Ruby

6

Room in My Heart

"If you knew who my father was all this time, Grandmère, why didn't you tell me? Where does he live? How did I get a sister? Why did it have to be kept such a secret, and why did this drive Grandpère into the swamp to live?" I fired my questions, one after the other, my voice impatient.

Grandmère Catherine closed her eyes. I knew it was her way to gather strength. It was as if she could reach into a second self and draw out the energy that made her the healer she was to the Cajun people in Terrebonne Parish.

My heart was thumping, a slow, heavy whacking in my chest that made me dizzy. The world around us seemed to grow very still. It was as if every owl, every insect, even the breeze was holding its breath in anticipation. After a moment Grandmère Catherine opened her dark eyes, eyes that were now shadowed and sad, and fixed them on me firmly as she shook her head ever so gently. I thought she released a soft moan before she began.

"I've dreaded this day for so long," Grandmère said, "dreaded it because once you've heard it all, you will know just how deeply into the depths of hell and damnation your Grandpère has gone. I've dreaded it because once you've heard it all you will know how much more tragic than you ever dreamed was your mother's short life, and I've dreaded it because once you've heard it all, you will know how much of your life, your family, your history, I have kept hidden from you.

"Please don't blame me for it, Ruby," she pleaded. "I have tried to be more than your Grandmère. I have tried to do what I thought was best for you.

"But at the same time," she continued, gazing down at her hands in her lap for a moment, "I must confess I have been somewhat selfish, too, for I wanted to keep you with me, wanted to keep something of my poor lost daughter beside me." She gazed up at me again. "If I have sinned, God forgive me, for my intentions were not evil and I did try to do the best I could for you, even though I admit, you would have had a much richer, much more comfortable life, if I had given you up the day you were born."

She sat back and sighed again as if a great weight had begun to be lifted from her shoulders and off her heart.

"Grandmère, no matter what you've done, no matter what you tell me, I will always love you just as I always have loved you," I assured her.

She smiled softly and then grew thoughtful and serious again.

"The truth is, Ruby, I couldn't have gone on; I would never have had the strength, even the spiritual strength I was born to have, if you hadn't been with me all these years. You have been my salvation and my hope, as you still are. However, now that I'm drawing closer and closer to the end of my days here, you must leave the bayou and go where you belong."

"Where do I belong, Grandmère?"

"In New Orleans."

"Because of my artwork?" I said, nodding in anticipation of her response. She had said it so many times before.

"Not only because of your talent," she replied, and then she sat forward and continued. "After Gabrielle had gotten herself into trouble with Paul Tate's father, she became a very withdrawn and solitary person. She didn't want to attend school anymore no matter how much I begged, so that except for the people who came around here, she saw no one. She became something of a wild thing, a true part of the bayou, a recluse who lived in nature and loved only natural things.

"And Nature accepted her with open arms. The beautiful birds she loved, loved her. I would look out and see how the marsh hawks watched over her, flew from tree to tree to follow her along the canals.

"She would always return with beautiful wild flowers in her hair when she went for a walk that lasted most of the afternoon. Gabrielle could spend hours sitting by the water, dazzled by its ebb and flow, hypnotized by the songs of the birds. I began to think the frogs that gathered around her actually spoke to her.

"Nothing harmed her. Even the alligators maintained a respectful distance, holding their eyes out of the water just enough to gaze at her as she walked along the shores of the marsh. It was as if the swamp and all the wildlife within it saw her as one of their own.

"She would take our pirogue and pole through those canals better than your Grandpère Jack. She certainly knew the water better, never getting hung up on anything. She went deep into the swamp, went to places rarely visited by human beings. If she had wanted to, she could have been a better swamp guide than your Grandpère," Grandmère added, nodding.

"As time went by, Gabrielle became even more beautiful. She seemed to draw on the natural beauty around her. Her face blossomed like a flower, her complexion was as soft as rose petals, her eyes were as bright as the noonday sunlight streaming through the goldenrod. She walked more softly than the marsh deer, who were never afraid to come right up to her. I saw her stroke their heads myself," Grandmère said, smiling warmly, deeply at her vivid memories, memories I longed to share.

"There was nothing sweeter to my ears than the sound of Gabrielle's laughter, no jewel more sparkling than the sparkle of her soft smile.

"When I was a little girl, much younger than you are now, my Grandmère told me stories about the so-called swamp fairies, nymphs that dwelled deep in the bayou and would show themselves only to the purest of heart. How I longed to catch sight of one. I never did, but I think I came the closest whenever I looked upon my own daughter, my own Gabrielle," she said and wiped a single fugitive tear from her cheek.

She took a deep breath, sat back, and continued.

"A little more than two years after Gabrielle's involvement with Mr. Tate, a very handsome, young Creole man came from New Orleans with his father to do some duck hunting in the swamp. In town they quickly learned about your Grandpère, who was, to give the devil his due," she muttered, "the best swamp guide in this bayou.

"This young man, Pierre Dumas, fell in love with your mother the moment he saw her emerge from the marsh with a baby rice bird on her shoulder. Her hair was long, midway down her back, and it had darkened to a rich, beautiful auburn color. She had my raven black eyes, Grandpère's dark complexion and teeth whiter than the keys of a brand-new accordion. Many a young man who had chanced by and had seen her had lost his heart quickly, but Gabrielle had become wary of men. Whenever one did stop to speak with her, she would simply toss a thin laugh his way and disappear so quickly he probably thought she really was a swamp ghost, one of my Grandmère's fairies," Grandmère Catherine said, smiling.

"But for some reason, she did not run from Pierre Dumas. Oh, he was tall and dashing in his elegant clothes, but later, she would tell me that she saw something gentle and loving in his face; she felt no threat. And I never saw a young man smitten as quickly as young Pierre Dumas was smitten. If he could have thrown off his rich clothes that very moment and gone into the swamp to live with Gabrielle then and there, he would have.

"But the truth was he was already married and had been for a little over two years. The Dumas family is one of the oldest and wealthiest families living in New Orleans," Grandmère said. "Those families guard their lineage very closely. Marriages are well thought out and arranged so as to keep up the social standing and protect their blue blood. Pierre's young wife also came from a well-respected, wealthy old Creole family.

"However, to the great chagrin of Pierre's father, Charles Dumas, Pierre's wife had been unable to get pregnant all this time. The prospect of no children was an unacceptable one to Pierre's father, and to Pierre as well. But they were good Catholics and divorce was not an alternative. Neither was adopting a child, for Charles Dumas wanted the Dumas blood to run through the veins of all of his grandchildren.

"Weekend after weekend, Pierre Dumas and his father, more often, just Pierre, would visit Houma and go duck hunting. Pierre began to spend more time with Gabrielle than he did with Grandpère Jack. Naturally, I was very worried. Even if Pierre wasn't already married, his father would not want him to bring back a wild Cajun girl with no rich lineage. I warned Gabrielle about him, but she simply looked at me and smiled as if I were trying to stop the wind.

"Pierre would never do anything to hurt me," she insisted. "Soon, he was coming and not even pretending his purpose was to hire Grandpère Jack to guide him on a hunting trip. He and Gabrielle would pack a lunch and go off in the pirogue, deep into the swamp to places only Gabrielle knew."

Grandmère paused in her tale and stared down at her hands again for a long moment. When she looked up again, her eyes were full of pain.

"This time Gabrielle didn't tell me she was pregnant. She didn't have to. I saw it in her face and soon saw it in her stomach. When I confronted her about it, she simply smiled and said she wanted Pierre's baby, a child she would bring up in the bayou to love the swamp world as much as she did. She made me promise that no matter what happened, I would make sure her child lived here and learned to love the things she loved. God forgive me, I finally gave in and made such a promise, even though it broke my heart to see her with child and to know what it would do to her reputation among our own people.

"We tried to cover up what had happened by telling the story about the stranger at the fais dodo. Some people accepted it, but most didn't care. It was just another reason why they should look down on the Landrys. Even my best friends smiled when they faced me, but whispered behind my back. Many a family I had helped with my healing, contributed to the gossip."

Grandmère took a deep breath before she continued, seeming to draw the strength she needed out of the air.

"Unbeknownst to me, your Grandpère and Pierre's father had met to discuss the impending birth. Your Grandpère had already had experience selling one of Gabrielle's illegitimate children. His gambling sickness hadn't abated one bit; he still lost every piece of spare change he possessed and then some. He was in debt everywhere.

"A proposal was made some time during the last month and a half of Gabrielle's pregnancy. Charles Dumas offered fifteen thousand dollars for Pierre's child. Grandpère agreed, of course. Back in New Orleans, they were already concocting the fabrications to make it appear the child was really Pierre's wife's. Grandpère Jack told Gabrielle and it broke her heart. I was furious with him, but the worst was yet to come."

She bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes were glazed with tears, tears I was sure were burning under her eyelids, but she wanted desperately to get all of the story told before she collapsed in sorrow. I got up quickly and got her a glass of water.

"Thank you, honey," she said. She drank some and then nodded. "I'm all right." I sat down again, my eyes, my ears, my very soul fixed on her and her every word.

"Poor Gabrielle began to wilt with sorrow. She felt betrayed, but not so much by Grandpère Jack. She had always accepted his bad qualities and weaknesses the same way she accepted some of the uglier and crueler things in nature. For Gabrielle, Grandpère Jack's flaws were just the way things were, the way they were designed to be.

"But Pierre's willingness to go along with the bargain, to do what his father wanted was different. They had made secret promises to each other about the soon-to-be-born child. Pierre was going to send money to help care for the baby. He was going to visit more often. He even said he wanted the child to be brought up in the bayou where he or she would always be part of Gabrielle and her world, a world Pierre professed to love more than his own now that he had met and fallen in love with Gabrielle.

"She was so heartbroken when Grandpère Jack came to her and told her the bargain and how all the parties had agreed, that she did not put up any resistance. Instead, she spent long hours sitting in the shadows of the cypress and sycamore trees gazing out at the swamp as if the world she loved had somehow conspired to betray her as well. She had believed in its magic, worshipped its beauty and she had believed that Pierre had been won over by it as well. Now, she knew there were stronger, harder, crueler truths, the worst one being that Pierre's loyalty to his own world and his own family carried more weight with him than the promises he had made to her.

"She didn't eat well, no matter how I nagged and cajoled. I whipped up whatever herbal drinks I could to substitute for what she was missing and provide the nourishment her body needed, but she either avoided them or her depression overcame whatever value they had. Instead of blossoming in the last weeks of her pregnancy, she grew more sickly. Dark shadows formed around her eyes. She had little energy, became listless and slept most of the day away.

"I saw how big she had gotten, of course, and I knew why, but I never spoke a word of it to Grandpère or to Gabrielle. I was afraid the moment Grandpère knew, he would run out and make a second deal."

"Knew why?" I asked. "What?"

"That Gabrielle was about to give birth to twins."

For a moment my thumping heart stopped. The realization of what she had said thundered through my mind.

"Twins? I have a twin sister?" The possibility had never even occurred to me, even after I had seen how much I resembled the little girl in the picture with Pierre Dumas.

"Yes. She was the baby, the first to be born and the one I surrendered to Grandpère that night. I shall never forget that night," she said. "Grandpère had informed the Dumas family that Gabrielle was in labor. They drove here in their limousine and waited out there in the night. They had brought along a nurse, but I wouldn't permit her to enter my house. I could see the old man's expensive cigar burning in the limousine window as they all waited impatiently.

"As soon as your sister was born, I cleaned and brought her out to Grandpère, who thought I was being very cooperative. He rushed out with the child and collected his blood money. When he returned to the house, I had you cleaned and wrapped and in your weakened mother's arms.

"As soon as he set eyes on you, Grandpère Jack ranted and raved. Why hadn't I told him what to expect? Didn't I realize that I had thrown away another fifteen thousand dollars!

"He decided there was still time and actually went to take you from Gabrielle and run after the limousine. I struck him squarely on the forehead with a frying pan I had kept at my side just for that purpose and I knocked him unconscious. By the time he awoke, I had packed all of his things in two sacks. Then I chased him from the house, threatening to tell the world what he had done if he didn't leave us be. I threw out all his things and he took them and went to live in his trapper's shack. He's been there ever since," she said, "and good riddance to him."

"What happened to my mother?" I asked softly, so softly, I wasn't sure I had spoken.

Finally, Grandmère's tears escaped. They streamed down her cheeks freely, zigzagging to her chin.

"The double birthing, in her weakened state, was too much for her, but before she closed her eyes for the last time, she looked down at you and smiled. I made my promises quickly to her. I would keep you here in the bayou with me. You would grow up much like she had. You would know our world and our lives and some day, when the time was right, you would be told all that I have told you now.

"Gabrielle's last words to me were 'Thank you, ma mere, ma belle mere.'"

Grandmère's head dropped as her shoulders shuddered. I got up quickly and went to embrace her, crying with her for a mother I had never seen, never touched, never heard speak my name. What did I know of her? A snip of a ribbon she had worn in her dark red hair, some of her clothes, the few old faded pictures? To never know the sound of her voice, or the feel of her bosom when she embraced me and comforted me, to never bury my face in her hair and feel her lips on my baby cheeks, to never hear that wonderful, innocent laughter Grandmère had described, to never dream, like so many other girls I knew, that I would be as beautiful as my mother—this was the agony left to me.

How was I now to love, even like the man who was my real father but who had betrayed my mother's trust and love and broke her heart so badly she could only pine away?

Grandmère Catherine wiped away her tears and sat back, smiling at me.

"Can you forgive me for keeping all this a secret until now, Ruby?" she asked.

"Yes, Grandmère. I know you did it out of love for me, to protect me. Did my real father ever learn what had happened to my mother and did he ever learn about me?"

"No," Grandmère said, shaking her head. "That is one reason why I have encouraged you in your artwork, and why I wanted you to have your work shown in galleries in New Orleans. I have been hoping that someday, Pierre Dumas might learn of a Ruby Landry and wonder.

"It has brought me great pain and troubled my conscience that you have never met your father and your sister. Now, I feel in my heart that you should and will soon do so. If anything should happen to me, Ruby, you must promise, you must swear here and now, that you will go to Pierre Dumas and tell him who you are."

"Nothing will happen to you, Grandmère," I insisted.

"Nevertheless, promise me, Ruby. I don't want you to stay here and live with that . . . that scoundrel. Promise," she demanded.

"I promise, Grandmère. Now stop this talk. You're tired; you need to rest. Tomorrow, you will be as good as new," I told her.

She smiled up at me and stroked my hair.

"My beautiful Ruby, my little Gabrielle. You're all your mother dreamed you would be," she said. I kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet.

Never did Grandmère Catherine look older going up to her bedroom. I followed to be sure she was all right and I helped her get into bed. Then, as she had done for me so many, many times before, I brought the blanket to her chin and knelt down to kiss her good night.

"Ruby," she said, seizing my hand as I turned to leave. "Despite what he did, there must be something very good in your father's heart for your mother to have loved him so. Seek only that goodness in him. Leave room in your own heart to love that good part of him and you will find some peace and joy someday," she predicted.

"All right, Grandmère," I said, although I couldn't imagine feeling anything toward him but hatred. I turned out her light and left her in darkness groping with the ghosts of her past.

I went out to the galerie and sat in a rocker to stare out at the night and digest all that Grandmère Catherine had told me. I had a twin sister. She lived somewhere in New Orleans and at this moment, she could be looking up at the same stars. Only, she didn't know about me. What would it be like for her when she finally found out? Would she be as happy and as excited at the prospect of meeting me as I was about meeting her? She had been brought up a Creole in a rich Creole's world in New Orleans. How different would that make us? I wondered, not without some trepidation.

And what of my father? Just as I had always thought, he did not know I existed. How would he react? Would he look down on me and not want to acknowledge my existence? Would he be ashamed? How could I ever go to him as Grandmère Catherine expected I would someday? My very presence would complicate his life so much it would be impossible. And yet . . . I couldn't help but be curious. What was he really like, the man who had captured my beautiful mother's heart? My father, the mysterious dark man of my paintings.

Sighing deeply, I gazed through the darkness at that part of the bayou illuminated by the sliver of a pale white moon. I had always felt the depth of the mystery surrounding my life here; I had always heard whispering in the shadows. Truly it was as if the animals, the birds, especially the marsh hawks, wanted me to know who I really was and what had really happened. The dark spots in my past, the hardships of our lives, the tension and the turmoil between Grandmère Catherine and Grandpère Jack forced me to be more mature than I wanted to be at fifteen.

Sometimes, I wanted so badly to be like other young teenage girls I knew, full of silly laughter about nothing at all, and not always burdened down with responsibilities and worries that made me feel so much older than my years. But the same had been true for my poor mother. How quickly her life had flown by. One moment she was like an innocent child, exploring, discovering, living in what must have seemed to her to be an eternal spring; and then, suddenly, all the dark clouds rolled in and her smiles dimmed, her laughter died somewhere in the swamp, and she faded and aged like a leaf drying in the premature autumn of her short life. How unfair. If there is a heaven or a hell, I thought, it's right here on earth. We don't have to die to enter one or the other.

Exhausted, my mind reeling from the revelations, I rose from the rocker and made my way quickly to bed, putting out all the lights behind me as I went, leaving a trail of darkness and returning the world to the demons that feasted so hungrily and so successfully on our vulnerable hearts.

Poor Grandmère, I thought, and said a little prayer for her. She had been through so much trouble and tragedy and yet she cared so for others and especially for me, instead of becoming bitter and cynical. Never did I go to sleep myself loving her more, nor did I ever believe I could go to sleep crying for my dead mother, a mother I had never known, more than I could cry for myself. But I did.

The next morning Grandmère got herself up with a struggle and made her way down to the kitchen. I heard her slow, ponderous footsteps and decided that I would do all that I could to cheer her up again and get her to return to her old, vibrant self. When I joined her at breakfast, I didn't talk about our discussions the night before, nor did I ask her any more questions about the past. Instead, I rattled on about our work and especially about the new painting I was planning.

"It's a painting of you, Grandmère," I said.

"Me? Oh, no, honey. I ain't fit to be the subject of any painting. I'm old and wrinkled and—"

"You're perfect, Grandmère, and very important. I want you sitting in your rocker on the galerie. I'll try to get as much of the house in, too, but you are the subject. After all, how many portraits are there of Cajun spiritual healers? I'm sure, if I do it well, people in New Orleans will pay dearly for it," I added to persuade her.

"I'm not one to sit around all day and model for pictures," she insisted, but I knew she would. It would make it easier for her to rest and her conscience wouldn't bother her so much about not working on her loom or embroidering tablecloths and napkins.

I began the portrait that afternoon.

"Does this mean I've got to wear the same thing every day until you finish that picture, Ruby?" she asked me.

"No, Grandmère. Once I've painted you in something, I don't need to see you in it constantly. The picture is already locked in here," I said, pointing to my temple.

I worked as hard and as fast as I could on her picture, concentrating on capturing her as accurately as I was able. Every day I worked, she fell asleep in her chair midway through the sitting. I thought there was a peacefulness about her and tried to get that feeling in the picture. One day I decided there should be a rice bird on the railing, and then, it came to me that I would put a face in the window looking out. I didn't tell Grandmère, but the face I drew and then painted was my mother's face. I used the old pictures for inspiration.

Grandmère didn't ask to see the painting while I worked on it. I kept it covered in my room at night, for I wanted to surprise her with it when it was finished. Finally, it was, and that night after dinner, I announced it to her.

"I'm sure you made me look a lot better than I do," she insisted, and sat back in anticipation as I brought it out and uncovered it before her. For a long moment, she said nothing, nor did the expression on her face change. I thought she didn't like it. And then, she turned to me as if she were looking at a ghost.

"It's been passed on to you," she said in a whisper. "What has Grandmère?"

"The powers, the spirituality. Not in the form it has been passed on to me, but in another form, in an artistic power, a vision. When you paint, you see beyond what is there for other people to see. You see inside.

"I've often felt the spirit of Gabrielle in this house," she said, looking around. "How many times have I paused outside and looked back at the house and seen her gazing out of a window, smiling at me or looking wistfully at the swamp, at a bird, at a deer? And Ruby, she's always looked something like that to me," she said, nodding at the painting. "When you painted, you saw her, too. She was in your vision," she said. "She was in your eyes. God be praised." She lifted her arms for me to go to her so she could embrace me and kiss me.

"It's a beautiful picture, Ruby. Don't sell it," she said.

"I won't, Grandmère."

She took a deep breath and ground away the tiny tears from the corners of her eyes. Then we went into the living room to decide where I should hang the painting.

Summer drew to an end on the calender, but not in the bayou. Our temperatures and humidity hung up there as high as they had been in the middle of July. The oppressive heat seemed to undulate through the air, wave after wave weighing us down, making the days longer than they were, making everything we did, harder than it was.

Throughout the fall and early winter, Grandmère Catherine had her usual traiteur missions, especially ministering her herbal cures and her spiritual powers to the elderly. They saw her as far more sympathetic to their arthritic pains and aches, their stomach and back troubles, their headaches and fatigue than any ordinary physician would be. She understood because she suffered from the same maladies.

One early February day with the sky a hazy blue and the clouds no more than smokelike wisps smeared here and there from one horizon to the other, a pickup truck came bouncing over our drive, the horn blaring. Grandmère and I were in the kitchen, having some lunch.

"Someone's in trouble," she declared, and got up as quickly as she could to go to the front door.

It was Raul Balzac, a shrimp fisherman, who lived about ten miles down the bayou. Grandmère was very fond of his wife, Bernadine, and had treated her mother for lumbago time after time before she had passed away last year.

"It's my boy, Mrs. Landry," Raul cried from the truck. "My five-year-old. He's burning up something terrible."

"Insect bite?" Grandmère asked quickly.

"Can't find anything on him that says so," Raul replied. "Be right with you, Raul," she said, and went back to get her basket of medicines and spiritual things.

"Should I come with you, Grandmère?" I asked as she hurried out.

"No, dear. Stay and make us dinner. Prepare one of your good jambalayas," she added, and went to Raul's truck. He helped her in and then quickly drove off, bouncing over the drive as hard as he had when he had arrived. I couldn't blame him for being anxious and frightened, and once again, I was proud of Grandmère Catherine for being the one to whom he came for assistance, the one in whom he placed such trust.

Later in the day, I did what she asked and worked on our dinner while I listened to some of the latest Cajun music on the radio. There was a prediction of another downpour, one that would be full of lightning and thunder. The static on the radio told me the prediction would come true and sure enough, by late afternoon, the sky had turned that purplish dark color that often preceded a violent storm. I was worried about Grandmère Catherine and after I had battened down all the windows, I stood by the door waiting and watching for Raul's pickup. But the rain came before the truck did.

We had hail and then a pounding downpour that sounded like it would drill holes even through the metal roof. Wave after wave of rain was washed over the bayou by the wind that came rushing over the sycamores and cypresses, bending and twisting the branches, tearing leaves and limbs from trees. The distant low, rumbling thunder soon became real boomers, crashing down around the house like boulders and then lighting up the sky with fire. Hawks shrieked, everything that lived struggled to find a hole to crawl in to remain safe and dry. The railings on the porch groaned and the whole house seemed to turn and twist in the wind. I couldn't recall a storm as fierce, nor when I was more frightened by one.

Finally, it began to recede and the heavy drops thinned. The wind slowed down and became less and less severe until it was nothing more than a brisk breeze. Night fell quickly afterward, so I didn't see the resulting damage around the swamp, but the rain trickled on for hours and hours.

I expected Raul was waiting for the storm to stop before bringing Grandmère Catherine home, but as the hours ticked by and the storm dissipated until it was finally nothing more than a sprinkle, the truck still did not appear. I grew more and more nervous and wished that we had a telephone like most of the other people in the bayou, although I imagined the lines would have been down just like they often were after such a storm and the telephone would have been useless.

Our supper was long done. It simmered in the pot. I wasn't all that hungry, being so anxious, but finally, I ate some and then cleaned up. Grandmère had still not returned. I spent the next hour and a half waiting on the galerie, just watching the darkness for the lights of Raul's truck. Occasionally, a vehicle did appear, but it was someone else all the time.

Finally, nearly twelve hours after Raul had come for Grandmère Catherine, his truck turned into the drive. I saw him clearly, and I saw his oldest son, Jean, but I didn't see Grandmère Catherine. I ran down the galerie steps as he came to a stop.

"Where's my Grandmère?" I called before he could speak.

"She's in the back," he said. "Resting."

"What?"

I hurried around and saw Grandmère Catherine lying on an old mattress, a blanket over her. The mattress was on a wide sheet of plywood and was used as a makeshift bed for Raul's children when he and his wife went on long journeys.

"Grandmère!" I cried. "What's wrong with her?" I asked as Raul came around.

"She collapsed with exhaustion a few hours ago. We wanted to keep her overnight, but she insisted on us bringing her home and we wanted to do whatever she asked. She broke my boy's fever. He's going to be all right," Raul said, smiling.

"I'm happy about that, Mr. Balzac, but Grandmère Catherine . . ."

"We'll help you get her into the house and to bed," he said, and nodded to Jean. They lowered the rear of the truck and the two of them lifted the mattress and board with Grandmère Catherine off the truck. She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Grandmère," I said, taking her hand, "what's wrong?"

"I'm just tired, so tired," she muttered. "I'll be fine," she added, but her eyelids clamped down shut so quickly alarm filled me.

"Quickly," I said, and rushed ahead to open the door for them. They brought her up to her room and eased her off the mattress and into her own bed.

"Is there anything we can do for you, Ruby?" Raul asked. "No. I'll take care of her. Thank you."

"Thank her for us again," Raul said. "My wife will send something over in the morning and we'll stop by to see how she is."

I nodded and they left. I took off Grandmère's shoes and helped her off with her dress. She was like someone drugged, barely opening her eyes, barely moving her arms and legs. I don't think she realized I had put her to bed.

All that night I sat at her side, waiting for her to awaken. She moaned and groaned a few times, but she never woke up until morning when I felt her nudge my leg. I was asleep in the chair beside the bed.

"Grandmère," I cried. "How are you?"

"I'm all right, Ruby. Just weak and tired. How did I get home and in bed? I don't remember."

"Mr. Balzac and his son Jean brought you in their truck and carried you in."

"And you sat up all night watching over me?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You poor dear." She struggled to smile. "I missed your jambalaya. Was it good?"

"Yes, Grandmère, although I was too worried about you to eat much. What happened to you?"

"The strain of what I had to do, I suppose. That poor little boy was bitten by a cottonmouth, but on the bottom of his foot where it was hard to see. He was running barefoot through the marsh grass and must have disturbed one," she said.

"Grandmère, you've never been this exhausted after a traiteur mission before."

"I'll be all right, Ruby. Please, just get me some cold water," she said.

I did so. She drank it slowly and then closed her eyes again.

"I'll just rest some more and then get up, dear," she said. "You go on and have something for breakfast. Don't worry. Go on," she said. Reluctantly, I did so. When I returned to look in on her, she was fast asleep again.

Before lunch, she woke up, but her complexion was waxen, her lips blue. She was too weak to sit up by herself. I had to help her and then she asked me to help her get dressed.

"I want to sit on the galerie," she said.

"I must get you something to eat."

"No, no. I just want to sit on the galerie."

She leaned fully on me to stand and walk. I was never so frightened about her. When she sat back in the rocker, she looked as though she had collapsed again, but a moment later, she opened her eyes and gave me a weak smile.

"I'll just have a little warm water and honey, dear."

I got it for her quickly and she sipped it and rocked herself gently.

"I guess I'm more tired than I thought," she said, and then she turned and gazed at me with such a far-off look in her eyes, a small flutter of panic stirred in my chest. "Ruby, I don't want you to be afraid, but I wish you would do something for me now. It would make me feel less . . . less anxious about myself," she said, taking my hand in hers. Her palms felt cold, clammy.

"What is it, Grandmère?" I could feel the tears aching to emerge from my eyes. They stung behind my lids. My throat felt like closing up for good and my heart shrunk until it was barely beating. My blood ran cold, my legs had turned to lead bars.

"I want you to go to the church and fetch Father Rush," she said.

"Father Rush?" The blood drained from my face. "Oh, why, Grandmère? Why?"

"Just in case, dear. I need to make my peace. Please, dear. Be strong," she begged. I nodded and swallowed back my tears quickly. I would not cry in front of her, I thought, and then I kissed her quickly.

Before I turned to leave, she seized my hand again and held me close.

"Ruby, remember your promises to me. Should something happen to me, you won't stay here. Remember."

"Nothing's happening to you, Grandmère."

"I know, honey, but just in case. Promise again. Promise."

"I promise, Grandmère."

"You'll go to him, go to your real father?"

"Yes, Grandmère."

"Good," she said, closing her eyes. "Good." I gazed at her a moment and then ran down the galerie steps and hurried to town. On the way my tears gushed. I cried so hard, my chest began to ache. I arrived at the church so quickly, I didn't remember. the journey.

Father Rush's housekeeper answered the doorbell. Her name was Addie Cochran and she had been with him so long, it was impossible to remember when she wasn't.

"My Grandmère Catherine needs Father Rush," I said quickly, an edge of panic in my voice.

"What's wrong?"

"She's . . . she's very . . . she's . . ."

"Oh, dear. He's just at the barber's. I’ll go tell him and send him up."

"Thank you," I said, and I turned and ran all the way home, my chest wanting to burst open, the needles in my side poking and sticking me fiercely when I arrived. Grandmère was still on the galerie in her rocker. I didn't realize she wasn't rocking until I reached the steps. She was just sitting still with her eyes half-closed and on her thin white lips was a faint smile. It scared me, that funny, happy smile.

"Grandmère," I whispered fearfully. "Are you all right?" She didn't reply, nor did she turn my way. I touched her face and realized she was already cold.

Then I fell to my knees on the galerie floor in front of her and embraced her legs. I was still holding on to her and crying when Father Rush finally arrived.