Ruby

8

It's Hard to Change

Grandmère Catherine's funeral was one of the biggest ever held in Terrebone Parish, for practically all of the mourners who had come to the wake and then some came to the services in church and at the cemetery. Grandpère Jack was on his best behavior and wearing the best clothes he could get. With his hair brushed, his beard trimmed, and his boots cleaned and polished, he looked more like a responsible member of the community. He told me he hadn't been in church since his mother's funeral, but he sat beside me and sang the hymns and recited the prayers. He stood at my side at the cemetery, too. It seemed like as long as he didn't have any whiskey flowing through his veins, he was quiet and respectful.

Paul's parents came to the church, but not to the cemetery. Paul came to the graveside by himself and stood on the other side of me. We didn't hold hands, but he made his close presence known with a touch or a word.

Father Rush began his prayers and then delivered his last blessing. And then the coffin was lowered. Just when I had thought my sorrow had gone as deeply as it could into my very soul; just when I had thought my heart could be torn no more, I felt the sorrow go deeper and tear more. Somehow, even though she was dead, with her body still in the house, with her face in quiet repose, I had not fully understood how final her death was, but now, with the sight of her coffin going down, I could not remain strong. I could not accept that she would not be there to greet me in the morning and to comfort me before bed. I could not accept that we wouldn't be working side by side, struggling to provide for ourselves; I could not accept that she wouldn't be singing over the stove or marching down the steps to go on one of her treater missions. I didn't have the strength. My legs became sticks of butter and collapsed beneath me. Neither Paul nor Grandpère could get to me before my body hit the earth and my eyes shut out the reality.

I awoke on the front seat of the car that brought us to the cemetery. Someone had gone to a nearby brook and dipped a handkerchief into the water. Now, the cool, refreshing liquid helped me regain consciousness. I saw Mrs. Livaudis leaning over me, stroking my hair, and I saw Paul standing right behind her, a look of deep concern on his face.

"What happened?"

"You just fainted, dear, and we carried you to the car. How are you now?" she asked.

"I'm all right," I said. "Where's Grandpère Jack?" I asked. I tried sitting up, but my head began to spin and I had to fall back against the seat.

"He went off already," Mrs. Livaudis said, smirking, "with his usual swamp bums. You just rest there, dear. We're taking you home now. Just rest," she advised.

"I'll be right behind you," Paul said, leaning in. I tried to smile and then closed my eyes. By the time we reached the house, I felt strong enough to get up and walk to the galerie steps. There were dozens of people waiting to help. Mrs. Thibodeau directed I be taken up to my room. They helped me off with my shoes and I lay back, now feeling more embarrassed than exhausted.

"I'm fine," I insisted. "I'll be all right. I should go downstairs and—"

"You just lie here awhile, dear," Mrs. Livaudis said. "We'll bring you something cool to drink."

"But I should go downstairs . . . the people . . ."

"Everything's taken care of. Just rest a bit more," Mrs. Thibodeau said. I did as they ordered. Mrs. Livaudis returned with some cold lemonade. I felt a lot better after I had drunk it and said so.

"If you're up to it then, the Tate boy wants to see how you are. He's chomping at the bit and pacing up and down at the foot of the stairs like an expectant father," Mrs. Livaudis said, smiling.

"Yes, please, send him in," I said, and Paul was permitted to come upstairs.

"How are you doing?" he asked quickly.

"I'm all right. I'm sorry I was so much trouble," I moaned. "I wanted everything to go smooth and proper for Grandmere."

"Oh, it did. It was the most . . . most impressive funeral I've ever seen. No one could remember more people attending one, and you did fine. Everyone understands."

"Where's Grandpère Jack?" I asked. "Where did he go to so quickly?"

"I don't know, but he just arrived a little while ago. He's downstairs, greeting people on the galerie."

"Was he drinking?"

"A little," Paul lied.

"Paul Tate, you'd better practice more if you're going to try to deceive me," I said. "You're no harder to see through than a clean windowpane."

He laughed.

"He'll be all right. Too many people around him," Paul assured me, but no sooner had he uttered the words than we heard the shouting from below.

"Don't you tell me what to do and what not to do in my own house!" Grandpère raved. "You may run the pants off your men at your homes, but you ain't running off mine. Now just get your butts on outta here and make it quick. Go on, get!"

That was followed by a chorus of uproars and more shouting.

"Help me go down, Paul. I've got to see what he's doing," I said. I got out of bed, slipped into my shoes, and went down to the kitchen where Grandpère had a jug of whiskey in his hands and was already swaying as he glared at the small crowd of mourners in the doorway.

"Whatcha all gapin' at, huh? You never seen a man in mourning? You never seen a man who just buried his wife? Quit your gapin' and go about your business," he cried, took another swig, swayed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were blazing. "Go on!" he shouted again, when no one moved.

"Grandpère!" I cried. He gazed at me with those bleary eyes. Then he swung the jug against the sink, smashing it and its contents all over the kitchen. The women shrieked and he howled. He was terrible in his anger, frightening as he whumped around with an energy too great to confine in such a small space.

Paul embraced me and pulled me back up the stairs.

"Wait until he calms down," he said. We heard Grandpère scream again and then we heard the mourners flee the house, the women who had brought their families, grabbing up their children and getting into their trucks and cars with their husbands to hightail it away.

Grandpère ranted and raved awhile longer. Paul sat beside me on my bed and held my hand. We listened until it grew very quiet downstairs.

"He's settled down," I said. "I'd better go down and start cleaning up."

"I'll help," Paul said.

We found Grandpère collapsed in a rocker on the galerie, snoring. I mopped up the kitchen and cleared away the pieces of broken jug while Paul wiped down our table and straightened up the furniture.

"You'd better go home now, Paul," I said as soon as we were finished. "Your parents are probably wondering where you are so long."

"I hate to leave you here with that . . . that drunk. They ought to lock him up and throw the key away for doing what he did this time. It's not right that Grandmère Catherine's gone and he's still around, and it's not safe for you."

"I'll be all right. You know how he gets after he has his tantrum. He'll just sleep it off and then wake up hungry and sorry for what he did."

Paul smiled, shook his head, and then reached to caress my cheek, his eyes soft and warm.

"My Ruby, always optimistic."

"Not always, Paul," I said sadly. "Not anymore."

"I'll stop by in the morning," he promised. "To see how things are."

I nodded.

"Ruby, I . . ."

"You had better go, Paul," I said. "I don't want any more nasty scenes today."

"All right." He kissed me quickly on the cheek before rising. "I'm going to talk to my father," he promised. "I'm going to get at the truth of things."

I tried to smile, but my face was like dry, brittle china from all the tears and sadness. I was afraid I might simply shatter to pieces right before his eyes.

"I will," Paul pledged at the doorway. Then he was gone.

I sighed deeply, put some of the food away, and walked upstairs to lie down again. I had never felt so tired. I did sleep through a good part of the rest of the day. If anyone came to the house, I didn't hear them. But early in the evening, I heard pots clanking and furniture being shoved around. I sat up, for a moment, very confused. Then, my wits returning, I got out of bed quickly and went downstairs to find Grandpère on his hands and knees tugging at some loose floorboards. Every cabinet door was thrown wide open and all of our pots and pans had been taken out of the cabinets and lay strewn about.

"Grandpère, what are you doing?" I asked. He turned and gazed at me with eyes I hadn't seen before, eyes of accusation and anger.

"I know she's got it hidden somewhere here," he said. "I didn't find it in her room, but I know she's got it somewhere. Where is it, Ruby? I need it," he moaned.

"Need what, Grandpère?"

"Her stash, her money. She always had a pile set aside for a rainy day. Well, my rainy days have come. I need it to get my motor fixed, to get some new equipment." He sat back on his haunches. "I got to work harder to make a go of it for both of us, Ruby. Where is it?"

"There isn't any stash, Grandpère. We were having a hard time of it, too. I once poled out to your shack to see if I could get you to help us get by, but you were collapsed on your galerie," I told him.

He shook his head, his eyes wild.

"Maybe she never told you. She was like that . . . secretive even with her own. There's a stash here somewhere," he declared, shifting his eyes from side to side. "It might take me a while, but I'll find it. If it's not in the house, it's buried somewhere outside, huh? Did you ever see or hear her diggin' out there?"

"There's no stash, Grandpère. You're wasting your time."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my art money, but it was also as if Grandmère Catherine were still there, standing right beside me, forbidding me to mention a word about it. In case he decided to look in her chest for valuables, I made a note to myself to move the money under my mattress.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him.

"No," he said quickly. "I'm going out back before it gets too dark and look some more," he said.

After he left, I put back all the pots and pans and then I warmed some food for myself. I ate mechanically, barely tasting anything. I ate just because I knew I had to in order to keep up my strength. Then, I went back upstairs. I could hear Grandpère's frantic digging in the backyard, his digging and his cursing. I heard him ripping through the smokehouse and even banging around in the outhouse. Finally, he grew exhausted with the searching and came back inside. I heard him get himself something to eat and drink. His frustration was so great, he moaned like a calf that had lost its mother. Soon, he was talking to ghosts.

"Where'd you put the money, Catherine? I got to have the money to take care of our granddaughter, don't I? Where is it?"

Finally, he grew quiet. I tiptoed out and looked over the railing to see him collapsed at the kitchen table, his head on his arms. I returned to my room and I sat by my window and gazed up at the horned moon half hidden by dark clouds and I thought, this is the same moon that rode high over New Orleans, and I tried to imagine my future. Would I be rich and famous and live in a big house some day like Grandmère Catherine predicted?

Or was all that just a dream, too? Just another web, dazzling in the moonlight, a mirage, an illusion of jewels woven in the darkness, waiting, full of promises that were as empty and as light as the web itself?

There was no period in my life when I thought time passed more slowly than it did during the days following Grandmère Catherine's funeral and burial. Every time I looked at the old—and tarnished brass clock set in its cherry wood case on the windowsill in the loom room and saw that instead of an hour only ten minutes had passed, I was surprised and disappointed. I tried to fill my every moment, keep my hands and my mind busy so I wouldn't think and remember and mourn, but no matter how much work I did and how hard I worked, there was always time to remember.

One memory that returned with the persistence of a housefly was my recollection of the promise I had made to Grandmère Catherine should anything bad happen to her. She had reminded me of it the day she had died and she had forced me to repeat my vow. I had promised not to stay here, not to live with Grandpère Jack. Grandmère Catherine wanted me to go to New Orleans and find my real father and my sister, but the very thought of leaving the bayou and getting on a bus to go to a city that loomed as far away and as strange to me as a distant planet was terrifying. I was positive I would stand out as clearly as a crawfish in a pot of duck gumbo. Everyone in New Orleans would take one look at me and say to himself, "There's an ignorant Cajun girl traveling on her own." They would laugh at me and mock me for sure.

I had never traveled very far, especially on my own, but it wasn't the fear of the journey, nor even the size of the city and the unfamiliarity with city life that frightened me the most. No, what was even more terrifying was imagining what my real father would do and say as soon as I presented myself. How would he react? What would I do if he shut the door in my face? After having deserted Grandpère Jack and then, after having been rejected by my father, where would I go?

I had read enough about the evils of city life to know about the horrors that went on in the slums, and the terrible fates young girls such as myself suffered. Would I become one of those women I had heard about, women who were taken into bordellos to provide men with sexual pleasures? What other sort of work would I be able to get? Who would hire a young Cajun girl with a limited education and only simple handicraft skills? I envisioned myself ending up sleeping in some gutter, surrounded by other downcast and downtrodden people.

No, it was easier to put off the promise and lock myself upstairs in the grenier for most of the day, working on the linens and towels as if Grandmère Catherine were still alive and just downstairs doing one of her kitchen chores before joining me. It was easier to pretend I had to finish something she had started while she was off on one of her traiteur missions, easier to make believe nothing had changed.

Of course, part of my day involved caring for Grandpère Jack, preparing his meals and cleaning up after him, which was an endless chore. I made him his breakfast every morning before he left to go fishing or harvesting Spanish moss in the swamp. He was still mumbling about finding Grandmère Catherine's stash and he still spent every spare moment digging and searching around the house. The longer he looked and located nothing, the more he believed I was hiding what I knew.

"Catherine wasn't one to let herself go and die and leave something buried without someone knowing where," he declared one night after he had begun to eat his supper. His green eyes darkened as he focused them on me with suspicion. "You didn't dig somethin' up and hide it where I've already looked, have you, Ruby? Wouldn't surprise me none to learn that Catherine had told you to do just such a thing before she died."

"No, Grandpère. I've told you time after time. There was no stash. We had to spend everything we made. Before Grandmère died, we were depending on what she got from some of her traiteur missions, too, and you know how much she hated taking anything for helping people." What my eyes must have shown convinced him I was not lying, at least for the time being.

"That's jus' it," he said, chewing thoughtfully, "people gave her things, gave her money, too, I'm sure. I just wonder if she left anything with one of those busybodies, 'specially that Mrs. Thibodeau. One of these nights, I might pay that woman a visit," he declared.

"I wouldn't do that, Grandpère," I warned him.

"Why not? The Money don't belong to her; it belongs to me . . . us that is."

"Mrs. Thibodeau would call the police and have you put in jail if you so much as stepped on the floor of her galerie," I advised him. "She's as much as told me so." Once again, his piercing eyes glared my way before he went back to his food.

"All you women are in cahoots," he muttered. "A man does the best he can to keep food on the table, keep the house together. Women take all that for granted. Especially, Cajun women," he mumbled. "They think it's all coming to them. Well it ain't, and a man's got to be treated with more respect, especially in his own home. If I find that money's been hidden on me . . ."

It did no good to argue with him. I saw why Grandmère Catherine made no attempt to change the way he thought, but I did hope that in time, he would give up his frantic search for the nonexistent stash and concentrate on reforming himself the way he had promised and work hard at making a good life for us. Some days he did return from the swamp laden down with a good fish catch or a pair of ducks for our gumbo. But some days, he spent most of his time poling from one brackish pond to the next, mumbling to himself about one of his favorite gripes and then settling down in his pirogue to drink himself into a stupor, having traded his catch for a cheap bottle of gin or rum. Those nights he returned empty-handed and bitter, and I had to make do with what we had and concoct a poor Cajun's jambalaya.

Grandpère repaired some small things around the house, but left most of his other promises of work unfulfilled. He didn't patch the roof where it leaked or replace the cracked floorboards, and despite my not so subtle suggestions, he didn't improve his hygienic habits either. A week would go by before he would take a bar of soap and water to his body, and even then, it was a quick, almost insignificant rinse. Soon, there were lice in his hair again, his beard was scraggly, and his fingernails were caked with grime. I had to look at something else whenever we ate or I would lose my appetite. It was hard enough contending with the variety of sour and rancid odors that reeked from his clothes and body. How someone could let himself go like that and not care or even notice was beyond me. I imagined it had a lot to do with his drinking.

Every time I looked at the portrait I had done of Grandmère Catherine, I thought about returning to my painting, but whenever I set up my easel, I would just stare dumbly at the blank paper, not a creative thought coming to mind. I attempted a few starts, drawing some lines, even trying to paint a simple moss-covered cypress log, but it was as if my artistic talent had died with Grandmère. I knew she would be furious even to hear such a thought, but the truth was that the bayou, the birds, the plants and trees, every-thing about it in some way made me think of Grandmère and once I did, I couldn't paint. I missed her that much.

Paul came by nearly every day, sometimes just to sit and talk on the galerie, sometimes to sit and watch me work on the loom. Often, he helped with some chore, especially a chore Grandpère should have completed before going out in the swamp for the day.

"What's that Tate boy doin’ around here so much?" Grandpère asked me late one afternoon when he returned just as Paul was leaving.

"He's just a good friend, coming around to be sure everything is all right, Grandpère," I said. I didn't have the courage to tell Grandpère I knew all the ugly truths and the terrible things he had done when my mother was pregnant with Paul. I knew how Grandpère's temper could flare, and how such revelations would just send him sucking on a bottle and then ranting and raving.

"Those Tates think they're special just because they make a pile of money," Grandpère muttered. "You watch out for people like that. You watch out," he warned. I ignored him and went in to prepare supper.

Every day, before Paul left, he made a promise to talk to his father about the past, but every day he returned, I could see immediately that he hadn't worked up the courage yet. Finally, one Saturday night, he told me he and his father were going fishing the next day after church.

"It will just be him and me," he said. "One way or the other, get it all discussed," he promised.

That morning I tried to get Grandpère Jack to go to church with me, but I couldn't shake him out of his deep sleep. The harder I shook him, the louder he snored. It would be the first time I had gone to church without Grandmère Catherine and I wasn't sure I could manage it, but I set out anyway. When I arrived, all of Grandmère's lady friends greeted me warmly. Naturally, they were full of questions concerning how I was getting along living in the same house with Grandpère. I tried to make it sound better than it was, but Mrs. Livaudis pursed her lips and shook her head.

"No one should have to live with such a burden, especially a young girl like Ruby," she declared.

"You sit with us, dear," Mrs. Thibodeau said, and I sat in the pew and sang the hymns alongside them.

Paul and his family had arrived late so we didn't talk, and then he and his father wanted to get back as soon as they could and get their boat in the bayou. I couldn't stop thinking about him all day, wondering every other minute whether or not Paul had brought up the past with his father. I expected to see him shortly after dinner, but he didn't come. I sat on the galerie and rocked and waited. Grandpère was inside listening to some Cajun music on the radio and kicking up his heels from time to time as he swung a jug up to his lips. Anyone walking by would have thought a hoeing bee or a shingling party was going on.

It got late; Grandpère Jack settled down into his usual unconscious state, and I grew tired. Without a moon, the sky was a deep black, making the twinkling stars that much brighter. I tried to keep my eyes from closing, but the lids seemed to have a mind of their own. I even dozed off and woke with a start at the cry of a screech owl. Finally, I gave up and went up to bed.

I had just settled my head on the pillow and closed my eyes again, when I heard the front door open and close and then heard soft footsteps on the stairs. My heart began to thump. Who had come into our house? With Grandpère Jack in a stupor, anyone could enter and do what he wanted. I sat up and waited, barely breathing.

First, a tall silhouette appeared on the walls and then the dark figure stepped into my doorway.

"Paul?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, Ruby. I wasn't going to come tonight, but I just couldn't sleep," he said. "I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear and when I opened the door, I saw your grandfather sprawled out on the settee in the sitting room, his mouth wide open, the snoring so loud, it's making the walls vibrate."

I leaned over and turned on the light. One look at Paul's face told me he had learned the truth.

"What happened, Paul? I waited for you until I got too tired," I told him, and sat up, holding the blanket against my flimsy nightgown. He came farther into the room and stood at the foot of my bed, his head bowed. "Did you have the discussion with your father?" He nodded and then lifted his head.

"When I got home from fishing, I just ran into the house and up to my room and shut the door. I didn't go down for dinner, but I just couldn't lie there anymore. I wanted to put my pillow over my face and keep it there until I couldn't breathe," he told me. "I even tried twice!"

"Oh, Paul. What did he tell you?" I asked. Paul sat on the bed and gazed at me silently for a moment. His shoulders slumped and he continued.

"My father didn't want to talk about it; he was surprised by my questions and for a long while just sat there, staring at the water, not speaking. I told him I had to know the truth, that it was important to me, more important than anything else. Finally, he turned to me and said he was going to tell me about it someday; he just didn't think the time had come.

"But I told him it had and I repeated my need to know the truth. At first, he was angry I had found out. He thought Grandpère Jack had told me. He said your grandfather . . . I guess I got to get used to it, even though it makes me sick to the stomach. Our grandfather," he said, pronouncing the words with a grimace that made it look as if he had swallowed castor oil. "Our Grandpère Jack had blackmailed him once before and was trying to figure a way to get money out of him again. Then I told him what Grandmère Catherine had told you and why she had told you, and he nodded and said she was right to do so."

"I'm glad, Paul, glad he told you the truth. Now—"

"Only," Paul added quickly, his eyes growing narrow and dark, "my father's version of the story is a lot different from Grandmère Catherine's version."

"How?"

"According to him your mother seduced him, and he didn't take advantage of her. He claims she was a wild young woman and he wasn't the first to be with her. He said she was hounding him, following him everywhere, smiling and teasing him all the time, and one day, when he was out in the bayou fishing by himself, she came upon him, poling a pirogue. She tore off her clothing and dove into the water naked and then climbed into his boat. That's when it happened. That's when I was made," Paul said bitterly.

My silence bothered him, but I couldn't help it. I was speechless. One part of me wanted to laugh and shout and ridicule such a story. No daughter of Grandmère Catherine's could be such a creature; but another part of me, that part of me that had fantasized such things with Paul told me it might be true.

"I don't believe him of course," Paul said quickly. "I think it happened the way your grandmother told it. He came around here and he seduced your mother, otherwise, why would he have owned up to it so quickly when Grandpère Jack confronted him and why did he pay him any blackmail money?"

I took a deep breath.

"Did you say that to your father?" I asked.

"No. I didn't want to have any arguments about it."

"I don't know how we'll ever know the whole truth about it," I said.

"What's the difference now?" Paul muttered angrily. "The result is the same. Oh, my father complained again and again about how Grandpère Jack came to him and blackmailed him, and how he had to pay him thousands of dollars to keep the matter secret. He said Grandpère was the lowest of the low who belonged with the slimy things in the swamp. He told me how my mother felt sorry for him, especially because of Grandpère Jack, and how she agreed to pretend to be pregnant so my birth would be accepted by the community as the legitimate birth of a Tate. Then he made me promise I wouldn't say anything to my mother. He told me it would break her heart if she knew I discovered she wasn't really my mother."

"I'm sure it would," I said. "He's not wrong about that, Paul. Why hurt her any more than she has been hurt?"

"What about me?" he cried. "What about . . . us?"

"We're young," I said, thinking about Grandmère Catherine's words of wisdom.

"That doesn't mean it hurts any less," he moaned.

"No, it doesn't, but I don't know what else we can do about it, but go on and try to find other people who we can love and care for as strongly as we love and care for each other now."

"I can't; I won't," he said defiantly.

"Paul, what else can we do?"

He fixed his eyes on me, the defiance in his face, the anger and the pain, too.

"We'll just pretend it isn't so," he said, reaching out to take my hand.

I couldn't stop the tingle that had begun around my heart and then shot through my blood to fly through my stomach and my legs and make my breath quicken. Suddenly everything about him, everything about us was forbidden. Just his merely sitting on my bed, holding my hand, gazing at me with such longing was taboo, and just like most anything prohibited, it carried an elevated excitement along with it. It was like teasing fate, testing, exquisitely tormenting our own souls.

"We can't do that, Paul," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Why not? Let's ignore that half of ourselves and think only about the other half. It won't be the first time such a thing happened, especially in the bayou," he said. His hand moved up my wrist, the fingers sliding softly over my skin as he lifted himself to sit closer. I shook my head gently.

"You're just upset and angry now, Paul. You're not thinking about what you're saying to me," I told him. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought I would lose my breath.

"Yes, I am. Who knows about us anyway? Just your Grandpère Jack and no one would believe anything he would say, and my father and mother who wouldn't want anyone to know the truth. Don't you see? It doesn't matter."

"But we know; it matters to us."

"Not if we don't let it matter," Paul said. He leaned forward to kiss my forehead. Now that we both knew the truth of his origin, his lips felt as hot as a branding iron. I backed away abruptly and shook my head, not only trying to refuse his advances, but refusing the excitement that was building in my own heart.

My blanket fell away and my nightgown dropped so low most of my bosom was visible. Paul's eyes lowered and rose, climbing slowly back to my neck and shoulders and my face.

"Once we do it, once we ignore the ugly past and make love, we will be able to do it easier and easier every time afterward, Ruby," he said. "Don't you see? Why should the other half of ourselves, the better half be denied? We haven't been brought up as brother and sister; we've never thought of ourselves as related.

"If you just close your eyes and forget, if you just let your lips touch mine," he said, drawing close again.

I shook my head, closed my eyes, and sat back as far as I could, but Paul's lips touched mine. I tried to deny him, to slide myself out from under, but he pressed onward, more demanding, his hands finding the bare flesh of my exposed bosom, his fingers turning so the tips would touch my nipples.

"Paul, no," I cried. "Please, don't. We'll be sorry," I said, but I felt myself slipping as the tingle grew into a wave of warm desire. After so much sorrow and so much hardship, my body craved his warm touch, forbidden as it was.

"No, we won't," Paul insisted. His lips grazed my forehead and moved down the side of my face as his hand slipped completely under my nightgown to fully cup my breast. He lifted it to bring his lips to my nipple and I felt myself weaken. I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't speak. I continued to slide under him and he pressed forward, insistent, driven, unrelenting in his determination to batter down not only my feeble resistance, but all the morals and laws of church and man that not only forbid our erotic touching, but looked down on it with disgust.

"Ruby," he whispered in my ear, sending my mind spinning, my heart racing, "I love you."

"What the hell in tarnation is goin' on here!" we suddenly heard. Paul snapped back and I gasped. Grandpère Jack was standing in the hallway gazing in at us, his hair sticking up and out, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his body swaying as if a wind were tearing through the house.

"Nothing," Paul said, and stood up, quickly straightening his clothes.

"Nothing! You call that nothing?" Grandpère Jack focused his gaze and stepped through the doorway. He was still drunk, but he recognized Paul. "Who the hell . . . you're the Tate boy, ain't you? The one who's always comin' around here?"

Paul looked down at me and then nodded at Grandpère.

"Figures you'd come around here at night and sneak into the house and into my granddaughter's room. It's in the Tate blood," Grandpère said.

"That's a lie," Paul snapped.

"Humph," Grandpère said and combed his long fingers through his disheveled hair. "Yeah, well, you got no business bein' in my granddaughter's bedroom this time of night. My advice to you, boy, is to tuck in your tail and git."

"Go on, Paul," I said. "It's better if you go," I added.

He looked down at me, his eyes swimming in tears.

"Please," I whispered. He bit down on his lower lip and then charged out the door, nearly bowling Grandpère Jack over in the process. Paul pounded his way down the steps and out the door.

"Well now," Grandpère Jack said, turning back to me. "Looks like you're a lot older than I thought. Time we thought about finding you a proper husband."

"I don't need anyone finding me a husband, Grandpère, and I'm not ready to marry anyone anyway. Paul wasn't doing anything. We were just talking and—"

"Just talkin'?" He laughed that silent chuckle that made his shoulders shake. "Out in the swamp that kinda talkin' makes new tadpoles," he added, and shook his head. "No, you're right grow'd; I just didn't take a good look at you before," he said, gazing at my uncovered body. I brought the blanket to my chest quickly. "Don't you worry about it none," he said, winking and then he stumbled out and made his way to Grandmère's room where he now slept, whenever he was able to climb the stairs to go to bed.

I sat back, my heart thumping so hard, I thought it would crack open my chest. Poor Paul, I thought. He was so mixed up, so confused, his anger pulling him in one direction, his feeling for me pulling him in another. Grandpère Jack's surprise arrival and accusations didn't help matters any, but it might have saved us from doing something we would have regretted later on, I thought.

I put out the light and lay back again. I had to confess to myself that for a moment, when Paul was so insistent, part of me wanted to give in and do just what he had said: be defiant and seize what fate had made off-limits. But how do you bury such a dark secret in your heart, and how do you keep it from infecting and eventually destroying the purity of any love you might possess for each other? It couldn't be; it wasn't meant to be. it mustn't be, I thought. If anything, I knew now that I couldn't let myself get that close to him again. I didn't have the strength of will to resist the passion either.

As I closed my eyes and tried to sleep again, I realized, this was another reason, maybe even a bigger reason, to find the strength and the courage to leave.

Maybe that was why Grandmère Catherine was so insistent about it; maybe she knew what would happen between Paul and me despite what we had learned about ourselves. I fell asleep with her words echoing in my mind and my promises to her on my lips.