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to show you around the city a bit?"
"I'd love it. Thank you," I said.
After breakfast, we got into his Rolls Royce
and drove down the long driveway. I had never been
in so luxurious an automobile before and sat gaping
stupidly at the wood trim, running the palm of my
hand over the soft leather.
"Do you drive?" my father asked me.
"Oh, no. I haven't even ridden in cars all that
much. In the bayou we get around by walking or by
poling pirogues."
"Yes, I remember," he said, beaming a broad
smile my way. "Gisselle doesn't drive either. She
doesn't want to be bothered learning. The truth is she
likes being carted around. But if you would like to
learn how to drive, I'd be glad to teach you," he said. "I would. Thank you."
He drove on through the Garden District, past
many fine homes with grounds just as beautiful as ours, some with oleander-lined pike fences. There were fewer clouds now which meant the streets and beautiful flowers had fewer shadows looming over them. Sidewalks and tiled patios glittered. Here and there the gutters were full of pink and white camellias
from the previous night's rain.
"Some of these houses date back to the
eighteen-forties," my father told me and leaned over
to point to a house on our right. "Jefferson Davis,
President of the Confederacy, died in that house in
1899. There's a lot of history here," he said proudly. We made a turn and paused as the olive green
streetcar rattled past the palm trees on the esplanade.
Then we followed St. Charles back toward the inner
city.
"I'm glad we had this opportunity to be alone
for a while," he said. "Besides my showing you the
city, it gives me a chance to get to know you and you
