Hidden Jewel

13

The Past Comes A-courting

The thunderheads had been creeping along in our direction all day. By the time I returned to Cypress Woods, they were overhead, growling and heralding rain and wind. I drove directly to the house, but a cloud burst just as I stopped the car. I waited a moment. However, seeing it was only going to get worse before it got better, I pulled my jacket over my head, lunged from the car, and ran up the gallery steps. The wind whipped the heavy drops at me, soaking my face.

I stepped inside and closed the large door to keep the gusty air and the rain out, but I, found myself standing in a very dark, dank entryway filled with stale air. A chill passed through me and settled like the cold palm of a large hand on the back of my neck. I shuddered and looked up the dark stairway.

"Mommy!" I yelled. "Are you here?"

My voice reverberated, and the echo sounded like someone tormenting me, imitating my desperation: "Mommy, are you here?"

Dead silence was followed by the heavy creaking of the wood frame and floors. Shutters rattled. It began to rain harder. Was my mother wandering about out there? I wondered. The thought of her being caught in this storm terrified me. Tears streaked my face as much as the rain streaked the windowpane, mixing with the raindrops on my cheeks. Another chill shot through my chest, making my teeth chatter. I had to find a warmer place.

I hurried into the sitting room on my right and pulled the dustcover off the settee. Although it was dusty, I used it as a blanket and curled up against the arm of the settee, squeezing my legs up against my stomach and embracing them.

The wind seemed to be circling and embracing the house, seeking out every opening, no matter how small, and then threading itself through to whistle and whip about the rooms, making the long drapes move in a macabre dance and the chandeliers swing ominously above. The storm grew stronger. I had heard that summer storms in the bayou were often worse than they were in New Orleans. This one appeared to have the power to lift this enormous house from its foundation and carry it off into the swamp.

I groaned. "Mommy," I whispered, "where can you be in all this? Are you safe?" Maybe she was upstairs, cringing in a corner just as I was cringing on this settee. I looked up at the ceiling, wishing I could see through walls for just an instant.

A decorative plate shook loose from one of the shelves of the hutch on my left and shattered on the cypress-plank floor. The crash startled me and I cried out. The wind grew louder, angrier. The chandeliers were rattling like old bones. In another room down the corridor, another piece of glass or china fell, exploding like a gunshot. Raindrops pelted the windows, zigzagging like sharp fingernails scratching their way down the panes. The wind that passed freely through the house stirred up the dust. I coughed and buried my face in my hands as I began to alternate between feeling chilled and feeling feverish. The raging tem-pest blustered harder and harder. I thought it was never going to end. The very walls threatened to fall in, crushing me. It grew so dark I could barely see my hand, and then I heard the front door blow open.

But I heard it close, too.

"Pearl! Pearl, where are you?" Jack cried. Never was I so happy to hear another person's voice, especially his.

"In here, Jack!"

He came rushing in, dressed in a slick black raincoat and hat and knee-high boots. He carried a flashlight and had a bundle under his arm. "Are you all right?" he asked hurrying over. He put down the flashlight and swept his hat off. Then he brushed the rain off the back of his neck.

"This storm is so horrible and it came so fast," I complained through my chattering teeth.

"We had hurricane warnings coming in over the radio," he said. "The storm built up as it traveled inland." He took the bundle out from under his arm. It contained a blanket and a kerosene lamp, which he set on a table. "I saw you drive up and tried to get you to come to the trailer, but you didn't see me waving."

He took off his wet raincoat and put it on a chair just as a gust of wind slammed against the house. I released a small cry. Jack was at my side instantly. I welcomed his embrace and cuddled against the warm pocket between his arm and his chest.

"You poor thing. You're freezing," he said, rubbing my shoulders and arms vigorously.

My teeth stopped chattering. "Oh, Jack, what are we going to do?"

"We'll wait it out," he said. "But anything that's loose is going to fly away. Let me light the kerosene lamp." I lifted myself away so he could do so. Then he sat back and offered his arm again. I leaned into him. The illumination from the flickering lamp threw distorted shapes over the wall. They looked like the silhouettes of grotesque marionettes dangling on strings, moving to the rhythm of the wind.

"Warmer?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you. No one mentioned a hurricane," I said.

"Sometimes they creep up on us. Makes it exciting to live here," he added smiling.

"I think I can do without this sort of thrill."

He laughed. "Did your mother contact your aunt? She was obviously not there if you returned to Cypress Woods," he concluded.

"No. I'm sure she won't call or go there either. I met my aunt's mother," I said with a grimace.

"Gladys Tate?" I nodded. "I never saw her around here, but I heard she's a tough lady. Actually," he said after a moment, "the boys say she's the one who wears the pants in that family. Whenever Mr. Tate does come around here, he looks whipped. It's none of my business, so I don't pay much attention, as long as we all get what's coming to us when it's coming to us."

"I returned to my great-grandmère's old shack, and, Jack, someone has been there since Daddy and I were there. Whoever it was tore the place apart."

"Tore it apart? What do you mean?"

I described the furniture, the walls. "Why would someone do that to an old, deserted place?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said with a look of worry. "It's strange." He thought a moment and shrugged. "Did you have anything to eat, drink?"

"I went into town and had some lunch in a place called Grandmère's Kitchen."

"Ella's place? Food's great, isn't it?"

"She went to school with my mother. I didn't tell her why I was really here," I said. "Nor did I say anything about the shack."

"Well, it won't take long for the truth to get out and around. My daddy says a phone's a waste of money in the bayou. One person tells another something, and it's passed on before the words die on the originator's lips."

"Cajun people are really close, aren't they?"

"One big family," he said proudly. "We have our feuds, though, same as any people."

"I'm half Cajun," I said, "but I feel as if I'm in another country."

"My grandmère used to say you can become Cajun only three ways: by the blood, by the ring, or by the back door. I tell you what," he added, gazing at me, "you got grit like a Cajun. Not many fancy New Orleans girls would come here all alone, I bet, no matter how important it was."

"I don't know what else to do. My mother's not home; my brother's getting worse and worse; Daddy's laid up with a broken leg . . ."

Jack nodded thoughtfully.

Suddenly I realized the storm had stopped. The house was cemetery quiet, and the air was still. "It's over," I said gratefully.

Jack shook his head. "The eye is passing over us. More to come," he predicted, and sure enough, moments later the wind began to whistle through the house again, the shutters slammed and pounded, and the rain splattered and drummed over the trembling windowpanes. Upstairs, a blast of air blew out a pane. We heard it shatter on the floor.

I cringed. Jack held me closer. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he thought it was his own.

"It'll be all right," he said again. I felt his lips on my hair, his warm breath against my cheek. The terror of the hurricane, the long storm of sadness that had been raining over us, and the desperation of our situation made me long for the calm and the security I found in Jack's arms. He was soft and loving and very sensitive.

I buried my face in his shoulder, unable to keep back the flood of tears. He held me tightly and comforted me as I sobbed. We hadn't known each other long, but his sincerity made that short period seem more like years. The wind howled, the rain stung the house, more things toppled and smashed, another window shattered. It seemed that the world was opening and we would fall into the gaping hole. The sky grew purplish and dark. The kerosene lamp flickered precariously.

"Wow," Jack whispered, and I knew that even he, someone who had been born and lived here all his life, was impressed with this particular storm. The house continued to shake. Everything on hinges was rattling. We clung to each other like two desperate swimmers clinging to a raft in a tossing sea. The wind rose and fell, sending wave after wave of rain against the house.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ended. Mother Nature relaxed and stepped over us, the storm trailing after her as she made her way northward to remind someone else how powerful she could be and how much we should all respect her. Jack eased his tight embrace around me, and we both sighed with relief.

"Is it finally over?" I asked, still skeptical.

"Yes," he said. "It's over. I just hate to go out there in daylight tomorrow and see the mess. You all right?"

I nodded, but I didn't leave his side. My heartbeat had slowed, but the numbness I had felt earlier in my legs was still there. I didn't think I could stand up. Jack stroked my hair with his left hand.

"How many of these storms have you been through?" I asked.

"A few, but this was a humdinger."

"I was born during a storm," I told him. "My mother told me about it and how my uncle Paul was there to help with the delivery."

"So that explains it," Jack said.

"Explains what?"

"Where you get your grit . . . from the hurricane. It left its mark in your heart. I bet you're a terror when you're angry."

"No . . . well, maybe," I said.

He laughed. "I don't intend to find out. So," he said sitting back, "what do you plan to do now?" "Nothing. I'm going to wait here," I said.

"You don't really think your mother's coming back, do you?"

"Yes," I said. "She knows I was here; she's got to come back."

Jack thought for a moment. "Okay," he said. "Let's go to my trailer and get some things, see how bad the storm was, and then we'll return."

"No," I said. "I want to stay here. I was going to go through the house just before the storm began. Maybe my mother's hiding someplace."

"You sure got a Cajun stubbornness. When your mind's made up, it's made up," he said. "All right. Wait for me here. We'll search the house again together. I'll go gather up some food for us so we can have dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"You will be," he assured me. "I'll leave the lantern, but promise you will wait for me before you start trekking through the house again."

"I promise," I said.

He stared at me a moment and then smiled that soft, small smile I was beginning to crave. I smiled back and he leaned toward me as my lips opened slightly to invite his. We kissed.

"I'll be right back," he whispered and put on his slick raincoat and hat. "Don't move."

"Don't worry. I won't," I said.

He laughed and hurried out.

I gazed around the room. In the throes of the storm, I had run to the nearest safe harbor without really looking at my haven. Now, calmer, I looked up at the large oil painting of a cove in the swamps. Although it was too dark to see the details, I had a vision flash across my mind and I saw the grosbeak night heron swooping over the water.

Suddenly a parade of childhood memories began. I saw myself peering down the grand stairway, which to me had looked as deep as the Grand Canyon. I heard laughter in the hallway, the full melodic laugh of my uncle Paul, who beamed his sunny smile at me whenever he saw me. I felt him scoop me up and carry me through the house on his shoulders. Delicious aromas from the kitchen returned. I saw our cook working over the stoves and ordering her assistant to cut this and mix that. All the people in my memories were big, gigantic in word and deed.

As I recalled more and more, the house that was now so dark and dreary was resurrected in my memory. In my recollections it was bright and warm and full of life. Uncle Paul was hanging one of Mommy's new paintings, and I was standing beside her, holding her hand, marveling at the magic that came out of my mother's fingers. With a sweep of a brush, she could put life in a face or make birds fly and fish jump. I heard music and more laughter. There were people everywhere; not a room, not a corner, looked lonely or cold. And from a window, probably in my room, I saw the gardens, bright and lush with flowers in all of the colors of the rainbow.

It seemed to me my mother and I had fled from this house one day, and because the flight was so quick and so complete, my memories had fallen deeper and deeper into the vaults of my mind. It was almost as if I was afraid to let them emerge, afraid that they would return with some horrid nightmare trailing behind them.

The oil wells drummed in the night. Creatures slid along the banks of the swamp, and the water turned inky, dreadful, hiding the face that was to appear on the surface in the yellow moonlight, a face I was yet to see.

I blinked, and the memories faded as quickly as they had come. I was here in the present again, in the dark, dank house, searching for Mommy and hoping to find her before it was too late for all of us.

I didn't move until Jack returned and when he saw that I had barely budged an inch, he laughed. He was carrying a carton filled with food and drink.

"It's too dark to see it all clearly," he said, "but there are trees down, branches scattered, water running every which way. The trailer made out all right, although the phone's dead. I won't be able to inspect the machinery until morning though. I'll set this down on the dining room table," he said, indicating the carton. "Take the lantern and lead the way."

I did so. The sky was still thickly overcast, so the house was very dark. The glow of the lantern cast a dim pool of illumination over the floors and walls, but as we walked through the corridor, darkness seemed to cling to us. Field mice scampered into holes no bigger than quarters. I could hear scratching and scurrying in other rooms, and I surmised that other animals had fled here from the storm.

The dining room table was hidden by a dustcover that had yellowed with time. I pulled it back, and Jack put the carton down. Turning with the lantern, I looked at the walls and ceiling, the grand chandelier and the large windows. Vague images tickled my memory. This table had looked miles long and miles wide to me when I was an infant. The image of Uncle Paul seated at the head flashed in the darkness like a ghost, and I gasped.

"What's wrong?" Jack asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You want to go through the house again?"

"Please," I replied. He took my hand and the lantern and we checked the kitchen and the pantries and then the sitting rooms before ascending the stairway. Through a window at the end of the upstairs corridor, I saw lightning flash in the distance. I was holding tightly to Jack's hand, squeezing his fingers together, but he didn't appear to mind.

We checked my old nursery, even the closets, checked the guest rooms, Uncle Paul's room and Mommy's. There was no sign of her.

"Where could she be in such a storm?" I mused aloud.

"Maybe she's with someone she didn't talk about much. Maybe she found an old shack and camped out in it, or maybe she went to a motel. There's nothing much you can do tonight, Pearl, with the phones out and the roads closed here and there. Might as well relax as best you can."

"I suppose you're right," I said. I sighed and realized my throat was dry and my tongue felt like a slab of granite. "I'm very thirsty."

"I brought water and some homemade blueberry wine," he said, leading me back to the stairway. "Dinner will be last night's leftovers, but I made it myself."

I laughed at the pride he took in his cooking. "And what did you make last night?"

"A batch of poached blackfish. Bart and Lefty were supposed to eat with me, but they went to a fais-dodo and an all-you-can-eat crawfish party," he said as we descended the stairs.

"Why didn't you go with them?"

"Wasn't in the mood," he said.

"Don't you have a girl, Jack?" I asked. I couldn't see his face when he turned to me, but I suspected that he was smiling.

"I've had a few girlfriends, but no one serious."

"Why not?"

"That's just it," he said, "no one's serious. Most of the girls I've met are . . ."

"What?" I asked, intrigued.

"Airheads," he said, and I laughed.

"Bart says a woman doesn't need much in her head to get by with a man, but that's not the kind of woman I want," he continued.

We returned to the dining room, where he set down the lantern and began to unpack the carton. Everything was neatly wrapped in tinfoil. He poured me a glass of water.

"Thank you, Jack." The water was cold and very refreshing. I drank it quickly.

"More?"

"Not right now, thanks," I said. In the glow of the lantern, his face looked shiny but soft, and his eyes twinkled. "What kind of a woman do you want, Jack?"

"Someone who can talk to me about important things, a companion, not just a. . ."

"Just a what?"

"Just a woman," he replied, turning back to his carton. "I brought a little Sterno stove to warm up the sauce. My grandmère's recipe: three cups of home-made mayonnaise, six drops of Tabasco, four tablespoons of lemon juice, one-half cup of capers, one teaspoon of caper liquid, and two tablespoons of dry mustard."

"Sounds wonderful. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid. We have a cook at home, had a cook all my life." He didn't say anything. "Do you think I'm a spoiled rich girl, Jack?"

"You don't seem spoiled," he said. "I've net spoiled girls, spoiled airheads." He gazed at me and shook his head. "You're not like any of them."

"Thanks. Can I do anything?"

"You can. Here," he said taking out a tablecloth, napkins, and silverware. "Set the table."

"Yes, sir," I said.

Jack found a serving table on wheels and used it to prepare our food. He produced two light blue candles and candle holders. After placing them at the center of the table, he lit them. They didn't add that much light, but it was a warmer glow. I set out the plates and the glasses, and Jack took out his homemade wine.

"Okay, mademoiselle, you may sit down now." After I did so;-he poured the wine. "I hope this meets mademoiselle's expectations. It's vintage 1950."

I laughed and tasted it. "Very good, monsieur. My compliments."

"Merci, mademoiselle. And now the star of our show." He took my plate and prepared my entrée. Then he prepared his own and sat down next to me.

"It looks fantastic," I said. He had served some green beans and corn with the fish.

"I'm sorry there's no bread."

"We'll make do," I replied.

He smiled and reached for his glass of wine. "Shall we make a toast?"

"Yes."

"To the storm."

"The storm?"

"Which caused us to dine together tonight." We clinked glasses. "Which only proves the saying that out of something bad, something good must come to those who wait and endure."

I felt the warmth from the wine, but I also felt a warmth coming from my heart.

"Let's eat," he declared.

Maybe because of the circumstances, because the tension and excitement had been so draining, I had a ravenous appetite. It was the most delicious meal I had had in a long time. As we ate, Jack told me more about himself and his family. His mother had been sick most of her adult life, suffering from diabetes. So his grandmère did most of the cooking and house-work. He had grown up in the bayou and rarely left, only to go to New Orleans and once to go to Dallas with the family to see relatives, and once on a family vacation to Clearwater, Florida.

"I suppose my life's been very simple compared to what you've done and seen," he said. "I'm not what you would call sophisticated."

"Your life might be simple, as you put it, but you're not simple, Jack. Most of the so-called sophisticated young men I've known couldn't hold a candle to you," I added, perhaps with more energy than I intended, but after my third glass of homemade wine, my tongue felt loose and my thoughts free. Even in the low candlelight, I could see Jack blush and look happy. He softly laughed and flashed me a pleased look.

We continued to eat slowly, and whenever I lifted my eyes, they met his. Sometimes those eyes seemed to have the candle flame burning within them.

"I'm sorry I have no coffee or dessert," he said in a voice close to a whisper.

"That's all right. I've eaten more than I thought I would."

"You have, haven't you?" he said, nodding at my empty plate. I had scooped up even the last drop of sauce.

"Very unladylike," I said, shaking my head. "A proper young lady always leaves something on her plate."

"Oh, really? Well, I guess I ain't never met no proper young lady," he replied, imitating some swamp rat. "I've known women who ate the plate."

I threw my head back and laughed. Then I leaned forward. He was laughing, too, and he leaned toward me. We brought our foreheads together gently and Jack kissed the tip of my nose. Our eyes locked again. My heart beat softly, but I felt warm blood flood my cheeks and my neck. Was it the wine?

"Should we clean up?" I asked softly.

"Clean up. Oh, no, mademoiselle. We have servants to do that. Please. Let me escort you to the parlor," he said, standing and offering his arm. I rose. "Perhaps we should take along our homemade wine." He seized the neck of the bottle and our two glasses. Then he blew out the candles and I took the lantern. We returned to the sitting room.

Although the storm had passed, there was a lingering drizzle. It made a gentle pitter-patter on the pane. Lightning still flashed in the distance, each streak turning the pitch-black sky flame-red for a split second. I fixed my gaze on it while Jack poured us each another glass of wine.

"I hope everything's all right back in New Orleans," I said.

"Don't lose hope." Jack handed me my wine, and I sipped it slowly. Then I relaxed and let my head fall back against the settee. Jack stood there gazing down at me. When I looked up at him, I saw far more than simple concern and worry in his eyes. What I saw made my heart stir and then thump. Could it be that there really was something called love at first sight? His eyes were pools of desire, which made me aware of my own ravenous need for romantic fulfillment. These sensations made me feel guilty. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Jack was at my side, taking my hand.

"Are you okay?"

"Just tired, I guess," I replied.

He nodded. "Sure. Considering what you've been through, no wonder. Well," he added, "if you insist on staying here another night, I guess we can go upstairs. We still have the blankets I brought last night."

I nodded. He took my glass and set it on the table. Then he helped me up and took the lantern. We made our way through the darkness and ascended the stairs, neither of us saying much. He wrapped his right arm around me, and I laid my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

Suddenly I heard something below and stopped walking. "What was that?"

"What?"

"I heard something." I gazed into the darkness beneath us. "Mommy! Are you there?"

Silence.

"Might have been a mouse," Jack suggested. I continued to listen and then agreed. He continued to lead me up the stairs, my head against his shoulder.

"Here we are," he announced when we reached Mommy's old bedroom. Jack set the lantern down on the nightstand, and I took off my shoes and lay back. He stood there for a moment looking down at me. I reached up and he took my hand. He brought it to his lips. I said nothing. My heart was pounding. He waited a moment and then let go to turn away and go to the settee.

"Jack," I said. It was as if my voice had the power to act at will. His name was on my lips so quickly that I didn't have a chance to think why or what I wanted. It didn't matter. He knew.

He returned to my side, knelt beside the bed to kiss my hand, and then leaned over to kiss my lips. "Pearl," he whispered.

I tried to reason, to think about what was happening, just the way I always had when I kissed a boy. But tonight my scientific appraisal never took hold; the part of me that questioned and analyzed every touch, every kiss, never showed its face; and it wasn't only because of the wine. In Jack's arms I felt secure; I felt his concern and his care. What he wanted to happen, he wanted for both of us.

His touch was gentle, unselfish. Instead of feeling anxious and fearful, I welcomed the whirl of emotions; I wanted to be engulfed in the tidal wave. I felt myself unlock every door, invite every kiss. I lifted my chin so his lips would fall against my neck, and I kissed his cheeks and his eyes. When he rose, I moved over to make place for him.

"Pearl," he whispered. Never did my name sound so sweet.

His hands moved over my arms to my breasts. Our clothing seemed to peel away so our skin could touch. Every time he paused, a little hesitant, a little unsure, I kissed him harder, driving away any reluctance, assuring him I wanted to follow the trail we were both burning to my heart.

"Are you sure?" he whispered one final time.

"Yes, oh, yes, Jack," I replied.

With each touch of his lips, of his hands, I felt electrifying sensations. I realized I was not some scientific creature, after all. I was a woman.

We exploded against each other. I bit down on his ear so hard I thought I tasted blood, but he didn't complain. He held me tightly, his kisses winding down slowly as our hearts slowed. He held on to me like someone who never wanted to let go.

"Are you all right?" he asked when I didn't speak and practically held my breath.

I nodded and whispered yes. He released his hold on me and lay back beside me. Neither of us said a word for a long moment.

"Pearl," he finally began, "I don't want you to think that—"

"Don't" I pressed my finger to his lips. "Don't you dare explain anything."

I could see his look of surprise.

"Je ne regret rien. I regret nothing," I said quickly. He smiled and kissed me.

We made love passionately, both sure of what we wanted. Without timidity and hesitation, it was a long, flowing stream of passion that climbed higher and higher until it burst in a waterfall, pounding rocks below again and again and again, each time punctuated with a bigger, happier Yes.

Exhausted, we separated and lay next to each other, waiting for our breathing to slow, our hearts to stop pounding. I felt a warm glow over my body and closed my eyes.

Jack found my hand and held it. "You were born in a hurricane all right," he said, and I laughed.

As my passion receded, however, my reason and logic returned, bringing with it the baggage of guilt. What was wrong with me? How could I behave with such abandon? I knew if I said one word, Jack would be filled with guilt, too, and I didn't want that.

Yet in the midst of all this turmoil and unhappiness, I had found such pleasure. It wasn't right, was it? I turned my back to him and bit down on my lip.

Jack, as if he were listening to my thoughts, turned to me and whispered, "It's all right. It doesn't mean you care less about your family or you're not trying hard to help them. You can't drive yourself at top speed without taking a break to recharge your batteries. You're human, Pearl. I think maybe you forget that sometimes."

I turned to him slowly and smiled.

"I won't forget it anymore, Jack." He smiled, too. He kissed me again and then cradled me in his arms, and I closed my eyes.

Sleep came rushing in as hard and as fast as the winds of the hurricane. I could no more keep it away than I could the wind. In moments I was drifting.

When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was pouring through the windows. It was hard to believe we had endured such a vicious storm the night before. In fact, the whole night seemed like a dream. Had Jack and I really enjoyed a romantic dinner? Did we really make love? When I turned to him, I found he was already gone. He had scribbled out a note and left it on the pillow.

Didn't have the heart to wake you. You looked like an angel asleep. I had to get up very early because of the storm. Come to the trailer when you get up, and I'll fix you breakfast Cajun style.

Love,

Jack

I sat up and looked at my watch. I had slept until almost ten. Panic seized me. I should have risen early and gotten to a telephone. I had to see how Pierre and Daddy were doing.

I rose quickly and tried the sink in the bathroom. To my happy surprise, after a flow of brown water, clean water appeared. I had no warm water, but I was able to wash my face and go to the bathroom. Afterward I dressed and went downstairs. Jack had cleaned everything up from our dinner, but I saw the results of the storm's invasion everywhere: shattered plates, broken windowpanes, soaked drapes and floors.

It was terrible of the Tates to let this beautiful mansion fall apart, I thought. Why was it that people who had everything could be so wasteful and vicious? What possible revenge did Gladys Tate enjoy from watching her son's pride and joy deteriorate? Did she just want to make sure no one else ever enjoyed the house? Even from the little I remembered about Uncle Paul and from what Mommy had told me, I knew he wouldn't have wanted this.

I started when I heard footsteps behind me.

"Jack? Is that you?" I called. There was no response, but a floorboard creaked in the corridor.

Slowly I turned. It's Mommy, I thought. She has finally returned. My heart pounding with expected joy, I hurried down the corridor toward the kitchen. I would surely find her sitting there, waiting for me.

"Mommy!" I cried as I burst through the doorway; but instead of Mommy, I found a tall giant of a man. His face was bloated so that his thick nose had nostrils big enough to inhale three times the air he needed. He had heavy jowls and a round chin with thick purple lips. He was unshaven, and his three- or four-day beard of gray and brown stubble was thicker under his lower lip. When he smiled, I saw he was missing a lower tooth and some back teeth. All the rest were nicotine-stained yellow.

He was dressed in knee-high boots and torn jeans with a T-shirt that had a tear in the shoulder and looked as if it had been washed in rusty water.

He smiled, the curve in his soft, thick lips cutting deep into those bloated cheeks and narrowing his dull brown eyes over which his thick, heavily wrinkled forehead protruded.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"It's true," he said. "You are Ruby's daughter, ain' tcha?"

"I am Ruby Dumas's daughter, yes. Who are you?" I demanded more fervently. He stopped smiling.

"Name's Trahaw, Buster Trahaw. I'm a friend of your mother's," he replied. "Friends of mine told me you was here lookin' for her, so I come to see for myself."

"Have you seen my mother?" I asked. I didn't remember her mentioning a Trahaw, and I couldn't imagine why she would ever be friends with someone who looked like this, but as Jack had said last night, there were people I never knew and Mommy could have gone to see them or stayed in their homes while she was here, especially if she had gotten caught in the storm.

"Sure, I seen her," he said. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"Where is she? How is she?" I asked quickly.

"She . . . She ain't well," he said. "She's sick as a dog. When they told me you was here, she said, 'Go fetch her quickly.' So I come."

"Where is she?"

"She's at my mother's house," he said. "My mother's a traiteur."

"Oh," I said. It made sense. "Will you take me to her please?"

"Sure," he said. "Only we got to go quick. I got work to do and I can't be wandering about long."

"Okay. Let's go," I said, turning. "My car's out front."

"We can't go in no car," he said, not moving. "My mother's house is in the swamp. I come here in a pirogue to fetch you. This way . . ." He headed toward the rear door.

"But . . ."

"You coming or what, missy? I told you, I got work."

I hesitated. I should tell Jack, I thought. I took out his note and turned it over to scribble my own on the back.

Dear Jack,

Went with Buster Trahaw, who said my mother was at his house. Be back soon.

Love, Pearl

I left the note on the counter and hurried after Buster Trahaw, who had already stepped out of the house.

He nodded toward the dock. "My pirogue's just down here."

I followed along, looking back only once and regretting that I couldn't have the time to see Jack. But maybe I would get to my mother and bring her back before Jack even found my note. Full of hope, I hurried along. Buster Trahaw didn't wait for me. He practically ran to the dock and got into his pirogue. I hesitated. I couldn't recall the last time I had been in one, or the last time I had gone into the canals.

He reached up finally to help me, and I stepped into the canoe.

"Good," he said. "Finally."

He smiled, dipped his pole into the water, and pushed us away from the dock and into the swamps. I sat down hard and watched him anxiously. He never took his eyes off me, and he never stopped smiling.