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I wasn't sure I should believe her or not, but I did recall the way Bruce used to gaze at me, undressing me with his eyes, and I recalled how I would shrink under his touch.
She jerked her head high, threw back her shoulders, and with an arrogant air bragged, "I've been with many older men. I've even slept with one of my teachers at the school."
"Gisselle!"
"So? How is any of that any worse than what you're doing. . . sleeping with your half brother?" she snapped.
"I'm not. We don't sleep together. We're married, but we're not husband and wife that way. We both agreed."
"Why?" she said, grimacing. "Why get married then?"
"Paul's always loved me, and before we knew what our true relationship is, I was very fond of him. He loves Pearl as much as he would had she been his own daughter. We have a very special relationship now," I said.
"It's special, all right. And boring. You have a lover, then, I assume, some dashing, tall, dark Cajun swamp man who sneaks up to your room at night?"
"No, of course not."
"Of course not, not you, not Miss Goody TwoShoes." She sat back, her arm dangling over the arm of the chair. "I wrote to Beau and told him of your wedding and how rich you are," she said.
"I bet you couldn't wait."
"Well, you ran away. You should have had the abortion and stayed in New Orleans. Even with all this, you're still living in the swamps."
"The swamps are beautiful. Nature can't be ugly," I said.
She took a long sip of her drink. "Did I tell you about Uncle Jean?" she suddenly asked.
"Uncle Jean? No. What about him?"
"You don't know anything?"
"What is it, Gisselle?"
"He killed himself," she said nonchalantly.
"What?" I gasped. I felt the blood drain from my face and my feet become nailed to the patio.
"One day he stole one of those knives they use to cut clay in their recreation room and cut his wrists. He bled to death before anyone discovered what he had done. Daphne put on a big show, of course, threatening to sue the institution. For all I know, she got some sort of settlement. I wouldn't put it past her. If there's a way to make money in something, she'll find it."
"Uncle Jean . . . killed himself'? When?"
"Months ago," she said, shrugging.
I sat back, stunned. The last time I had seen him was when I had gone to him with Beau to tell him about Daddy's death.
"Why didn't anyone write to tell me? Why didn't you?"
"Daphne said you relinquished your
relationship to the family when you ran off," she replied. "And you know how I hate writing letters, especially bad news. Unless it's other people's bad news," she added with a slight laugh.
"Poor Uncle Jean. I should never have told him Daddy died. I should have left him thinking he was just not visiting."
"Maybe it is your fault," Gisselle said, enjoying my misery. Then she shrugged again and sipped her drink. "Or maybe you should be congratulated. After all, he's better off."
"How can you say such a terrible thing? No one's better off dead, not even Uncle Jean," I cried back in a choked voice.
"All I know is, I'd rather be dead than live forever in that stuffy institution," she proclaimed.
