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orphans, albeit orphans from a rich family, but poorer
than the poorest when it came to having someone to
love and someone to love us.
12
Dark Clouds
.
Despite what Gisselle had heard and seen in the
parlor the day before, she somehow blamed me, insisting I hadn't done enough to persuade Daphne to let us remain at home and return to school in New Orleans.
"At least you have something there you like," she moaned before we went to sleep the night before. "You have your precious Miss Stevens and your artwork to occupy yourself, and you can run up to the Clairborne mansion to tease Mrs. Clairborne's blind grandson, but all I have is this group of stupid, immature girls with which to amuse myself."
"I don't tease, Louis," I said. "I feel sorry for him. He's someone who's suffered great emotional pain."
"And what about me? Haven't I suffered great emotional pain? I nearly died; I'm crippled. We're sisters. Why don't you feel sorry for me?" she cried.
"I do," I said, but it was half a lie, Despite Gisselle's being confined to a wheelchair, I found it more and more difficult to sympathize with her plight. Most of the time, Gisselle managed to get what she wanted no matter what, and usually at someone else's expense.
"No you don't! And now I've got to go back to that . . that hellhole," she groaned.
She threw a tantrum and wheeled herself about her room, knocking things off the dresser and scattering clothing everywhere. Poor Martha had to come in and straighten it all out before Daphne discovered what Gisselle had done.
In the morning she sat rigidly in her wheelchair, as stiff as she would be had she been calcified, not moving a limb and making the transference from chair to chair to car that much more difficult. She refused to eat a morsel of breakfast and kept her lips so tightly pressed together, they looked stitched closed. Although Gisselle was doing all this for our stepmother's benefit, Daphne witnessed none of her tantrum. She merely sent down orders for Edgar, Nina, and the chauffeur and reminders with warnings attached for us. Bruce Bristow arrived just before we were to leave to make sure our departure went smoothly and on schedule. It was the only time Gisselle uttered a word.
"Who are you now," she taunted, "Daphne's little gofer? Bruce, go for this; Bruce, go for that." She laughed at her own derisive comment. Bruce's face turned pink, but he simply smiled and then went to see to the luggage. Frustrated and furious, Gisselle gave up and sat back with her eyes closed, resembling one of the patients strapped in a straitjacket in Uncle Jean's institution.
The trip back to Greenwood was almost as depressing as our journey home to Daddy's funeral. It was far more bleak, the dark gray skies following us all the way, with some light sprinkles dotting the windshield and creating a need for the monotonous sweep of the wipers. Gisselle closed up as tightly as a clam in her corner of the rear seat, not so much as gazing out the window once we left New Orleans. Occasionally, she would throw me a hard look.
For my part I found myself looking forward to doing just what Gisselle had said: returning to work with Miss Stevens and throwing all my energies and attention into the development of my artistic talents. After spending days under Daphne's glaring eyes and oppressive thumb, I actually welcomed the sight of Greenwood when we pulled up the drive and saw the girls scurrying about the grounds after class, all of them laughing, giggling, talking with an animation I now envied. Even Gisselle permitted herself to brighten a bit. I knew she wouldn't show her defeat and disappointment to her disciples.
In fact, once she was back in our dorm, she immediately reverted to her previous demeanor and behavior, refusing to acknowledge anyone's expression of sympathy, acting as if Daddy's death and funeral had been just a terrible inconvenience. She wasn't in her room two minutes before she opened fire on her new whipping boy, her roommate Samantha, screaming at her for having the nerve to move some of her things while she was away. All of us heard the commotion and came out to see what was happening. Samantha was in tears in the doorway where Gisselle had driven her during her tirade.
"How dare you touch my cosmetics? You stole some of my perfume, didn't you? Didn't you?" she hammered. "I know there was more in the bottle."
"I didn't."
"Yes you did. And you tried on some of my clothes too." She spun around in her chair and glared at me. "Look at what I have to put up with since you forced me to move out of your room and share a room with her!" Gisselle screamed.
I nearly burst out laughing at the lie. "Me? I told you to move? You were the one who wanted to move, Gisselle. You were the one who insisted," I said. Vicki, Kate, and Jacki all looked at me sympathetically because they knew what I said was the truth. But none was willing to come to my defense and risk Gisselle's wrath.
"I did not!" Gisselle yelled, her face so red with anger and frustration, she looked like the top of her head would blow off. She pounded the arms of her wheelchair with her fists and shook her body from side to side so vigorously, I thought she would topple over. "You wanted to be with that quadroon so bad you drove me out." She pulled her eyes back under her trembling lids and foamed at the lips, gagging and choking. Everyone thought she was going into a convulsion, but I had seen her behave this way many times before.
"All right, Gisselle," I said with a tone of defeat, "calm down. What do you want?"
"I want her out of here!" she demanded, pointing her right forefinger at Samantha, who looked as confused and frightened as a baby bird driven out of its nest.
"Do you want to move back in with me, then? Is that what you want?" I asked, slowly closing and opening my eyes.
"No. I'll live by myself and take care of myself," she insisted, wrapping her arms around her body and sitting back firmly in her chair. "Just as long as she's out of here."
"You can't toss people in and out of your room like you would one of your stuffed animals, Gisselle," I chastised. She turned her head slowly and fixed her eyes on little Samantha, burning her gaze into the diminutive strawberry blonde, who stepped farther back.
"I'm not tossing her out. She wants to leave, don't you, Samantha?"
