Are you sure?"

  "I told you, I've been here ten years. I know

  which clocks run slow and which run fast, what door

  hinges squeak, and where there are windows without

  bars on them," he added.

  "Thank you Lyle."

  He shrugged.

  "I haven't done anything yet," he said, as if he

  wanted to convince himself more than me that he

  hadn't made a decision.

  "You've given me hope, Lyle. That's doing a

  great deal." I smiled at him. He stared at me a

  moment, his rust-colored eyes blinking and then he

  turned away.

  "Go on," he said. "Do what I told you." I went to the female attendant and explained

  that I had to go to the bathroom.

  "I'll show you where it is," she said when we

  returned to the door.

  "1 know where it is. Thank you," I replied

  quickly. She shrugged and left me. I did exactly what

  Lyle said and scurried down the short flight of steps.

  The laundry room was a large, long room with cement

  floors and cement walls lined with washing machines,

  dryers, and bins. Toward the rear were the windows

  Lyle had described, but they were high up.

  "Quick," I heard him say as he entered behind

  me. We hurried to the back. "You just snap the hinge

  in the middle and slide the window to your left," he

  whispered. "It's not locked."

  "How do you know that, Lyle?" I asked

  suspiciously. He looked down and then up at me

  quickly.

  "I've been here a few times. I even went so far

  as to stick my foot out, but I. . . I'm not ready," he

  concluded.

  "I hope you will be ready soon, Lyle." "I'll give you a boost up. Come on, before we're

  missed," he said, cupping his hands together for my

  foot.

  "I wish you would come with me, Lyle," I said,

  and put my foot into his hands. He lifted and I

  clutched at the windowsill to pull myself up. Just as

  he described, the latch opened easily and I slid the

  window to the left. I looked down at him.

  "Go on," he coached.

  "Thank you, Lyle. I know how hard it was for

  you to do this."

  "No it wasn't," he confessed. "I wanted to help

  you. Go on."

  I started to crawl through the window, looking around as I did so to be sure no one was nearby. Across the lawn was a small patch of trees and beyond that, the main highway. Once I was out, I

  turned and looked back in at him.

  "Do you know where to go from here?" he

  asked me.

  "No, but I just want to get away."

  "Go south. There's a bus stop there and the bus

  will take you back to New Orleans. Here," he said,

  digging into his pants pocket and coming up with a

  fistful of money. "I don't need this in here."

  He handed me the bills.

  "Thank you, Lyle."

  "Be careful. Don't look suspicious. Smile at

  people. Act like you're just on an afternoon outing,"

  he advised, telling me things I was sure he had recited

  to himself a hundred times in vain.

  "I'll be back to visit you someday, Lyle. I

  promise. Unless you're out before then. If you are, call

  me."

  "I haven't used a telephone since I was six years

  old," he admitted. Looking down at him in the laundry

  room, I felt so sorry for him. He seemed small and

  alone now, trapped by his own insecurities. "But," he

  added, smiling, "if I do get out, I'll call you." "Good."

  "Get going . . quickly," he said. "Remember,

  look natural."

  He turned and walked away. I stood up, took a

  deep breath, and started away from the building.

  When I was no more than a dozen or so feet from it, I

  looked back and caught sight of someone on the third

  floor standing in the window. A cloud moved over the

  sun and the subsequent shade made it possible for me

  to see beyond the glint of the glass.

  It was Uncle Jean!

  He looked down at me and then raised his hand

  slowly. I could just make out the smile on his face. I

  waved back and then I turned and ran as hard and as

  fast as I could for the trees, not looking back until I

  had arrived. The building and the grounds behind me

  remained calm. I heard no shouting, saw no one

  running after me. I had slipped away, thanks to Lyle. I

  focused one more time on the window of Uncle Jean's

  room, but I couldn't see him anymore. Then I turned

  and marched through the woods to the highway. I went south as Lyle had directed and reached

  the bus station which was just a small quick stop with

  gas pumps, candies and cakes, homemade pralines

  and soda. Fortunately, I had to wait only twenty minutes for the next bus to New Orleans. I bought my ticket from the young lady behind the counter and waited inside the store, thumbing through magazines and finally buying one just so I wouldn't be visible outside in case the institute had discovered I was

  missing and had sent someone looking for me. I breathed relief when the bus arrived on time. I

  got on quickly, but following Lyle's advice, I acted as

  calmly and innocently as I could. I took my seat and

  sat back with my magazine. Moments later, the bus

  continued on its journey to New Orleans. We went

  right past the main entrance of the institution. When it

  was well behind us, I let out a breath. I was so happy

  to be free, I couldn't help but cry. Afraid someone

  would notice, I wiped away my tears quickly and

  closed my eyes and suddenly thought about Uncle

  Jean stuttering, "Jib . . . jib . . ."

  The rhythm of the tires on the macadam

  highway beat out the same chant: "Jib . . jib . . . jib." What was he trying to tell me? I wondered. When the New Orleans' skyline came into view,

  I actually considered not returning to my home and

  instead returning to the bayou. I wasn't looking

  forward to the greeting I would receive from Daphne,

  but then some of Grandmere Catherine's Cajun pride found its way into my backbone and I sat up straight and determined. After all, my father did love me. I was a Dumas and I did belong with him, too. Daphne

  had no right to do the things she had done to me. By the time I got on the right city bus and then

  changed for the streetcar and arrived at the house, I

  was sure Dr. Cheryl had called Daphne and informed

  her I was missing. That was confirmed for me the

  moment Edgar greeted me at the door and I took one

  look at his face.

  "Madame Dumas is waiting for you," he said,

  shifting his eyes to indicate all was not well. "She's in

  the parlor." "Where's my father, Edgar?" I demanded. He shook his head first and then he replied in a

  softer voice, "Upstairs, mademoiselle."

  "Inform Madame Dumas that I've gone up to

  see him first," I ordered. Edgar widened his eyes,

  surprised at my insubordinat
ion.

  "No, you're not!" Daphne shouted from the

  parlor doorway the moment I stepped into the

  entryway. "You're marching yourself right in here

  first." She stood there, her arm extended, pointing to

  the room. Her voice was cold, commanding. Edgar

  quickly moved away and retreated through the door

  that would take him through the dining room and into the kitchen, where I was sure he would make a report

  to Nina.

  I took a few steps toward Daphne. She kept her

  arm out, her finger toward the parlor.

  "How dare you try to tell me what to do and

  what not to do after what you've done," I charged,

  walking toward her slowly, my head high.

  "I did what I thought was necessary to protect

  this family," she replied coldly, lowering her arm

  slowly.

  "No, you didn't. You did what you thought was

  necessary to get rid of me, to keep me away from my

  father," I accused, meeting her furious gaze with a

  furious gaze of my own. She faltered a bit at my

  aggressive stance, her eyes shifting. "You're jealous of

  his love for me. You've been jealous ever since I

  arrived and you hate me because I remind you that he

  was once more in love with someone else."

  "That's ridiculous. That's just another ridiculous

  Cajun--"

  "Stop it!" I shouted. "Stop talking about the

  Cajun people like that. You know the truth; you know

  I wasn't kidnapped and sold to any Cajun family. You

  have no right to act superior. Few Cajun people I've

  known would stoop to do the sort of deceitful,

  horrible thing you tried to do to me."

  "How dare you shout at me like that?" she said,

  trying to recover her superior demeanor, but her lips

  quivered and her body began to tremble. "How dare

  you!"

  "How dare you do what you did at the

  institution!" I retorted. "My father is going to hear all

  about it. He's going to know the truth and . ." She smiled.

  "You little fool. Go on upstairs to him. Go on

  and gaze upon your savior, your father, who sits in his

  brother's shrine of a room and moans and groans. I'm

  thinking about having him committed soon, if you

  must know. I can't go on like this."

  She stepped toward me with renewed

  confidence.

  "Who do you think has been running things

  around here? Who do you think makes this all

  possible? Your weak father? Ha! What do you think

  happens when he falls into one of his melancholic

  states? Do you think Dumas Enterprises just sits

  around and waits for him to snap out of it?

  "No," she cried, stabbing herself with her

  thumb so hard it made me wince, "it always falls to

  me to save the day. I've been conducting business for years. Why, Pierre doesn't even know how much

  money we have or where it's located."

  "I don't believe you," I said, but not with as

  much confidence as I had at first. She laughed. "Believe what you like. Go on. She stepped

  back. "Go up to him and tell him about the horrible

  thing I tried to do to you," she said, and then stepped

  toward me again, lowering her voice sharply and

  narrowing her eyes into hateful slits. "And I'll explain

  to him and to everyone who wants or has to know

  how you've been so disruptive since you arrived, you

  nearly caused a fatal family crisis. I'll force the

  Andreas boy to confess to your sexual games in the

  art studio and have Gisselle testify to your friendship

  with that whore from Storyville." Her eyes widened

  and then hardened to rivet on me as she continued. "I'll have people believing you were a teenage

  prostitute in the bayou. For all I know, you were." "That's a lie, a dirty, horrible lie," I cried, but

  she didn't soften. Her face, the face with the alabaster

  complexion and those beautiful eyes, turned into the

  cold visage of a statue as she gazed down at me. "Is it?" She smiled again, a small, tight smile

  that drew her lips into thin lines. "I already have Dr.

  Cheryl's preliminary findings. He thinks you're obsessed with sex and will so testify if I like. And now you've gone and run away from the institution,

  embarrassing us even further."

  I shook my head, but there was no denying her

  vicious determination to overcome my defiance. "I'm going to see Daddy," I said in almost a

  whisper. "I'm going to tell him everything."

  "Go on." She lunged forward and grabbed my

  shoulders to turn me to the stairway. "Go on, you little

  Cajun fool. Go tell your Daddy." She pushed me

  toward the steps. I threw her an angry look and then

  charged up the stairs, my tears flying off my cheeks. When I got to the upstairs landing, I saw the

  door to Uncle Jean's room was shut tight, but I had to

  get Daddy to see me; I had to get him to let me in. I

  approached slowly and knocked and then pressed my

  cheek to the door and sobbed.

  "Daddy, please . . please, open up and let me in.

  Please, let me talk to you and tell you what Daphne

  did to me. I saw Uncle Jean, Daddy. I was with him.

  Please," I begged. I continued to sob softly. Finally,

  when he didn't open the door, I sank to the floor and

  embraced myself, my shoulders heaving with my

  deeper sobs. After all that had been done to me and

  after my great effort to return, I was still shut out; Daphne was still victorious. I sucked in some air and let my head fall back against the door. Then I let it fall back again and again until finally the door was pulled

  open and I looked up at Daddy:

  His eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled.

  His shirt was out of his pants and his tie was loose. He

  looked like he had slept in his clothes. He had an

  unshaven face.

  I struggled to my feet and ground the tears out

  of my eyes quickly.

  "Daddy, I must talk to you," I said. He threw

  me a quick glance of deepest despair. Then his

  shoulders slumped and he backed into the room to let

  me enter.

  The candles were nearly burned out around

  Uncle Jean's pictures so the room was very dimly lit.

  Daddy retreated to a chair by the pictures and sat

  down. His face was shadowed and hidden in the

  deepening gloom.

  "What is it, Ruby?" he said, speaking as though

  it took all of his strength to pronounce the four words.

  I rushed to him and seized his hand, falling to my

  knees at his feet.

  "Daddy, she took me to the institution this

  morning, supposedly to see Uncle Jean for his birthday, but when we get there, she had them lock me up. She tried to have them keep me there. It was

  horrible, but a nice young man helped me escape." He raised his head and gazed at me with his sad

  eyes showing just a hint of surprise. He shook his

  head in a bewildered fashion, the tears still eking from

  beneath his lids.

  "Who did this?"

  "Daphne," I said. "Daphne."

  "Daphne?"

  "But I got to see Uncle Jean, Daddy. I sat with

  him and spoke to him."

  "You did?" he asked, his interest growing.
/>
  "How is he?"

  "He looks very good," I said, wiping the tears

  off my cheeks with the back of my hand. "But he's

  afraid of people and doesn't talk to anyone." Daddy nodded and lowered his head again. "Except, I got him to say something, Daddy." "You did?" he replied, his interest quickly

  returning. "Yes. I told him to tell me something I

  could bring back to you and he said 'jib.' What did he

  mean, Daddy?"

  "Jib? He said that?"

  I nodded. Then I had to tell him the rest. "Afterward, he started to scream and held his

  head in his hands. They had to take him back to his

  room."

  "Poor Jean," Daddy said. "My poor brother.

  What have I done?" he asked in a heavy, flat voice.

  One of the candles went out and a shadow came to

  darken his eyes even more.

  "What do you mean, Daddy? Why did he, say

  'jib'? Is it what this young man sitting beside me

  thought . . something to do with sailing?"

  "Yes," Daddy said. He sat back, his gaze far-off

  now. He looked like he could see into the past. And

  then he began to speak like one in a trance. "It was a

  nice day when we started out. I wasn't anxious to go at

  first. Jean kept taunting me, making fun of me for

  being so unathletic. 'You're as pale as a bank teller,' he

  said. 'No wonder Daphne would rather spend her time

  with me. Come on, get yourself into the fresh air.

  Let's test those muscles and limbs.'

  "Finally, I gave in and accompanied him to the

  lake. The sky had already begun to change. There

  were storm clouds hovering along the horizon. I

  warned him about it, but he laughed and said I was

  just trying to find another excuse. We started sailing. I

  wasn't as ignorant about it as I pretended and I didn't like my younger brother telling me to do this or that

  like some galley slave.

  "He seemed particularly arrogant to me that

  day. How I hated his self-confidence. Why didn't he

  have any doubts about himself like I had? Why was

  he so secure in the presence of women, especially

  Daphne?

  "The clouds mounted, expanding,

  mushrooming, darkening, and the wind grew fiercer.

  Our sailboat rose and fell as the water became rougher

  and rougher. Every time I urged Jean to turn us back

  to shore, he laughed at me for not being adventurous

  enough.

  "This is where we test our manhood,' he

  declared. 'We look Nature in the eye and we don't

  blink.'