Hidden Jewel

11

Kiss

Ten minutes out of the city, the sky that had looked heavy and forbidding delivered on its threat. The rain fell, driven by a furious wind that splattered the heavy drops like eggs against the car windshield. The wipers groaned with the effort to keep the window clear. Oncoming car headlights blurred. It was like a monsoon. My heart throbbed in triple time as I held my breath with every turn.

Suddenly I felt the car sliding, and I panicked, hitting the brakes too hard, which sent the vehicle sideways. I screamed as the car rammed into a tree and the rear end whipped out, leaving me facing the side of the road, my front wheels in a ditch. Other drivers, whizzing by, sounded their horns as if in anger, fearful I would back out onto the road again and into their path.

But all I could do was sit and cry, my hands frozen to the steering wheel. I couldn't move a muscle. My heart was a wild frantic animal in my chest, thudding hard against my ribs. Tears coursed down my face and dropped from my chin.

The wipers were still going, even though the engine had stalled. I sucked in my breath and tried desperately to calm down. The rain sounded like giant fingers drumming the roof. More horns blared, and then a pair of huge headlights came bearing down on me. It was a tractor trailer truck, and I thought it was going to plow right into me. But the driver brought it to a stop about a dozen feet away. I saw him get out and run over to open my door.

He was a lean man in a faded white T-shirt and jeans. He had a well-trimmed dark mustache and thin brown hair. "You all right?" he asked.

"I think so. Yes," I said wiping my tears away.

"Your rear end is sticking out in the highway. You're gonna get smacked for sure. Did you try to back up and straighten out?"

"No, sir."

He was getting soaked standing there in the rain, but he didn't seem to care.

"Well, go on, see if she'll start," he said. I turned the key. The engine turned over and over, but the car didn't start. "We might need a tow truck," he muttered.

"Oh, no. I've got to get to Houma tonight!" He thought a moment.

"Let me come around and try it," he said. I slid over, and he got behind the wheel. "Might be flooded." He kept his foot down on the accelerator and turned the ignition. It churned and churned and then suddenly sputtered and started. "Let's see how bad you're hung up in this ditch," he said and put the car into reverse. Then he accelerated. The car lifted and fell, lifted and fell. He shook his head. "I don't know. We could rip something out if we force her."

"I've got to get to Houma, monsieur. It's a matter of life or death."

"Ain't it always?" he muttered and looked at me. "You sure you're old enough to be driving?"

"Oh, yes. I have my license right here," I said fumbling for my purse.

"That's all right. I ain't the police. Your folks know you're out in this weather?"

"I'm trying to get to my mother," I said.

He nodded. "All right. I'll try something. I got a chain in the truck. Give me a few minutes to hook it up to your car and I'll see if I can tug you over the ditch here."

"Thank you, monsieur. Thank you."

He smiled at me and shook his head. "Women drivers," he muttered and got out. I waited. The rain didn't ease a bit. I saw him working, seemingly oblivious to the downpour. I was sure he was soaked to the skin. Finally he tapped on my window.

"Just hold the steering wheel steady. If she comes up and out, turn to the right so you straighten up, okay? Got it?"

"Yes, monsieur. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he said. He ran back to his truck. I waited, and then I heard the chain tighten and I felt the car move back a few inches at a time. As it lifted, I did what he told me to do, and moments later I was free. My heart beat with joy instead of fear.

"Okay," he said, returning to the window. "You're out. If you're going to continue driving in this storm, you had better keep it slow, understand?"

"Yes, monsieur. How can I repay you?"

"Send me a thank-you card," he said and rushed away.

"But, monsieur . . ."

I waited. He got into his truck and drove off, beeping his horn as he went by. I never even got to know his name.

Minutes later I was back on the highway, driving with exaggerated care until the rain eased. It slowed to a drizzle, and then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. I chanced accelerating, feeling more confident as I put more miles behind me and the road looked drier and drier. Even so, traveling along highways with trucks and cars whizzing by and so few lighted houses made me nervous. If something happened to me, Mommy would never know and Pierre would never get well, I thought. Daddy would be left alone and would surely die, too. Just the thought of all this tragedy brought stinging tears to my eyes.

A half hour or so later I saw the clouds had broken up. Stars were visible, blinking their promises. It warmed my heart, and I felt even more self-assured. The horrible accident that had begun my journey became just a memory. When I drew closer to Houma, however, I realized I had forgotten the exact side road Daddy had taken to bring us to Cypress Woods. I slowed down and studied the roads, but they all looked the same now. Desperate, I decided to stop at the first shack with lights on inside. This journey that was supposed to take me about two hours had already taken nearly three. A house appeared on my right, so I slowed down and turned into the driveway.

As soon as I got out of the car, two gray squirrels scampered up a nearby cypress tree, their sudden movement making me gasp. They peered down at me curiously from the branch over my head. I laughed at them and walked up a gravel path to the galerie of the shack.

It was a paintless wood-frame building with orange stained screens on the windows. Some windows had shutters, some didn't. The yard was cluttered with used automobiles, washing machines, and damaged pirogues. The galerie had square columns that were barely holding up the tin roof, and the first step on the short stairway was broken. I hadn't picked the best place to stop for directions, but I wasn't sure how far away the next one was and I didn't want to get any more lost than I was. So I drew closer.

Zydeco music was coming from inside, and through the opening in the batten plank shutter, I saw a man playing a harmonica, another playing a washboard, and a third playing a fiddle. There was the sound of a woman's laughter and then someone shouted, "Laissez les bon temps rouler"—let the good times roll. More shouting was followed by more laughter and the sound of someone dancing on the plank floor. This close I could smell the heavy aroma of a seafood gumbo.

I hesitated to interrupt the festivities, but when I turned around and looked at the dark surroundings, the trees with the Spanish moss draped like ghosts, the fireflies like sparks in the night, and the absence of any traffic or people, I felt I had no choice. I stepped up to the door and knocked, too softly at first and then hard enough for the people within to hear.

Someone shouted. The music stopped. I knocked again. Moments later a man in just a pair of pants and suspenders came to the door. He had a heavy thin line of hair running down the center of his chest, which was spotted with pale yellow freckles. He was barefoot with toes that looked as thick and as long as fingers. His black hair was disheveled, some strands so long they reached the tip of his nose. He looked as if he hadn't shaved for days and never shaved the hair on his neck that curled over his collarbone. He just stared out at me.

"Anyone there, Thomas?" A woman demanded.

"Yes," he said.

Suddenly there were two little girls behind him, both in sack dresses and both with hair that looked as if it had never been cut. It reached below their shoulders. They gazed at me with large, curious dark eyes. Another, shorter man appeared, smiling widely, and then a tall woman, stout with rolling pin arms, pushed in between them. She had a chubby face with a double chin and large dark eyes.

"Well, whaddaya lookin' at, you two? It's just a girl. Whatcha want, missy?"

"I'm lost and I was hoping I could get some directions, ma'am."

"Lost, huh? Lookie what we got here, Jimbo," she said, pushing the shorter man back so that an older man with bushy white hair could come to join the curious group. He was the one playing the washboard. "She says she's lost."

"Where you goin'?" he asked. There was gray stubble on his chin and a light gray mustache.

"I'm looking for a place called Cypress Woods," I said.

"Cypress Woods!" The first man smiled, revealing gaping holes where teeth should have been.

"You related to the Tates?" Jimbo asked.

"No, monsieur."

"Well, Cypress Woods is the Tates' place," he said with narrow, suspicious eyes. The woman nodded. The group was joined by two more men, another woman, three older girls about sixteen, and a boy a little younger.

"You lookin' for one of them oil riggers?" the woman asked in a disapproving tone. She folded her arms over her bosom and straightened her shoulders.

"Not exactly," I said.

"Not exactly? What's that supposed to mean? Not exactly?"

"I'm not coming here to meet a man," I added. "But someone who works with the oil riggers has information I need."

"That so?" She looked like she didn't believe me. Why was it so important for them to know every detail before they would give me directions?

"Tates don't live there, if you're looking for them," Jimbo said.

"I'm not looking for the Tates. Listen," I said with a deep, impatient sigh, "I lived there once." I realized if I didn't give them more information, I might not get any out of them. "But I'm not related to the Tates."

"Lived there?" He looked at the woman. "Don't say?"

She narrowed her eyes, too.

"You related to the old traiteur lady?" she asked. "She's too young to be Catherine Landry's granddaughter," Jimbo said shaking his head.

"You her great-granddaughter?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," I said.

"Well, I’ll be. Yeah, she looks somethin' like a Landry would, don't you think, Jimbo?"

"That she does. They was good-looking people. Buster be happy to hear about this. He's been bulling around about it for years now."

"Do you know how I can get to Cypress Woods?" I asked, not hiding my impatience now.

"Sure. You go down here about hundred yards, see, and then you make a left turn, hear? Then you follow the road to the first fork. Turn left and follow that. It will take you to Cypress Woods, hear?"

"Yes, monsieur. Thank you."

"Buster ain't gonna believe this," the woman said. "She looks like her mother, don't she?"

"Buster ain't gonna believe this," Jimbo agreed, nodding. They all just stared at me with big eyes, making me feel like a ghost.

"Thank you," I said and hurried back to the car. When I looked back, I saw they were all still standing there gaping out at me. I hoped their directions were accurate. I drove slowly. These side roads were even darker than the road that took me close to Houma. The cypress trees loomed tall and thick, their branches twisted and turned above me. The reflected illumination of my car headlights made some of them look like skeletons. Something furry ran across the road, and when I made the last turn, an owl swooped in front of me, its wingspan so large it took my breath away. With my heart pounding, I finally turned up the driveway toward Cypress Woods and the oil wells. It had been more than three and a half hours since I had spoken to Jack Clovis. I wondered if he was still here.

The great house rose out of the night as I drew closer and closer. Its windows were dark, but some of them were like mirrors reflecting the movement of trees and bushes. The building radiated its emptiness in the silence that surrounded it. Only the wind stirred the loose shutters and brushed the tops of the weeds and tall grasses that grew unchecked along the sides. It looked much more abandoned and forsaken without the sunlight glittering around it. Now it was a house occupied only by shadows. As the clouds passed over the stars, those shadows shifted and twisted behind the windows and over the gallery.

I had an empty feeling in my chest as I gazed at the great mansion that had once been filled with song and laughter, good food and good friends, a place of joy and life in which my mother had created wonderful works of art. Now it was a grand tomb without a body, all the voices long gone, their echoes absorbed by the vast space.

And all of my childhood fears suddenly swept over me. I was afraid to turn my head and look at the oil rigs. My heart skipped a beat and then raced. Something luminous in the darkness radiated in waves over the field between the house and the swamps, going in and out of focus. Maybe it was just a reflection, but to me, for the moment, it looked like the face in my nightmares. I gasped as it seemed to draw closer and closer, floating toward me. A flutter of panic made my heart skip.

"No!" I cried, shaking my head. I accelerated up the driveway and turned left toward the office trailer. A tiny light burned on the door, and I saw some dull illumination through the window. I pulled up quickly and got out, hugging myself. It was far from cold. If anything, the humid, hot air should have made me sweat, but I had a chill in my spine that put icicles over my heart. I hurried up the steps to the door and knocked. There was no answer.

Oh, no, I thought. Jack gave up on me. I'm out here all alone. Something croaked in the grass to my right. I heard scurrying along the gravel. When I looked back toward the house, I thought I saw a thin veil float down from the upstairs gallery. Whatever it was, it disappeared in moments. I knocked again, harder. When no one responded, I tried the doorknob and discovered it was unlocked.

I stepped into the trailer. There was a desk to the right covered with blueprints and other papers, a telephone, and a copy machine. Behind it was a small kitchen. To the left was the living area and there, sprawled out on the sofa, his feet dangling over the arm of it, was Jack Clovis, sound asleep. I closed the trailer door and stood there for a moment, embarrassed, not sure what I should do next. Fortunately, he finally sensed my presence. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. The moment he saw me, he shot into a sitting position and brushed back his hair.

"Oh, sorry," he said, rubbing his cheeks vigorously. "I guess I fell asleep."

"I'm the one who should be sorry," I said. "I took so long to get here, but I got into an accident just outside New Orleans, and then I got lost for a while."

"Accident? Are you all right?" He stood up and buttoned his shirt.

"Yes, I'm fine. I just slid off the road into a ditch, but a truck driver helped me."

"Oh. Good." He looked behind me. "Isn't your father here too?"

"No," I said. "I came by myself."

"Yourself? Oh," he said without asking any more questions.

"Have you seen anything since we spoke?" I asked quickly.

"No. I watched the house for an hour or so, too. There were no cars. I don't even know how anyone would get here, except . . ."

"Except what?" I said.

"Except through the canals, of course. It was too dark to go down there and check. You want something to drink—cold water, juice?" he offered moving toward the small kitchen.

"No. I'm fine. I'd like to go into the house immediately and look where you saw the light."

"Sure. Let me get us a couple of flashlights," he said and went to a cabinet. "I really didn't mean for you to come up here so late. Tomorrow would probably be just as good. Does your father know you've come?"

"He doesn't know yet, but I left him a note. It's all right."

Jack nodded, but he looked skeptical.

"It's very important that I find my mother quickly. My brother needs her desperately," I said.

He stared for a moment, his eyes softening. "I understand. Okay, let's go, then." He opened the door for me, and we stepped out. "Might as well drive over to the house," he said, nodding at my car. We got in and I drove over, describing how bad the rain had been at the start of my trip.

"Didn't get much here," he said. "That's the way these summer storms are. Sometimes we get them bad and you don't and vice versa."

We got out of the car and walked up the steps to the gallery. He flipped on his flashlight and I did the same. Then, we entered the house. Please, I prayed, please let Mommy be here. If I found her, I would take her directly to the hospital. In hours we could be at Pierre's bedside.

The small amount of illumination our flashlights provided elongated the shadows and made the rooms and corridors look deeper than they were. Furniture draped in sheets resembled spirits waiting patiently to be reanimated, and the silhouettes created by our flashlights slid across the walls and ceilings like phantoms gathering around us. Our own footsteps made the floorboards creak. Our shoes clicked over the tiles, a small sound amplified in the emptiness.

"The light was upstairs," Jack said. "Be careful."

He led the way up the grand staircase. The steps groaned under our weight. It had been a long time since anyone had walked up or down regularly. I felt a rippling sensation on the back of my neck, as if someone had stepped up behind me. I paused and spun around. As we were moving forward, the darkness, pushed aside by our beams of light, was rushing back in behind us. I decided to stay as close to Jack as I could. When we reached the landing, he directed me to the right and we entered what I knew was Uncle Paul's bedroom.

"I might be wrong," Jack said. "But I'm pretty sure the light was in here. I counted the windows from the end of the house. If there was someone in this room, that person was standing about here." He moved to the window. "The light lingered awhile and then grew smaller. My guess is that the person moved deeper into the house, away from the window. I called and called, but no one responded. Could have been a prowler or a burglar, as I said," he added.

"There isn't much here for a burglar to steal, is there?" I asked.

"Well, there are good furnishings, works of art, bric-a-brac, kitchenware . . . sure, there's good loot, especially for some of these swamp pirates. We don't have urban crime, but we do have some lowlifes meandering about the canals, breaking into other people's shacks. This place is so far out that it's not easy to rob, but desperate people do desperate things."

Our flashlights were like candles. They threw a glow over our faces as we stood talking.

"Why would your mother come back here by herself in the middle of the night?" he asked. "You obviously thought she would or you wouldn't have come. I don't mean to poke my nose where it don't belong," he added quickly.

I shook my head and bit down on my lower lip. If Mommy was in the house, she would have heard us, but I couldn't be sure she would let us know she was here. I had no idea what state of mind she was in at this point.

"I told you about my brother's death and how upset my mother was, but I didn't tell you that my mother blamed herself for the tragedy. She went to a voodoo mama and was told to enact certain rituals. The next thing we knew, she had left to do something else mysterious. She sent a letter telling us she wouldn't be coming home for quite a while, if ever. We suspected she had returned to the bayou and found something she left in the shack where she and my great-grandmother lived when my mother was a little girl."

"And then she lived in this house after she married Paul Tate," he said.

"Yes."

"So you think she's coming back here to perform some voodoo ritual?"

"She's returning to wherever she thinks she did something that might have put a curse on us. I'm sure there's some ritual that has to do with driving away evil spirits," I told him.

"You don't believe in any of that, I take it," he said. "No."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I'm really sorry for your troubles."

"It's gotten worse. My little brother, the one who's in a coma, has become very sick. The psychiatrist treating him thinks he believes my mother blames him for my other brother's death because she doesn't go to see him. He doesn't want to live anymore," I concluded sadly.

"That's terrible."

"So you see why it is so important for me to find my mother and get her to come home."

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to find whoever was here. You want to go through the rest of the house?"

"Yes," I said.

He reached for my hand. "We'd better be careful. This place has been deserted for a long time. I don't know what to expect."

I didn't hesitate to give him my hand. He grasped it firmly. It was reassuring to sense his strength. We started through the upstairs, going in and out of the rooms, checking closets and bathrooms, looking into every possible space. I called for Mommy. I begged her to reply if she was in the house.

"Pierre needs you desperately, Mommy. If you're here, please call to us. Please!"

There was only the echo of my voice followed by silence. We returned to what had been my mother's bedroom. The bed had no linen, but there were still pillows and a mattress. Both of us ran our light beams over the floors and walls, even under the bed, but we saw no one and no evidence of anyone having been here recently.

"Maybe I just imagined the candle," Jack said woefully, "and brought you up here on false hope. The swamps play havoc with your senses sometimes. You ever see a flash of swamp gas?"

"No."

"It ignites and rolls across the water's surface like balls of lightning," he said. "It happens so quickly you're not sure whether or not you imagined it."

"I think I saw something like that when I drove up to the house. I don't really remember much at all about the bayou; I was just a little girl when I left. It sounds fascinating."

"I wouldn't want to live anywhere else," he said. "Don't mean any disrespect, but as you know, I'm not one for city life."

I smiled for the first time in hours, but I wasn't sure he could see in the dark.

"Well," he said after a moment, "you're welcome to come back to the trailer with me. I can make us something cold to drink. I got some watermelon in the fridge, too," he added. "Unless you're too tired."

I had been so excited and nervous, I never realized the lateness of the hour or the weariness in my body. Now that we had paused for a while, my legs did feel heavy, and fatigue began to climb up as if I had stepped into a pool of it.

"I'm okay," I said. "Just a little tired."

"What are your plans?" he asked. "You don't want to just turn around and drive back, do you?"

"Oh, no. I'm going to stay here," I said, gazing around.

"Stay here? You mean, in the house?"

"Yes. If my mother was here, she might come back, and if she's hiding, she might finally show herself. I don't know what else to do."

"But this is an empty house. Don't you have any relatives or friends to stay with? I mean, there are probably all sorts of creatures living in here by now, including spiders and snakes and—"

"Don't!" I said. "You're scaring me, and I have to stay here."

"I'm sorry," he said, seeing my determination. "If you're positive you want to do this . . ."

"Yes."

"Okay. Let's go back to the trailer. I’ll dig out some food and get us some blankets," he said.

"Us?"

"Well, you don't think I'm going to let you stay here by yourself, do you? I wouldn't catch a wink of sleep lying back there in my trailer, worrying about you here," he said. "I mean, that candle could have been used by a prowler."

"You don't have to stay here. I'll be all right," I said, but my legs were shaking and my knees knocking.

"I told you, I take care of your oil well, and I'll take care of you," he said firmly.

I smiled in the darkness, grateful for his generosity and concern. "Thank you," I said.

"No thanks required. Let's go get what we need," he said, and we left the house.

The cold watermelon was refreshing. After I had eaten some, I used the bathroom while Jack gathered the bedding and a kerosene lamp. Then we returned to the house.

"Where do you want to camp?" he asked after we entered and stood gazing into the dark.

"Upstairs," I said. "My mother's old bedroom." The glow from the kerosene lamp cast pools of dull yellow light over the walls as we climbed the stairs.

Our shadows spilled behind us down the steps and over the entryway. Jack saw where my attention had gone and laughed. He lifted the lamp making the shadows change their shapes and sizes.

"We're gigantic," he said. "We'll scare away any ghosts that might dwell in these crannies."

"Do you believe in ghosts, Jack?" I asked him. "Sure. I've seen them occasionally."

"Stop," I said.

"No. I have." He paused at the landing and turned to me. "In the swamp at night, floating over the water. Indian ghosts, I'm sure."

"Maybe it was just that swamp gas you described," I told him.

"You don't believe in spiritual things?"

"I believe in God, but not in goblins and ghosts and voodoo spirits. I'm a scientist," I said. "I believe there's a logical cause and a logical reason for every-thing. We might not know it yet, but there is."

"Okay," he said with a small, smug smile on his lips.

"You think I'll be proven wrong?"

"Don't know. I just know what I've seen," he said confidently and continued to the bedroom.

When we entered with the brighter light from the kerosene lamp, the room looked larger. When Jack started to put the lantern down on the vanity table, I spotted something on the bed.

"Wait!" I cried. "Bring the lantern closer to the bed."

He followed me. We both stared down between the two pillows.

"What the heck is that?" Jack asked. "I didn't see it before, did you?"

"No." I reached for it slowly. "It's a mojo," I said.

"A what?"

"The leg bone of a black cat that's been killed exactly at midnight. Powerful gris-gris," I told him. "My mother was definitely here! Either we didn't see this when we were here before or she came back after we left to go to the trailer."

When I turned around, Jack was standing there with his mouth open. "Leg of a black cat?"

"My mother's old cook gave her this mojo. She was the woman who died and came back with the warning my mother never got because she was at a party celebrating her new art exhibit. That's one of the reasons she blames herself for what happened to Jean," I explained.

Jack gazed at me as if I were crazy. "This woman died and came back?"

"I don't really believe any of this," I said. "I told you my mother's having some sort of emotional breakdown."

He nodded and then looked around the room. "Sure you want to stay here?" he asked again, a little tremor in his voice now.

"Positive. My mother might return."

"But what if she's off doing something weird someplace else?" he asked.

"The only way to be sure is to stay here and wait," I said, more determined than ever. He sensed the resolution in my voice and stopped trying to talk me out of staying.

"Okay. You want to sleep on that mattress? It's a little dusty, but if I put this blanket over it and this one over the pillow . . ."

"That'll be fine," I said. "Thank you."

"I'll fix myself a spot over there," he said, nodding toward the settee.

He prepared my bed and then went to prepare his own, placing the kerosene lamp between us.

"You all right?" he asked, after sprawling out.

"Yes," I said. "It's really nice of you to help me like this."

"No problem."

"How old are your two sisters?" I asked. Now that I was lying down in Mommy's old bedroom in the empty mansion and the darkness had closed in around us, I felt the need to keep talking. Besides, I was interested in Jack's life.

"Daisy's twenty-two and Suzanne is twenty-nine. She's married with two kids, a boy, three, and a girl, four. Her husband runs a canning plant."

"What's Daisy doing?"

"She just finished college in Baton Rouge and got engaged. She's getting married in two months to a fellow over in Prairie. His family has a furniture business. They met at college."

"Did you go to college?" I asked.

"Me? No," he said. "I barely finished high school before I went to work with my father on the rigs."

"You said you were working when you were twelve."

"I was, but I couldn't collect a salary yet. How did you remember I said that?"

"I just did," I said quickly, happy he couldn't see me blush.

"No, I got my schooling on the job," he said. "I read a lot, though. We have lots of time to ourselves." "What do you like to read?"

"Mostly about nature. The other guys call me Einstein because I always have my nose in a fat book. I think it's great that you want to become a doctor. 'Course, I've never been to a real doctor, just a traiteur lady."

"My great-grandmother was a traiteur."

"I know. She's kind of a legend around here. You got magic in your hands, too? Oh, I forgot, you don't believe in anything that isn't logical." He laughed.

"Sometimes people get better because they believe so strongly in someone. That's logical," I said.

He was quiet a moment. "I guess it is. You're pretty smart, huh?"

"I get good grades."

"How good?"

"Good enough to be valedictorian of my class," I said.

"No! Really? I thought so," he said. "You just look smart, but I wasn't sure."

"Why not?" I asked laughing.

"Well," he said slowly, "the only smart girls I ever knew were . . ."

"Were what?"

"Not ugly, but not very pretty," he said.

There was a long moment of silence between us, neither of us knowing exactly what to say. Finally I spoke.

"That's silly, Jack. Looks have nothing to do with mental abilities."

"You're right," he said. "I'm just babbling. Tired, I suppose."

"We should sleep," I agreed. "Good night, Jack. Thanks again."

"Night," he said. "You want the lamp on or off?" "On, I think."

He paused and then said, "Not logical."

I had to laugh aloud. "You're a very nice person, Jack. I'm glad you're the one who's looking after my well."

"Thanks," he said. "Pearl?"

"Yes?"

"What did you do with that cat bone?"

"It's still here on the bed," I said. "That's where my mother wanted it."

He was quiet. The wind wove its way through the openings in the house and in and out of rooms below us, sometimes making a whistling sound. Walls creaked, and a loose shutter tapped monotonously against a window frame somewhere. I thought I heard the sound of flapping wings and imagined bats had inhabited the rafters, but I knew they weren't dangerous.

It had been a long, emotional night. Now that I was lying down, my body felt as if it would sink into the mattress. I tried to stay awake to listen for footsteps or the sound of my mother's voice, but before I knew it, I was in a deep sleep.

I sank into dreams filled with the faces of people I had met in the bayou. I imagined the people in the shack who gave me directions, and I dreamed they were outside. They had followed me to Cypress Woods and were muttering to themselves in the shadows. They drew closer and closer and entered the house. They were all coming up the stairs, the woman with the rolling pin arms leading them and the children all following behind. I saw them enter the bedroom and sensed them around me. Their eyes were big, and their faces were liquid, changing from round to oval to round again.

And then I felt a hand on my cheek. It was too real to be in a dream, but I couldn't open my eyes. I moaned and struggled against the invisible bonds that bound me. I tried to open my mouth, but my jaw was locked. I gagged on my tongue and exerted all my strength to get my mouth open. Finally my lips parted and I screamed.

Jack was at my side in moments. I sat up and threw my arms around him.

"What happened? What's wrong? Pearl?" He held me tightly, and I locked my arms over his strong, secure shoulders.

"Just hold me," I pleaded. "Just hold me."

"It's all right," he said, gently brushing my hair, first with his hand and then with his lips. "You're safe. It's all right."

I tried to swallow. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure Jack felt the thump in his chest, too.

"You poor girl," he said. "Damn this bad luck. Damn it."

His lips moved to my forehead. I closed my eyes, welcoming the warm affection and comfort, bathing in his touch. He continued to kiss me, moving his lips down to my closed eyes and then my lips. I didn't resist. We kissed long, but gently. And then he pulled back.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"It's all right," I said and sighed as he eased his embrace. I lay back.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I felt a hand on my cheek."

"Just a dream, I suppose. I was having nightmares myself," he added. He held my hand. "You all right now?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I don't want you to think I was taking advantage of you or anything. I . ."

"I'm glad you kissed me, Jack."

"You are?"

"Yes. It was very comforting."

"Good," he said. "Well . . . should we try to sleep again?"

"I'm sorry. I know you have to get up early and work."

"I'll be fine," he said. He stared down at me a moment longer and then started to rise, but hesitated, turned, and leaned down to kiss me again. "Just to be sure," he whispered. I saw his small smile and felt the warmest tingle travel through my breasts to my heart.

I actually was sorry when he rose and returned to the settee. I heard him settle in, and then I turned to look at him. For a moment we just stared at each other through the dim light of the kerosene lamp.

"Night," he whispered.

"Good night."

I turned over and thought for a moment before I realized why I was suddenly anxious. I patted the bed and searched with my hand.

Jack heard me moving about. "What is it, Pearl?"

"Jack," I said. "The mojo."

"What about it?"

"It's gone!"