Hidden Jewel

10

A Candle in the Wind

Daddy muttered to himself all the way back to New Orleans. He chanted his hope. Sometimes it sounded more like a prayer.

"Maybe she's back. Maybe she came up here just to put that picture in the shack for some reason—one of her rituals, right? I mean, for all we know, we could have passed her on her way back when we were coming into Houma. That's possible. And if she got home before us, she found out about Pierre and went with him to the hospital. She would, and that would help the little guy snap out of it, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said when he paused for a breath. He was driving so fast now, it made my heart thunder like a train. I was worried because he seemed to be gazing at his thoughts and not at the road ahead of us.

"No one saw her up here, so she didn't go anywhere but the shack as far as we know. And she wasn't at the shack when we arrived. Right? Where would she go? Certainly not to see the Tates. She would only go home. Yes, that's it. She's home. She's snapped out of this insanity just in time. We'll be able to help Pierre now, won't we, Pearl?"

"Of course we will, Daddy. Don't you think you're driving too fast?"

"What?" He looked at me and then at the speedometer. "Oh. I didn't realize." He checked his rearview mirror. "Lucky we didn't get a ticket."

"Do you want me to drive, Daddy?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll watch what I'm doing." He lowered his shoulders and relaxed. "Terrible how they're letting that beautiful mansion rot in the swamps, isn't it? Terrible. Did you remember much?"

"No," I said. Mommy had once told me that Daddy would like to forget I had ever lived there. She kept very few pictures of us taken at Cypress Woods, and the ones she had were buried deep in drawers.

"Well, the oil wells are still going, making the Tates millionaires over and over. They were wealthy people before the wells. Money doesn't discriminate, unfortunately," he added bitterly. "I can't imagine what it's like working for Gladys Tate. But those oil riggers are something else, aren't they? A breed unto themselves, I hear."

"He seemed very nice," I said.

"Who? Oh. Oh, yes." Daddy smiled. "How did you like seeing your well? It must eat Gladys Tate's heart out that she can't stop you from collecting the income."

"It didn't look any different from the others, but Jack explained a lot about it to me."

Daddy smiled. "He was buttering up the boss, eh? Can't blame him. Especially when the boss is as pretty as you."

"He wasn't buttering me up, Daddy. He was just being polite and informative," I said. I turned away quickly so Daddy wouldn't see me blushing.

Jack's beautiful dark eyes flashed before me, and so did his soft smile. I couldn't recall meeting a young man who radiated so firm a sense of strength and yet appeared so gentle and compassionate. I had felt comfortable and safe when I was beside him. He worked with his hands and his muscles, but there was something poetic about his love for his work.

"You've got to be careful about who you meet, Pearl," Daddy said, turning serious. "Once a young man learns how wealthy you are, his interest in you will grow; only that might not be the sort of interest you need. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? I'm not as good at this as your mother is, I know."

"I understand, Daddy."

"I bet you do; I bet you do. I'm not worried about you. No, sir, not you."

He was quiet again, and then he started to repeat the mumbling. "She has to be at home. Has to. She must have come to her senses by now. She loves her family too much to stay away."

As we drew closer to New Orleans, the clouds closed up the holes of-blue between them until there was an ominous gray layer above us. The first drops hit the windshield as we went over the bridge and onto the city streets. The wind had kicked up as well. People were losing their umbrellas and rushing about to get to shelter. The downpour started before we reached the Garden District. It got so heavy that the windshield wipers couldn't clear a view.

"Damn this," Daddy moaned. He had to pull to the side for a few moments. The rain swept over us in sheets, pounding the roof and pounding at the windows.

But it was one of those quick summer storms. It slowed, and the wind calmed down. Daddy started for home again. By the time we reached our driveway, the sun had pierced the thin veil of trailing clouds and dropped rays of hope down over our camellias and magnolia trees. The cobblestone sidewalks glittered. It was as if Mother Nature had washed away the sadness staining our walls and grounds.

Daddy almost leaped out of the car before he brought it to a stop. I couldn't keep up with him. He rushed up the steps two at a time and to the front door. Aubrey was in the corridor speaking with one of our maids and turned with surprise as Daddy thrust the door open. I hurried behind him.

"Monsieur Andreas," Aubrey said, approaching. "My wife. Has she returned?" Daddy demanded quickly.

"No, monsieur." He shook his head and with troubled eyes gazed at me and then back at the maid, who turned to busy herself.

"Has she phoned? Did someone tell her about Pierre?" Daddy asked and nodded, hoping for a yes. But Aubrey could only disappoint him.

"Not that I know, Monsieur."

"Where's Mrs. Hockingheimer?" Daddy glanced up the stairway.

"She went to the hospital with Pierre, monsieur. The ambulance took them both."

"Ambulance?" Daddy released a small moan. Then he turned to me. I shrank into a tighter ball when I looked at those pathetic, sad eyes that showed his suffering.

"Where is she? Where could she have gone?" he cried, turning back to the butler. Aubrey stared, not sure what else to say or do.

"Daddy?" I tugged on his sleeve. "Daddy."

"What? Oh. Yes. We had better go directly to the hospital. Call me if you hear from Madame Andreas, Aubrey, Call the hospital immediately."

"Yes, monsieur."

We charged out the front door and down the steps. "Maybe she called the doctor first and went directly to the hospital," he said, wishing aloud. My silence brought him back to reality.

In no time we were driving into the hospital parking lot. The elderly volunteer at the front desk moved too slowly for Daddy when he asked where Pierre Dumas had been taken. He slapped the counter as she fumbled with the patient register. "Hurry, madame, please."

"Yes, yes," she said when she finally found Pierre's name. "He was just admitted. He's in ICU."

"Intensive care?" Daddy grimaced.

"Probably just a precaution, Daddy," I said. It was more like a prayer, too.

He took a deep breath and we hurried to the

elevator. When we got to the ICU visitors' lounge, Mrs. Hockingheimer came out quickly to greet us.

"Oh, monsieur," she said, "thank God you're here."

Daddy held his breath, the words cluttering on his tongue.

"What's wrong? What's happened to Pierre, Mrs. Hockingheimer?" I asked breathlessly.

"He's gone into a deeper coma. The psychiatrist is upset. She says Pierre has suffered a serious relapse."

"Relapse?" Daddy said. "Back to what he was?"

"Even worse than he was originally," she said and began to cry. Daddy's face turned ashen. I felt my heart stop and then pound. Panic nailed my feet to the floor. My legs felt so numb I didn't think I had the power to move one in front of the other.

"Where is Dr. LeFevre?" Daddy asked finally.

"She's inside with Pierre. She came out and just went back in with another doctor," Mrs. Hockingheimer said. "An urologist."

I tried to swallow, but couldn't. Daddy's shoulders drooped. Although I was really feeling sick, I managed to find my voice. "Let's go talk to the doctor, Daddy."

We started toward the ICU, both of us terrified at what we were going to discover. Before we reached it, the door opened and Dr. LeFevre stepped out. She gazed at us, her eyes filled with confusion and disappointment.

"What's happening to my boy?" Daddy asked softly.

"I have a specialist in there examining him, Monsieur Andreas. He's suffering renal failure."

"What does that mean?" Daddy asked, gazing at me first. I knew he understood, but for the moment he was so nervous and excited he couldn't think.

"It's his kidneys, Daddy," I said.

"His kidneys aren't filtering out the waste, monsieur. They have shut down."

"Why? How can this happen?"

"I have seen this happen to patients who suffer prolonged coma, much more severe than what Pierre suffered, but his situation, which we thought was improving, suddenly took a turn for the worse and he went deeper into himself. Psychologically, monsieur," she said after a long pause, "your son is trying to get back with his twin brother."

"Get back. But . . . Jean is dead," Daddy said in a low voice.

"I know, monsieur. And so does Pierre."

"But then he's . . ."

"Willing himself to die," she said.

Her words fell like thunder over us. Daddy stared in disbelief.

"But how can someone . . . Surely that's not possible, Doctor," Daddy said.

"The mind is far more powerful than one might imagine, monsieur. People develop psychosomatic illnesses. Some people are unable to see even though there is nothing physiologically wrong with their eyes; others are unable to walk, even though there is nothing wrong with their legs." She paused and looked behind us. "Excuse me, Monsieur Andreas, but where is your wife? Where is the boy's mother?"

Daddy shook his head, the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"My mother has run away, Doctor," I said. "She left the house and sent us a letter. She blames herself for what's happened. We thought she had returned to her bayou home and went looking for her. We found evidence that she had gone there, but we couldn't find her, and when we learned about Pierre, we hurried back."

"I see. Well, I can't be sure, of course, but the boy might be thinking his mother blames him for his brother's death. I know he blames himself, and now that his mother is gone when he needs her . . . well, you see how this complicates matters, monsieur."

"Yes, yes, I see. What can we do?"

"Let's see what sort of treatment Dr. Lasky is recommending first," she said as a short bald man emerged from the ICU. He was dressed in a suit and tie and looked more like a banker than a doctor. He had small features with dark brown beady eyes.

"This is the boy's father and sister," Dr. LeFevre said. "Dr. Lasky."

"How do you do, monsieur. I'm afraid your son is quite ill," he said getting right to the point. "He has produced less than fifty milliliters of urine during the last twenty-four hours, according to your nurse. This is anuria, which causes a serious buildup of waste. As I explained to Dr. LeFevre, he has acute renal failure, usually the result of a serious injury or some other underlying illness. She has explained the psychological problems to me, and I am in complete agreement with her diagnosis of the problem."

"What can we do?" Daddy asked quickly.

"Well, until the underlying cause is treated, we must direct ourselves to the physical threat. I have prescribed a diuretic, but if there is no change soon, I think dialysis will be necessary. Let's wait and see. This might pass."

"Can we see him?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," he said.

"Will he be all right?" Daddy demanded.

"Most people with acute renal failure eventually make a full recovery, but this case is unusual because of the psychological implications, monsieur. I'm afraid I cannot make precise predictions."

"Meaning what?" Daddy asked.

"If he remains unresponsive and doesn't produce and dispose of urine, we will put him on dialysis. But if his mind can shut down one organ. . ."

"Surely he will come out of this coma," Daddy said to Dr. LeFevre. She didn't reply. "He'll snap out of it. Won't he, Pearl?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, so choked up, I could barely get enough breath to pronounce the words. "Let's go see him."

"Right," he said and started toward the ICU with me, refusing to face the dire possibilities that both doctors were presenting, but Dr. LeFevre seized his wrist and stopped him.

"It would help if your wife returned soon, monsieur," she said.

Daddy nodded. When he turned back to me, he looked as if he had aged twenty years in a minute. We entered the ICU and were directed to Pierre. The I.V. bag dripped its solution through the tube and into his arm. His eyes were closed, and his complexion was waxen, his lips so dull they almost looked white. I saw his chest barely rise and fall under the sheet, which was drawn up to his chin.

Daddy gulped back a moan and reached for Pierre's hand. "Hey, buddy," he said. "We're back. We're with you, Pierre. Pearl is here beside me. Come on, Pierre. Open your eyes and look at us." He rubbed Pierre's hand gently and waited, but Pierre was like a solid wall, unmoving, unresponsive, not even a blink of an eyebrow.

"Why is this happening to us?" Daddy moaned, his head back. "Maybe Ruby is right. Maybe it is some sort of curse. One horrible thing after another, beating us into submission, destroying us for daring to be happy."

"You mustn't think like that, Daddy. You mustn't give up hope. If for no other reason, then for Pierre. He needs us to be strong now."

Daddy nodded, but not with conviction. He stared at Pierre, watching his chest rise and fall, and then he sighed, lowering his head. Finally he lifted his sad eyes, a shadow of gloom making them look even darker.

"I'm going to go get a cup of coffee," he said. "I'll be back in a moment. You want something?"

"No. I'm fine, Daddy. Go on."

He rose and walked out, his shoulders sagging as if the air above him weighed tons. I turned back to Pierre and took his hand in mine.

"Pierre," I began. "We need you desperately. Mommy blames herself for what's happened; she's run off, and she won't come back until you start getting better. Please help us," I pleaded. "Fight this urge to sleep away your life. Return to us, to Mommy. Think of what this will do to her. Please, Pierre," I said, the tears streaming down my cheeks. My heart felt like a lump of lead in my chest. I sat there holding his hand, praying.

If Mommy would only come walking through that door. Why couldn't the spirits that whispered in her ears tell her she needed to return? Unless of course, they were evil spirits.

The scream of another patient in pain across the room snapped me back to reality. I had no idea how long I had been sitting there, praying and dreaming.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but we have to keep our visits short in ICU," the nurse said when she came up beside me. "You and your father can return on the hour if you'd like."

I nodded and gazed at Pierre again, but just as I was about to get up and let go of his hand, I felt his forefinger twitch. It was like a sting of electricity up my arm.

"He moved!" I cried.

"What?" The nurse looked at Pierre whose eyes remained shut.

"His finger. It moved in my hand."

"Just a nerve reaction, perhaps," she said.

"No, no, he's reaching out, reaching back. Please, let me stay."

"But . . ."

"Please, a little while longer. I have to keep talking to him!"

"I must ask you to lower your voice," she said. "There are other patients, all critical, here."

"I'm sorry."

"The regulations for visiting in ICU are five to ten minutes for immediate family every hour on the hour," she repeated in an authoritative monotone.

"Go get the doctor," I demanded, spinning on her. "I definitely felt my brother's finger move, and it was no nerve reaction."

"Get him!" I insisted. She saw the fire in my eyes and bit down on her lower lip. Furious herself, she pivoted and marched back to the nurses' station. I sat down again and immediately began to talk to Pierre. "I know you can come back to us, Pierre. I know you don't want to be in this horrible hospital room with these horrible people any longer than you have to. Listen to me. We need you. I want you to wake up so Mommy can come home. I promise you, as soon as I leave here, I'll try to find her if you'll open your eyes. Please do it, Pierre. Jean wants you to help Mommy too. I'm sure he does."

I stood up and leaned over the bed to wipe the strands of hair off his forehead the way Mommy always did. Then I brought my lips to his ear and softly sang the old Cajun lullaby Mommy had often sung to him and Jean when they were little. As I sang, I heard footsteps behind me.

"Mademoiselle?"

I turned to see Dr. Lasky.

"You will have to obey the hospital rules. You work here as a nurse's aide, I understand, so you should know how important it is that we all—"

"Pierre moved his finger, Doctor. I felt it. If I can stay with him longer . . ."

"We have to let the nurses do their work and—"

I felt Pierre's fingers move again and cried out. When I turned back to him, his eyelids fluttered.

"Pierre," I said. "Show them. Show them."

His lids fluttered harder and, like eyes that had been closed for centuries, slowly opened.

"Go get Dr. LeFevre," Dr. Lasky ordered the nurse. She hurried away.

I continued to stroke Pierre's hand, cajoling him. "Come on, Pierre. That's it. Try. Come back to us." His eyes remained open.

"That's good," Dr. Lasky muttered behind me. "Hello, Pierre," I said. "Are you feeling better? Do you want to go home soon?"

He turned his head slowly toward me. I saw his lips moving, so I bent down to bring my ear close. He was just putting out enough breath to be heard in a whisper.

"Get Mommy," he said. "Make her come home."

"Oh, yes, Pierre. Yes. I will." I hugged him. "He spoke to me, Doctor!"

"Excellent," Dr. Lasky said and turned to greet Dr. LeFevre, who was rushing toward us. I stepped back as the two of them examined Pierre, and then I decided to go out and get Daddy. I found him in the cafeteria, hovering over a cup of coffee. When I told him the news, his eyes brightened and his face re-gained some color. The two of us hurried back.

Afterward, outside in the corridor, with Daddy and Dr. Lasky at my side, Dr. LeFevre asked me to repeat what I had said and done to get Pierre's reaction. She nodded as she listened.

"You must get your mother home to him soon," she said. "If not, he could relapse again, and I'm afraid each time that happens, he will retreat deeper and deeper inside himself until he becomes irretrievable. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said and looked at Daddy, who just nodded, a look of terror in his eyes.

"With the diuretic working, we've at least stemmed the threat of acute renal failure for the time being," Dr. Lasky said. "But what happened before can certainly happen again," he cautioned. Neither doctor wanted to leave us with false hope. Their words, although realistic, were as sharp as darts.

Daddy and I returned to Pierre to reassure him we were going to find Mommy and bring her to see him as soon as we could. He listened and then closed his eyes. He was just sleeping now. The great effort to claw his way up and out of the grave his mind was constructing around him had exhausted him. We left him resting comfortably.

"What if Ruby doesn't return, Pearl? What if she never returns?" Daddy asked as we drove home from the hospital.

"She'll come back. She has to."

"Why? She doesn't know what's happening. We can't find her; we can't get a message to her." He shook his head. "If she doesn't come back, poor Pierre . . ."

"We'll sit and we'll think of what else to do, Daddy. We'll find her," I promised, although for the moment I hadn't the slightest idea what we should do next.

The doctors' words lingered like bruised and angry clouds waiting to drop a storm over us. Pierre remained on the brink of oblivion, and we were helpless.

Mommy wasn't there when we returned home, and there had been no phone calls from her or from anyone in the bayou. Daddy phoned Aunt Jeanne and explained the situation. She promised to send out everyone she could and make as many phone calls as she could to people in the area. She said she would contact the police up there for us, too.

"If we don't hear anything tonight or tomorrow morning, we should search for her again, Daddy," I said.

"Search where? We went to the shack and to Cypress Woods. I have no idea where else she might go up there. That part of her life is like a fantasy to me. For all I know there are places and people she never mentioned or that she did mention but I don't remember. You know all of her grandmère's friends are gone. What can we do . . . ride around the back roads, searching the swamps?"

"That would be better than just sitting here, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know, Pearl." He shook his head. "I don't know. What if we go up there, get lost on some back road, and she calls here? No, all we can do is wait."

Neither he nor I had much of an appetite for dinner, but we sat and nibbled. All of the servants were quiet, their faces worried. The house had a funereal atmosphere. No one closed a door hard; everyone tiptoed through the corridors and spoke in whispers. There was no music, no radio or television, just the constant ticking of the grandfather clock followed by its hollow, reverberating gong to announce the passage of time, the flow of minutes without any word from or of Mommy. When Daddy and I gazed at each other, we thought but didn't speak the same thought: back in the hospital, Pierre was waiting, teetering on a tightrope above the dark chasm of gloom that would swallow him and lock him up forever in unconsciousness and finally death. I felt sure that in his mind he saw death as a doorway beyond which Jean stood, waiting.

Neither Daddy nor I knew what we would do or say when we returned to him. He would open his eyes hopefully, expectantly, not see Mommy beside us, and close those eyes again, perhaps forever. We were both terrified of taking the chance, and yet it was hard to keep from visiting him. The longer we stayed away, the deeper his skepticism would become.

Daddy spent some of the evening in his office talking to friends, getting advice. None suggested anything more than what we had already done, and none could understand why Mommy would have run off; but of course few if any of them knew her background and why she had come to believe she was the cause of our trouble.

I wanted to stay awake as late as I could to hear the phone ring, hopefully with news of Mommy, and to keep Daddy company, but when I lowered my head on the sofa and closed my eyes, sleep seized me so quickly I could have been the one in a coma. The next thing I knew, I heard the bong of the grandfather clock declare it was three in the morning.

I sat up slowly, rubbed my eyes, and listened. The house was dead quiet. The lights in the corridors had been turned down low. I was surprised Daddy hadn't come in to wake me and send me up to my bed.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and got up to check on Daddy. The desk lamp in his office was still on, but he wasn't there. I saw that he had done some drinking. The bottle of bourbon was open, and there was a partially filled glass beside it. Thinking he had gone up to bed, I climbed the stairs. My legs felt as if they were filled with water. Every step was an effort. When I got upstairs, I saw that Daddy's bedroom door was open, so I went to it and peeked in.

The bed was empty, the lamp beside it lit. The bathroom door was open, but the bathroom was dark.

"Daddy?" I called quietly. "Are you here?" I listened and heard nothing.

I checked the other bedrooms and didn't find him, so I went back downstairs. The cars were all there, and no one was in the kitchen. I walked through the house and went to Mommy's studio. There were no lights on, so I was going to go back upstairs, frightened now that Daddy might have fallen asleep or collapsed on the floor beside his bed. But as I turned, I caught a whiff of bourbon and paused, staring into the darkness of the studio. My eyes grew used to the absence of light until I saw his silhouette on a settee. I stepped farther into the studio, slowly approaching him.

Daddy was sprawled naked on the settee with just a small towel over his torso. He looked fast asleep. What was he doing? Why had he gotten undressed to lie in here? I debated waking him and then decided to let him rest. Just as I started to turn away again, I heard him cry out my mother's name.

"Ruby. Go on," he muttered. I drew closer again to listen. "Go on," he continued. "You're a professional. You should have no problem drawing me. I want you to do it. Go ahead," he challenged. Then he laughed. "Ready?" He pulled off his towel and cast it over the back of the settee. "Draw with passion, my darling. Draw."

I stood transfixed, unable and afraid to move. I knew if he discovered it was I and not my mother in the darkness, he would be horribly embarrassed. After a moment he lowered his head to the settee again and mumbled something I couldn't hear. He grew quiet, and I tiptoed out of the studio, closing the door softly behind me, leaving Daddy back there, reliving some intimate moment with my mother.

Troubled but exhausted, I put my head on my pillow and fell asleep in moments, glad my mind hadn't the energy to think one more thought.

I awoke with a start. A mourning dove was moaning her ominous, sad cry just under my window. The sky was heavily overcast, shutting out the always welcome rays of warm sunshine and leaving the world draped in a dull film of dreary darkness. Rain was imminent. I gazed at the clock and saw that I had slept until nearly nine. Recalling what had happened the night before, I rose quickly, washed, and dressed. When I descended, I found Daddy, up and dressed and in his office on the telephone. He was speaking to the police in Houma. I stood in the doorway listening.

"Then you have been to the shack and searched the surroundings thoroughly?" he asked, glancing at me cheerlessly. "I see. Yes. We do appreciate that. You have my number, and please, if there is any expense involved . . . I mean, if there's anything extra you can do but can't afford it, . . . of course. Thank you, monsieur. We're grateful."

He cradled the receiver and sat back. His hair was disheveled, his face unshaven and gray, and he was dressed in the wrinkled clothing he had worn yesterday. To me it looked as if he had woken in the studio, dressed, and come to his office.

"Nothing," he said. "Not even a footprint. Maybe she was swallowed by one of the alligators behind the shack."

"Don't say such a thing, Daddy!"

"What can I say?"

"Did you call the hospital?"

"Not yet." He sighed deeply. "What are we going to do, Pearl?"

"She'll come home or she'll call us," I said. "She will," I insisted when he didn't react. "Did you have breakfast?"

"Just coffee. I don't have an appetite. But you go on. Eat something. No sense in both of us suffering like this," he said. "I'll give Jeanne a call in about twenty minutes. Everyone's going to get annoyed with us for nagging them, of course."

"No, they won't. They'll understand."

"That's good, because I don't," he said bitterly. He was at it again, swimming in a pool of self-pity. I just didn't have the patience for it, so I went to get some breakfast. Afterward I decided we should go see Pierre.

"I can't," Daddy said. "I can't face him and continue to promise him something that I have no idea will happen."

"But we can't not go, Daddy. Our presence is all he has now. We have to go," I insisted. "Get up."

His eyes widened. "Okay," he said. After giving Aubrey detailed instructions about how to reach us should anyone call with any information, he reluctantly drove us to the hospital. We met Dr. LeFevre in the corridor just outside the ICU.

"No word of your wife yet, monsieur?" she asked when she saw it was just us again.

"I'm afraid not," Daddy said.

"How is Pierre doing, Doctor?" I asked.

"He's going in and out of consciousness. Each time he emerges, it's with the expectation he will have his mother at his bedside, and each time he sees she's not there, he retreats into his deep sleep. Have you no idea where she might be?" she asked.

"Some, but there's been no sign of her anywhere," Daddy moaned.

Dr. LeFevre didn't hide her dissatisfaction, which only made Daddy feel worse.

"We're trying to find her, Doctor," I said. "We have the police looking, and we have friends searching."

"Very well," she said. "We'll do what we can," she added with the definite tone that said it wouldn't be enough.

The entire time Daddy and I were at Pierre's bedside he remained asleep. He didn't even move his fingers when I held his hand. He was waiting to hear Mommy's voice, not ours. The sight and the silence drove Daddy mad. He couldn't stay long and left before I did. I found him pacing in the corridor.

"Let's go home," he said. "Maybe someone's called."

No one had. The day seemed to last forever. Every hour fell like another heavy stone on our hearts. Daddy ate a little lunch, but started to drink in the late afternoon. By early evening he was in his own comfortable stupor, and I was left waiting for the ringing of the phone or the buzz of the doorbell. Nothing brought any news.

And then, just before nine o'clock, the phone rang and Aubrey came to the sitting room to inform me that a Monsieur Clovis was on the line waiting to speak with me.

"Clovis?" At first I couldn't recall who that might be,

"He said Jack Clovis, mademoiselle."

"Oh, Jack," I cried and hurried to the phone.

"Sorry if I'm calling too late," he began.

"No, it's fine, Jack. What is it?"

"I don't know if it's anything, Pearl, but just before I was about to leave the fields tonight, I saw a light in a window in the big house. I knew it couldn't be the reflection of a star or the moon, because we've got heavily overcast skies out here tonight," he explained. "To me it looked like a candle."

"Did you go look?"

"I did because of what you told me about your mother and all. I took a flashlight and went into the house. I listened, but I didn't hear anyone. I swear I saw candlelight, though. I didn't see it when I was in the house, and I don't see it now, but someone was walking through that house tonight. I'd swear on a stack of Bibles."

I thought a moment. It was nearly a two-hour drive, but this was the first sign of any hope.

"We'll be out there in two hours," I said.

"Really? I don't know if you should do that, Pearl. I haven't found anything. It might have been a prowler, of course. I can't say I saw a woman. I hate to have you drive out here in the middle of the night for nothing."

"It's not for nothing, Jack. We're coming. I don't expect you to wait around, though."

"Oh, no problem. I'll go sprawl out in the office trailer. If I fall asleep, just knock on the door. Boy, I sure hope you're not coming out here for nothing."

"Don't you worry about it," I assured him.

As soon as I hung up, I went looking for Daddy. To my chagrin, I found him sprawled out on the sofa in his office, his arm dangling over the side, his hand clutching the neck of the bourbon bottle.

"Daddy!" I rushed to him and shook him. He groaned, opened his eyes, and then closed them. "Daddy, Jack called from Cypress Woods. Someone was in the house, walking with a candle. We've got to go up there. It might be Mommy." I shook him again. This time he released the bottle, and it fell to the floor, spilling its contents over the rug and splattering my feet. "Daddy!"

"Wha . . . Ruby?"

"Oh, Daddy, no!" I cried. I stared at him for a moment and, realizing he wouldn't be able to drive anyway, and would certainly sleep all the way there, I turned and went to the desk. I found a pen and wrote a quick note explaining what Jack had said and where I had gone. Then, to be sure he read it, I pinned it to his shirt and left him, sprawled out drunk in his office.

I had never driven the car for as long a journey as this one was going to be, and at night, too. The thought crossed my mind to call someone to accompany me. I considered Catherine, but remembered she was on holiday. I certainly didn't want to call Claude or any of his friends. No one would want to go traveling into the bayou this time of night anyway, I thought. I had to do this alone, and I had to do it now.

Thinking about some of those dark side roads put a tremor into my legs and made my fingers shake when I finally got behind the wheel and turned the key. I took a deep breath, checked to see that I had enough gas, and then pulled out of the driveway, turning slowly into the city streets and leaving Daddy and the house behind me.

Somewhere ahead of me in the night Mommy waited. At least, I prayed so. Whenever I had any doubts I just conjured up Pierre's image and the plea in his eyes.

"Get Mommy," he had asked. "Make her come home."

I sped onto the highway and into the night to do just that.