Tarnished Gold

8

Mine for a Moment

In anticipation of my arrival, Gladys Tate had Octavious move a second bed into her room and place it beside her bed. Mama said she heard Gladys tell Octavious to tell the servants it was for Mama because she would have to be at Gladys Tate's side continually now. Neither Mama nor I understood why Gladys didn't just move to another room for the time being or put me into one of the guest rooms, but the bed had been prepared and was waiting. After I entered the room, the door was kept locked and only Octavious and Mama were to be permitted into the room. Gladys insisted the curtains be kept closed, and of course, she ordered us to keep our voices down.

Gladys was impressed with how difficult it was for me to come down the stairs to her room and the effort it took to get me comfortably situated in the bed.

"How soon could it be?" she asked Mama, and Mama told her it could be hours or could be days.

"There's a strong possibility it's false labor and it'll take the remaining weeks it was meant to take. We'll have to wait and see," Mama said.

Nevertheless, Gladys told Octavious to go out and forbid the servants to come up the stairs.

"In fact," she decided after a moment's thought, "discharge them, all of them, immediately;"

"Discharge them?"

"Give them all a week's holiday," she insisted.

"But what am I to say is the reason?"

"You don't have to give them a reason, Octavious," she replied haughtily. "They work for us. We give the orders. Just do it," she snapped, and waved her hand at him as if he were one of her servants, too. If there were any doubts as to which of them ran the house and their lives,, those doubts. died.

"But . . ." Octavious looked to Mama.

"I told you the bleeding doesn't always, mean the birthing's coming shortly," Mama explained. "A week, two weeks, who knows?"

"I don't care," she told Mama, and turned back to, Octavious. "Just have everyone out of the house. I don't want anyone to suspect anything. I've come all this way convincing people it is I who is giving birth. I don't want to risk any mistakes, any accidental discoveries," Gladys insisted.

"Which reminds me," she said, turning her steely eyes to me. "How did your mother know to come? How did you send for her?" she demanded. "And don't tell me you told some bird to go fetch her."

Fearful, I looked at Mama. Would Gladys Tate cast us out now, and with us all the effort, the suffering and loneliness, I endured for the sake of the baby and my family?

"Better tell her everything, honey," Mama said.

"There was this boy," I began.

"Boy? What boy?" she pounced, her eyes widening.

"I saw him doing handstands on the lawn behind the house, and he saw me in the window. But he won't tell anyone I'm here. He promised," I added quickly.

"What boy is this?" she asked Octavious. "Whom is she babbling about?" He shrugged.

"What's his name?" she asked me.

"Henry," I said.

"The deaf-mute," Octavious said, realizing. "Porter's son."

"Get rid of them," Gladys snapped. "Today. I want the whole family off the property."

"But, Madame Tate," I cried. "He's harmless. He won't tell anyone anything, and he did help by getting Mama. Don't punish his family because of me."

"I want them off my property before the sun goes down, Octavious. Do you understand?" she said, ignoring my pleas. He nodded.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of them," he assured her, but she didn't look calmed.

"You were not supposed to let anyone know you were here," she flared at me, looking red and very angry. "That was our bargain. Why do you think I've been going through all this discomfort and pain?"

"Pain? What pain?" Mama asked.

"Pain! Pain! I'm supposed to be the one giving birth. I can't be without aches and pains, can I? When you pretend as well and as accurately as I have pretended, you actually feel it. No one knows how much I've endured," she cried, her face in an ugly grimace. "I'm the one who's making all the sacrifices here just to make everything look right." She put her hands through her hair, looking as though she might tug out strands of it, and turned on Octavious, who stood by, watching with fear and amazement on his face, too. "Why are you still here? Get rid of them! Now! All of this is your fault. All of it!"

"All right, all right," he said, holding up his hands. "Calm down. I'll do it."

He ran from the room. I turned away so no one would see my tear-filled eyes. I shouldn't have looked out that window and I shouldn't have laughed and shown myself to Henry. Because of me, Henry and his family would be thrown out and have to go searching for a new place to live and work.

It seemed like anything and everything I did now would hurt someone. Was it because I had been touched by evil, deeply stained in my very soul? Perhaps no act, no matter how unselfish, could cleanse me of the pollution. Maybe I was better off staying away from the people I loved, I thought sadly. Look at what I had done to this innocent, handicapped boy. If I hadn't panicked, if I had waited for Gladys Tate instead of sending Henry for Mama, Henry's family wouldn't be destitute. I deserve to be miserable, I thought. Somehow, I make everyone else more miserable.

Mama saw the regret and guilt in my face and knew I was suffering remorse. "If she said the boy wouldn't tell anyone, he won't," she told Gladys. "Becoming hysterical over everything isn't going to help the situation right now."

"I am not hysterical," Gladys insisted in a raspy whisper, but her eyes still looked like two hot coals.

Mania shook her head. "I don't want Gabrielle upset at this juncture. I want her to have a clear mind and concentrate. If indeed the baby's coming, we ain't out of the woods. Not by a long shot," she said, and for the first time, Gladys considered the baby's well-being rather than her own.

"Something can happen to my baby?" she asked anxiously.

"A baby crosses from one world into another. Nature pushes him out of the safe, happy one and into this turmoil. The road's always fraught with some danger. We don't need to add any of our own to it."

Suddenly Gladys Tate's eyes became two slits. The blood rushed to the surface of her cheeks and her shoulders lifted. She looked from Mama to me and then to Mama again, shaking her head very slowly as she took a step back. Then her smile came crooked and mean, her cold brown eyes shooting devilish electric sparks.

"You want the baby to die, don't you?" she said, nodding to validate her own suspicions. "Sure. You made this happen too soon with one of your secret herbal concoctions. You backward Cajun faith healers believe in all sorts of superstitions. You probably think the baby will curse you or something. Isn't that true? The baby's death would solve the problem for you, wouldn't it?"

"What? Of course not," Mama said. "What a terrible and ridiculous thing to say. If anyone is thinking like a backwards Cajun, it's you!" Mama retorted.

But Gladys continued to nod, convinced of her own suspicions. "I heard stories about traiteur ladies killing babies because they thought the babies were born with evil souls. When they wash them off,, they deliberately drown them or they suffocate them when no one's looking."

"Those are stupid lies. No traiteur would take a life. We are here to ease pain and suffering and drive away bad things?'

You said it There. You said it," she accused, pointing her right forefinger at Mama. "Drive away bad things. If you think a baby's bad . . ."

"A baby can't be bad," Mama insisted. "The baby can't be blamed for its own birth," she explained, "especially if the mother was raped," she added pointedly, but Gladys didn't look convinced.

"I'll be right here, every minute," she said, "watching your every move."

"Fine," Mama said. "You do that."

Gladys folded her arms across her chest and dropped herself into the pink cushion chair across from me.

"You can make yourself useful if you're going to stay here all the time," Mama told her. "Get me a basin of warm water and some clean washcloths. I want to bathe Gabrielle."

Gladys Tate stared at us as if she hadn't heard a word. In fact, it was more like she was looking through us. Her eyes had turned glassy and she didn't move a muscle. There was just a slight twitch under her right eye. Mama studied her for a moment and then looked at me and lifted her eyebrows. She patted my hand and went to the bathroom. herself to get what she wanted. I threw a glance at Gladys and saw she hadn't moved, hadn't shifted her eyes. They looked like they had turned to glass. It added chills to my already tense and shuddering body.

Mama washed me down and made me as comfortable as she could. All the while Gladys glared silently at us. She didn't change expression or move until Octavious returned. When he did, she spun on him as he approached.

"Well?" she said.

"They're all packed and gone. I gave them an extra week's wages so they wouldn't complain." He turned to Mama. "Your husband said to tell you he had to go," Octavious said.

"To play bourre for sure," she whispered to me. "The new money's burning a hole in his pocket. Couldn't even wait to see how you were," she added, choking back her anger. "Probably better he's not here anyway. He'd only drive us all mad," she added, more to calm herself than me.

I nodded, smiling. A small pain had begun in my groin and traveled into my stomach and around to my back, but I didn't say anything about it because it wasn't as bad as the early ones were yet.

"Well," Octavious said, looking from Gladys to Mama, "maybe I should bring something up for you to eat and drink. This may take a while, eh?"

"Bring some ice tea," Gladys ordered, "and make sure the front door is locked. Draw all the curtains closed, too. And don't answer any phone calls or make any."

Octavious closed his eyes as if he had a terrible headache and then opened them and turned to Mama.

"What can I get you?" he asked.

"Just cold water," Mama told him. She had brought along what she wanted for herself and for me.

He nodded and left, and soon after, the pain began to build.

"Mama," I said, "it's starting again."

"Okay, honey. Just squeeze my hand when you hurt. I want to know how bad it really is."

She pulled Grandmère Landry's silver pocket watch out of her bag and put it beside me on the bed.

"What's that?" Gladys demanded, looking over Mama's shoulder.

"Just a watch to tell me how long her contractions last and how much time between them. That's how I know how close we are to the birth."

"Oh," Gladys said, and placed her palms over her fake stomach. "It tightens, doesn't it? It gets as tight and as hard as a rock."

Mama just looked at her, nonplussed, which caused something in Gladys Tate's eyes to snap. A crimson tint came into the crests of her cheeks.

"I've got to know every detail, don't I? People ask questions. I want to be able to describe the birth as if I really did have the baby."

"Yes, it gets hard," Mama said. "In the beginning for a very short time and then longer and longer as you get closer to delivering the baby."

"Yes," Gladys said, and grimaced as if she really did suffer a contraction.

Mama sighed and turned back to me with a small smile on her lips. She rolled her eyes. I wanted to smile back, but the pain grew longer and more severe.

"Take deep breaths," Mama advised.

"Is it coming? Is it coming?" Gladys asked, excitedly.

"Not yet, no," Mama said. "I told you. I'm not sure this is real labor yet, and besides, babies don't come busting into this world that fast, especially when a woman's giving birth for the first time."

"Yes," Gladys said, more to herself than to us. "My first time."

She waddled over to her own bed and sat down, her hands on her padded stomach. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip. Mama wiped my face with a cold washcloth. I forced a smile and gazed at Gladys, who looked like she was breaking into a sweat herself. Watching her actions, her silent moans, her deep breaths, distracted me from my own. pain for the moment. Mama just shrugged and shook her head.

Mama said the contractions were a good five minutes apart and didn't last long enough to be that significant yet, but it went on for hours. All the while Gladys Tate lay in her bed beside mine. She ate nothing, drank a little ice tea, but for the most part, just watched me and mimicked my every action, my every groan.

As the sun began to go down and the room darkened, my labor pains grew longer and with shorter and shorter intervals. I saw from Mama's face that she thought something significant was happening now.

"I'm going to give birth soon, aren't 1, Mama?"

She nodded. "I believe so, honey."

"But it's too soon, isn't it, Mama? I'm barely eight months."

She nodded, but made no comment. Worry and concern were etched in the ripples along her forehead and the darkness that entered her eyes. My heart pounded. In fact, it had been beating so hard and so fast for so long, I was worried it would just give out. These thoughts brought more cold sweats. I squeezed Mama's hand harder and she tried to keep me calm. She gave me tablespoons of one of her herbal medicines that kept me from getting nauseous. Gladys Tate insisted on knowing what it was, and when Mama explained it, Gladys insisted she be given some.

"I want to be sure it's not some Cajun poison that works on babies," she said.

Mama checked her anger and let her have a tablespoon. Gladys swallowed it quickly and chased it down with some ice tea. Then she waited to see what sort of reaction she would have. When she said nothing, Mama smirked.

"I guess it ain't poison," Mama said, but Gladys looked unconvinced.

Suddenly it began to rain, the drops drumming on the window, the wind coming up to blow sheet after sheet of the downpour against the house. There was a flash of lightning and then a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation of the great house and rock my bed as well. We could hear the rain pounding the roof. It seemed to pound right through and into my heart.

Mama asked Gladys to turn on the lamps. As if it took all her effort to rise from the bed and cross the room, she groaned and stood up with an exaggerated slowness. As soon as she had the lights on, she returned to her bed and watched me enduring my labor, closing her eyes, mumbling to herself and sighing.

"How long can this last?" she finally inquired with impatience.

"Ten, fifteen, twenty hours," Mama told her. "If you have something else to do . . ."

"What else would I have to do? Are you mad or are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Forget I said anything," Mama muttered, and turned her attention back to me.

Suddenly, at the end of one contraction, I felt a gush of warm liquid down my legs.

"Mama!"

"It's your bag of waters," Mama exclaimed. "The baby's going to come tonight," she declared with certainty. Gladys Tate uttered a cry of excitement, and when we looked over at her, we saw she had wet her own bed.

Neither Mama nor I said anything. Our attention was mainly focused now on my efforts to bring a newborn child into the world.

Hours passed, the contractions continuing to grow in intensity and the intervals continuing to shorten, but Mama didn't look pleased with my progress. She examined me periodically and shook her head with concern. The pain grew more and more intense. I was breathing faster and heavier, gasping at times. When I looked at Gladys, I saw her face was crimson, her eyes glassy. She had run her fingers through her hair so much, the strands were like broken piano wires, curling up in every direction. She writhed on her bed, groaning. Mama was concentrating firmly on me now and barely paid her notice.

Mama referred to the watch, felt my contractions, checked me and bit down on her lip. I saw the alarm building in her eyes, the muscles in her face tense.

"What's wrong, Mama?" I gasped between deep breaths.

"It's breech," she said sorrowfully. "I was afraid of this. It's not uncommon with premature births."

"Breech?" Gladys Tate cried, pausing in her imitation of my agony. "What does that mean?"

"It means the baby is in the wrong position. Its buttocks is pointing out instead of its head," she explained.

"It's more painful, isn't it? Oh no. Oh no," she cried, wringing her hands. "What will I do?"

"I have no time for this sort of stupidity," Mama said. She hurried to the door. Octavious was nearby, pacing. "Bring me some whiskey," she shouted at him.

"Whiskey?"

"Hurry."

"What are you going to do, Mama?" I asked.

"I've got to try to turn the baby, honey. Just relax. Put your mind on something else. Think about your swamp, your animals, flowers, anything," she said.

A few moments later, Octavious appeared with a bottle of bourbon. He stood there in shock. Gladys was writhing on her bed, her eyes closed, moaning and occasionally screaming.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked Mama.

"I wouldn't even try to answer that," she told him, and took the whiskey. She poured it over her hands and scrubbed them with the alcohol, while Octavious went to Gladys's side and tried to rouse her out of her strange state, but she didn't acknowledge him. Whenever he touched her, she screamed louder. He stood back, shuddering, confused, pleading with her to get control of herself.

Mama returned to my bedside and began her effort to turn the baby. I thought I must have gone in and out of consciousness because I couldn't remember what happened or how long I was crying and moaning. Once, I looked over and saw the expression of utter horror on Octavious's face. I knew Mama was happy he was in the room, witnessing all the pain and turmoil, hoping he would see it for years in nightmares.

Fortunately for me and the baby, Mama had miraculous hands. Later she would tell me if she had failed, the only alternative was a cesarean section. But Mama was truly the Cajun healer. I saw from the happy expression on her face that she had managed to turn the baby. Then, guiding me, coaxing and coaching me along, she continued the birthing process.

"Push when you have the contractions, honey. This way two forces, the contraction and your pushing, combine to move the baby and saves you some energy," she advised. I did as she said and soon I began to feel the baby's movement.

My own grunts and cries filled my ears, so I didn't hear the grunts and cries coming from Gladys Tate, but I caught a glimpse of Octavious holding her hand and continually trying to calm her. She had her legs up and was actually pushing down on her padding so that it slipped off her stomach and toward her legs.

"He's coming!" Mama announced, and we all knew it was a boy. The room was a cacophony of bedlam: Gladys's mad cries (louder than mine), Octavious trying to get her to stop, my own screams, Mama mumbling prayers and orders, and then that great sense of completion, that sweet feeling of emptiness followed by my baby's first cry.

His tiny voice stopped my screams and Gladys's as well. Mama held him up, the placenta still attached and dangling.

"He's big," Mama exclaimed. "Big enough to do well even though he's early."

I tried to catch my breath, my eyes fixed on the wonder that had emerged from my body, the living thing that had dwelled inside my stomach.

Mama cut and tied the cord and then began to wash the baby, doing everything quickly and with an expertise born of years and years of experience, while I lay back trying to get my heart to slow, my breathing regular. When I gazed at Gladys Tate, I saw she was mesmerized by the sight of the baby. She didn't move. Octavious watched with interest and awe. Mama wrapped the baby in a blanket and held him for a moment.

"Perfect features," she said.

"Give me my baby," Gladys demanded. "Give him to me now!" she screamed.

Mama gazed at her for a moment and then at me. I closed my eyes and put my hand over my face. I had wanted to hold him, at least for a few moments, but I was afraid to say anything. Mama brought the baby to Gladys, who cradled him quickly.

"Look at him, Octavious," she said. "He is perfect. Little Mr. Perfect. We're naming him Paul," she added quickly, "after my mother's younger brother who died a tragic death in the canals when he was only twelve. Right, Octavious?"

He looked at us. "Yes," he said.

Mama didn't respond. She returned her attention to me. "How are you doing, honey?"

"I'm all right, Mama." I turned to Gladys. "Can I look at him? Please," I asked.

She glared fire at me and turned the baby so I couldn't view his face. "Of course not. I want you out of here immediately," she said. She looked at Mama. "Get her up and out of that bed and out of this house before anyone comes around."

"I can't rush her like that," Mama said. "She needs to recuperate. She's still bleeding some."

"Octavious, take them into another room, your room for all I care," she said.

Mama turned on her, her back up, her eyes blazing back. "No! You go into another room. My daughter will rest here until I say she's fit to leave, and that's my final word on it, hear?"

Gladys saw Mama was adamant. "Very well," she said. "I'll go to Octavious's room to recuperate and put the baby in his nursery."

"Exactly how to you plan to feed the infant?" Mama asked.

Gladys smiled coolly. "We've thought of that. I've hired a wet nurse. Octavious will fetch her now. Won't you, Octavious?"

"Yes, dear," he said obediently. He was unable to look at me and just gave me a passing glance.

"The child needs a lot of attention," Mama said. "Remember, he's premature."

"We'll have a real doctor here in less than an hour. He's someone we can trust, but I still want you out of the house as soon as possible," she said. She handed the baby to Octavious as she rose from her bed. Then she took the baby back quickly and started out of the bedroom, taking care, it seemed to me, to prevent me from getting a good view of him. She paused at the doorway.

"Once you're gone, I don't want to ever see you on this property again," she told me.

"She'd rather step in quicksand," Mama retorted. Gladys smiled, satisfied. "Good," she said, and walked out with my baby. I hadn't even seen him for a full minute and he was already gone from my life forever. My lips trembled and my heart ached.

Octavious remained behind a moment, stuttering some apology and some thanks. "Take as long as you need," he concluded, his eyes down. Then he hurried to follow his wife and new child.

I couldn't help but burst into tears. Mama put her arm around me and kissed my hair and forehead, trying to comfort and soothe me.

"Is he really perfect, Mama?"

"Yes, honey, he is. He's one of the prettiest babies I've seen, and you know I've seen a few in my time."

"Will he be all right?"

"I think so. He was breathing strong on his own. It's good that they're having a doctor come around, though. Let me tend to your bleeding, Gabrielle, and then let you rest. Damn your father for hurrying away. I could use him now," she muttered.

I lay back, exhausted, not only from the delivery, but from the emotional pain of having only a glimpse of baby Paul and then seeing him swept away from me instantly. Mama was right: This was a terrible feeling. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare that would haunt me forever.

It was very late by the time I felt strong enough to get out of the bed and stand on my own. Mama held me cautiously and had me walk around the room first. Then she sat me down and went to find Octavious. Since Daddy hadn't returned, she had to ask Octavious to drive us home.

The house was dim and quiet with all the servants gone. I paused outside the bedroom door on the upstairs landing because I heard my baby crying. I looked at Octavious.

"I want to see him," I said.

He looked at Mama and then me.

"I won't leave before I do," I threatened.

He nodded. "Gladys is sleeping. She claims she's exhausted. If you're very quiet about it . . ."

"I will be. I promise," I said.

"Gabrielle. Maybe it's better you just leave, honey. You're just prolonging the pain and . . ." Mama's voice trailed off.

"No, Mama. I've got to look at him. Please," I begged.

She shook her head and then turned to Octavious and nodded.

"Very, very quiet," he said, and practically tiptoed down the hallway to the nursery he and Gladys had prepared. The wet nurse was already there. She was a young girl not much older than me. Octavious whispered something to her and she left without glancing at me.

I stepped up to the cradle and peered in at baby Paul, wrapped in his blue cotton blanket, his pink face no bigger than a fist. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing nicely. His skin was so soft. It was a little crimson at the cheeks. All of his features were perfect. Mama was right. His fingers, clutched at the blanket, looked smaller than the fingers of any doll I had ever had. My heart ached with my desire to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him against my throbbing breasts filled with milk that was meant to be his and would never touch his lips.

"We better go," Octavious whispered.

"Come on, honey," Mama urged. She put her hand through my arm and held me at the elbow.

"Good-bye, Paul," I whispered. "You'll never know who I am. I'll never hear your cry again; never comfort you or hear your laughing somehow, somehow, I hope you'll sense that I'm out there, waiting anxiously for the day I can set eyes on you again."

I kissed my finger and then touched his tiny forehead. My throat felt like I had a stone caught in it. I turned and walked away like one in a trance, not feeling, not seeing, not hearing anything but the cries of sadness inside me.

Somehow, we got down the stairway and out the front door to Octavious' car. Mama and I sat in the back, me lying against her, my eyes closed, my hand clutching hers. We slipped through the night like shadows indistinguishable from the blanket of darkness that had fallen heavily over the world. No one spoke until we arrived at our shack. Octavious opened the door and helped Mama get me out.

"I'll take her from here," Mama told him sternly:

"Will she be all right?" he asked. Mama hesitated. I felt her turn to him and I opened my eyes.

"She will be fine; she will grow strong again, whereas you will grow weaker and smaller under the burden of your sin," she predicted. He seemed to shrink. "You be sure that that madwoman you call your wife treats that child with love and kindness, hear?"

"I will," he promised. "He'll have everything he needs and more."

"He needs love."

Octavious nodded. "I'm sorry," he muttered one final time, and went back to his car.

Mama turned me to the shack and we made our way to the door as Octavious drove away, the sound of his car drifting back into the darkness. I was still in pain. My legs felt so heavy and my head even heavier, but I didn't complain. I didn't want to make things any harder than they were for Mama. She managed to get me in the house and up the stairs to my little room. It was actually a bit smaller than the room I had been living in at the Tate house, but it was my room and full of my memories. It was like seeing an old friend again.

"It's so good to be home, Mama," I said.

She helped me into bed. "Just get some rest, honey. I'll be right here if you need me," she added. She said something else, but I didn't hear it. Before she had completed the sentence, I was asleep.

Daddy returned sometime before morning, bitter and angry about the money he had lost gambling, raging that he had been cheated and that he would get revenge. He was quite drunk and smashed a chair in anger, splintering it to bits. It woke me and sent Mama flying down to bawl him out. I heard the shouting, his pounding the walls and stomping the floor. I heard the door slam so hard, the whole shack shook, and then it was deadly quiet. My eyes shut themselves and didn't open again until the sunlight brushed my face. They fluttered open, and for a moment I didn't know where I was. After a moment, it all came rushing back over me, including the racket I had heard in the middle of the night. Mama, anticipating my awakening, stepped into the room with a cup of rich Cajun coffee, the steam rising from the mug.

"Got to get you up and about, honey. Women who lay around like sick people after they give birth usually develop some problem or another," she said.

I sat up and took the mug of coffee. "Was I dreaming or was Daddy screaming and yelling last night?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "I wish you had been dreaming. No, he came home in one of his drunken states again, claiming he had been cheated out of the money he lost at cards. Instead of finding a good job and working hard, he keeps trying to make a killing somewhere. He works harder at not working than he would if he worked," she added.

"Does he know I'm home?"

"I tried to tell him, but he wasn't hearing anything but his own stupid voice last night."

"Where is he?"

"He fell asleep in his truck last I saw, but when I looked out before, the truck was gone. No telling what he's up to now. I'll fix you some good breakfast, honey. You rise and stretch those legs, hear?"

"Yes, Mama. Mama?" I said before she left the room. She turned.

"Yes, honey?"

"What about . . ." I held my hands under my ample breasts.

Mama's face turned sad again. "I was going to tell you about that today," she said sadly. "You'll have to just pump it out or you'll develop milk fever."

"But the milk . . ."

"We can't offer it to anyone's baby, and that woman won't let Paul have your milk," she added bitterly. Mama hated waste in any shape or form.

"How long will I have to do this, Mama?"

"From the looks of you, a few weeks at least, honey. I'm sorry."

My tears burned under my eyelids. Every time I did this, I would think of my baby forced to drink the milk of a stranger while his mother's milk was poured into the ground. From the way I ached, I couldn't postpone it much longer either. After breakfast Mama showed me what to do. All the hot tears I had held back streaked down my cheeks.

They seemed to singe my heart as well as my face. I think Mama turned away and left me because she, too, was close to crying.

Afterward, when I lay back and closed my eyes, I thought I could hear my baby's cry. I recalled his tiny face and imagined what it would have been like to have his lips on my nipple drawing the milk from me. Perhaps, if I did this every time, it would make it a little easier, I thought.

Late in the afternoon, Daddy returned. He had a swollen left cheek and a black eye. There was a thin gash along the top of his forehead, and his clothes were wrinkled and marred with mud and grime as if he had been dragged through the swamp. He limped when he entered the house. Mama and I both looked up and gasped.

"What did you do now, Jack," Mama asked after a moment, "to get such a beating?"

"They ganged up on me is what happened," he wailed. "Those thieves down at Bloody Mary's." He fixed his eyes on me. "You shouldn't have left that house so fast, Gabrielle. We coulda made them pay to have you leave."

"What for, Jack? So you can go and throw it away at some bar or over some game of chance?" Mama snapped. "Just like you did every other nickel?"

"It was what was coming to us," he declared, his arms spread.

"Us, Jack? How's it us? She's the one's suffered and she don't get one penny because you've gone and lost or spent it all, right? Or did you put away a little for her?" Mama asked, knowing the answer.

"I . . . I just been trying to build something for this family, is all. But I got cheated, so I went back to get back what's mine and they jumped me." He stared at me a moment. "They give you anything before you left?" he asked.

"No, Daddy," I said.

"And if they had, we wouldn't tell you, Jack Landry," Mama said.

"Ahh. Women never appreciate what a man tries to do for them," he complained, and sank in his worn easy chair. "I got to think up a new plan here. Those Tates can't get off this. easy," he muttered.

"Instead of spending all this time sitting, there trying to think up a new plan to rob people, why don't you go look for honest work, Jack?" Mama said, her hands on her hips. He gazed up, his nearly closed right eye twitching.

"What'cha talking about, robbing people? It's them who's robbed us, robbed our daughter of her pure innocence. Just like you not to see the point."

"I see the point," Mama said. "I been seeing it grow sharper and sharper, too. It's cutting right through here," she said, holding her hand over her heart.

"Ahh, stop your wailing. I need quiet and something to eat. I got to think hard," he said.

Mama shook her head and went back to her roux.

"I said I need something to eat!" Daddy cried. Mama continued to stir her gravy with her back to him as if he weren't in the shack. I rose and put together a plate of food for him.

"Thank you, Gabrielle," he said, taking it and wolfing it down. "At least you care."

"Mama cares, Daddy. She's just tired. We're all tired," I said.

Daddy paused in his chewing, his eyes growing darker. "Damn if I'm going to sit here and watch my women suffer while that rich family enjoys the fruits of my daughter," he declared. "I'm going back, and this time I'm going to demand twice as much."

"Jack, don't you dare," Mama snapped.

"Don't tell me what not to do, woman. Cajun women," he spit. "Stubborn . . ." He put the plate down and rose.

"Jack Landry," Mama called, but he was already heading for the door.

"Just sit tight and let me be the man of the house," he yelled back, and shot through the door.

"Man of the house don't mean blackmailing people forever, Jack Landry," she called after him, but he didn't stop. He got into his truck and pulled away, leaving Mama and me standing by the door. "It's going to come to no good," she predicted, and shook her head. "No good."

Sure enough, late in the afternoon, the police arrived to tell us Daddy was in the lockup.

"He caused a terrible commotion over at the Tate Cannery," the policeman explained. "We're holding him until Mr. Tate decides whether or not to press charges."

Mama thanked the policeman for coming by to tell us.

"What are you going to do, Mama?" I asked after they left. "Are you going to go over to speak to Octavious?"

She shook her head. "I'm tired of bailing your father out of trouble, Gabrielle. Let him sit in the clink for a while. Maybe it will drum some sense in his head."

That evening after Mama and I had a quiet dinner, we sat on the galerie and watched the road, both wondering if Daddy would come driving up. Mama was very troubled, and those worries made her look so much older to me.

"Things have a way of going so sour sometimes," she suddenly muttered. "I guess I'm not doing so well as a traiteur. I can't do much for my own family," she moaned.

"That's not so, Mama. You've done a lot for us. Where would I be without your help and comfort?" I reminded her.

"I should have looked after you better, Gabrielle. I should have warned you about the evil that lurks deep within some people, and I shouldn't have left you alone so much. It's my fault," she said.

"No it isn't, Mama. I was stupid and blind. I shouldn't have been wandering around in my own dreamworld so much."

"It's been hard," she said. "It's like you never had a father. Be so careful about who you fall, in love with, Gabrielle," she warned. "It's so important. That first decision decides the road you'll follow, all the turns and hills, the twists and gullies."

"But, Mama, if you couldn't see the future, how can I expect to do so?"

"You don't have to see the future. Just don't be as trusting anymore and don't let your heart tell your mind to shut up." She rocked and shook her head.

"Will Daddy ever change, Mama?"

"Fraid not, sweetheart. What's rotted in his heart has taken hold of him. Now he's just a man to endure. Looks like you and I will have to tend to ourselves."

"We'll do fine, Mama. We always have."

"Maybe," she said. She smiled. "Of course we will," she said, and patted my hand. We hugged and then talked about other things until we both grew tired and decided to go to sleep.

I had to pump my breasts again and again; I conjured the image of baby Paul as I did so. I fell asleep dreaming of his tiny fingers and his sweet face.

Late in the morning Daddy returned. He was sullen and quiet, so Mama had to drag the story out of him. He did go back to Octavious to demand an additional payment, only this time, Octavious had his men throw Daddy off the grounds. Daddy sat in his truck, beeping his horn and creating a disturbance until Octavious called the police.

This morning the police told him Octavious wasn't making a formal complaint, but Daddy was warned to stay away from the Tate property. If he came within a hundred yards of it, they would lock him up again. He ranted and raved about how the rich controlled the law. He vowed to find a way to get back at them. Mama, refusing to talk to him, nevertheless made him something to eat. Finally he calmed down and talked about taking up Fletcher Tyler's offer to hire him as a guide for hunters in the swamp.

"Nobody could do it better than me. It pays all right and they give you tips," he told Mama. "Well?" he said when she didn't comment. "What'cha so quiet for? It's what you want me to do, honest work, ain't it?"

"I'll believe it when I see you actually doing it," she told him.

That set him on a tirade about how Cajun women don't give their men the support the men need. He raged about it for a while and then went off to trap some muskrats.

The day passed slowly into another hot and muggy night. Fireflies danced over the swamp water and the owls complained to each other. After I went up to my room, I sat by my window and listened to the cicadas. I wondered if Paul was asleep or being nursed. I imagined his little arms swinging, his excitement coming with every new discovery about his own body, and I turned to find a pen and some paper to write the letter I would never send.

Dear Paul,

You will probably grow up never hearing my name. If we do see each other, you will not look at me any differently from the way you look at anyone else. Perhaps, when you are old enough to realize, you might see me looking at you with a soft smile on my face and you, might wonder who I am and why I am gazing at you this way. if you ask your parents about me, they won't tell you anything. We will remain strangers.

But maybe, just maybe, on a night as warm and as lonely as this one is for me, you will feel a strange longing and you will realize something is missing. You may never tell anyone about this feeling, but it will be there and it will come often.

And then, one day, when you're old enough to put the feeling into a thought, you will remember the young girl who looked at you with such love and you will realize there was something more in her eyes.

Maybe you will confront your father or your mother and maybe, just maybe, they will be forced to tell you the truth.

I wonder then if you will hate me for deserting you. I wonder if you will want to know me. I wonder if we will ever have a conversation.

If we did, I would tell you that when you were born, I thought it was glorious and I was filled with such love for you, I feared my heart would burst. I would tell you I spent night after night crying when I thought about you. I would tell you I was sorry.

Of course, you might hate your father and resent your stepmother, so I have to think hard before I tell you these things. It might be that for your sake I never do, because your happiness is far more important to me than my own.

I just want you to know I love you, and even though I didn't want it to happen, you became a part of me and always will be.

Love,

Your mother Gabrielle

I kissed the paper and folded it tightly. Then I stuck it in my top drawer with my most precious momentos. It felt good to write it even though I knew Paul would never read it.

The moon poked its face between two clouds and sent a shaft of yellow light over the swamp. It looked magical for a moment, and I could swear I heard the cry of a baby. It echoed over the water and drifted into the darkness. I curled up in my bed and pretended I had baby Paul in my arms, his tiny face pressed up against my breast, my heartbeat giving him comfort.

And I fell asleep, dreaming of a better tomorrow.