Tarnished Gold

13

Secret Wife

In the days and weeks that followed, I lived for the sight of Pierre's blue silk cravat fluttering in the breeze. It was as if we had our own country, our own world, and the cravat was our flag, hoisted to announce our love. His arrivals were always unexpected, for he never knew exactly when he would be free to come. Sometimes we met in the afternoon, sometimes at night. He never stayed more than two days.

After a while there was no question that Mama knew, but she said nothing. A few times I caught a glimpse of her crossing herself while she looked at me. She wore that expression she always had when she believed something sad was inevitable or meant to be.

But these days Mama was distracted by and occupied more with Daddy than with me. Having some success and some money had gone to his head. Mama tried to get him to put something in the bank, but he never trusted banks or bankers. Daddy was suspicious and disdainful of anyone who made a living with his brain instead of his hands. To him it was just a more elaborate or sophisticated form of a scam that had its roots in the con games and tricks scoundrels employed to tempt hardworking people into investing their money in phony land deals or companies.

Mama told him if there was anyone who should know about that sort of evil, it was he, since the Landrys had a string of embezzlers, con men, and thieves throughout their family line. Those comments only started new arguments between them. The truth was, Daddy could be as stubborn as Mama, and what he claimed to be true about Cajun women was just as true about Cajun men.

With money in his pocket, a new truck, and the growing respect of other Cajun trappers and fishermen, Daddy became somewhat arrogant. He bought himself new boots and some new clothes, new knives and fishing poles, and paraded about the old haunts, buying some of his worst drinking buddies jugs of "Good Old Nongela" and rye whiskey, and going off with them to drink and gamble. His stash quickly shrunk and he started in again, day after day, demanding Mama share some of the money he had given her to hold for a rainy day.

"It's pouring now," he'd complain. "I need it."

"If it's raining, it's raining because you brought the storm clouds over yourself, Jack Landry. Stay home nights and think about ways to earn new money, not spend the money we have," she told him. She refused to give him a penny no matter how much he pleaded.

One night he came home drunk and started to pull the shack apart looking for hidden dollars. Mama was out treating Mrs. Bordeau for gout, and when she returned, she found me hovering in the shadows out front, frightened. She heard the racket coming from inside.

"What's going on, Gabrielle?"

"Daddy's drunk again, Mama," I wailed. "He came charging into the house, demanding I tell him where you hid money. I told him I didn't know and he started pulling the pots and pans out, throwing them across the kitchen, and nearly hitting me with one. I ran out here to wait. I think he's pulling up floorboards now."

"This is coming to a quick end," she vowed, and charged toward the front door, her tiny body swelling up so that her shoulders rose almost even with her ears. She pulled open the screen door, reached into her basket, and came up with a statue of the Virgin Mary. She held it up in front of herself and walked in, chanting something in French. I heard the racket come to a stop. Mama shrieked something that sounded like voodoo and Daddy came out of the house, his face beet red, his eyes wild. He tripped on the galerie steps and fell. Mama appeared above him and shook a bottle of holy water at him. When the drops hit him, he howled as if he had been scalded. I had never seen anything like it before. He bellowed and crawled away, clawing the air to get to his feet.

"Don't you come back here, Jack Landry, unless you repent and are sober as a church deacon, hear?" she screamed after him. He practically flew down to the dock and into his canoe, poling off into the night as soon as he was able to push off. Mama sat herself on the galerie top step to catch her breath.

"He near wrecked our home," she moaned as I approached. "I swear," she said, her eyes full of tears and frustration, "the devil sent him to me as part of his battle against my good works. He's the curse I wear around my neck, and just because I listened first to the woman in me. You hear, Gabrielle? You see what comes of paying more attention to this than this?" she said, pointing from her heart to her head.

"Oui, Mama," I said softly. I knew what she meant, but never in a thousand years would Pierre be anything like Daddy, I thought. His first concern was always my happiness. Whatever brought sadness to me brought sadness to him. There was a great difference. The woman in me hadn't blinded me to that truth. I looked down so Mama couldn't see my defiant eyes. I heard her sigh deeply,

"Nothing to do but fix up what he broke," she said. "I'll help you, Mama."

I followed her in, shocked myself at the sight of smashed furniture, torn-out cabinets, ripped-up floorboards, and holes in the walls. We worked until we were both exhausted and had to go to sleep.

Nearly a week followed before Daddy returned looking meek and repentant. He had a small hunting party to take out, but he got into an argument with one of them before they began and the whole group marched off and drove away, leaving him cursing and spitting on the dock. It was more money lost, and because of his temper too. Mama bawled him out for that and he left in a huff, claiming his woman never took his side.

"If I had something decent to take, I'd take it!" she shouted after him. He muttered curses and drove away.

Things between them had never been worse. It saddened me deeply. I was very happy to see Pierre's cravat on the dock post the next day and couldn't wait to get myself up to the Daisy shack.

Now that we met more often at our love nest, Pierre brought food often and I would make us a romantic dinner. We had wine and bread he had brought from the fancy bakeries in New Orleans. We would eat by candlelight. We didn't have electricity, of course, but Pierre bought a wind-up phonograph and played records. We held each other closely and danced in the shadows and flickering light, his lips against my forehead, my ear against his chest, listening contentedly to the beating of his heart and knowing that it beat with love for me.

This time when I arrived, Pierre had gifts for me. He had bought me a fancy dress that had a billowing full skirt and he bought me a necklace with matching earrings. He had even bought me matching shoes. I put everything on and felt like I was going to a real ball.

"It's the latest fashion," he said. "A Dior. Daphne keeps up on those things," he added without thinking. I saw him press his lips together like the farmer who realized too late he had let the horse out of the barn.

"Does she have a dress like this too, then?" He stared at me. "Does she?"

"Yes," he admitted, "but despite her expensive hairdressers and makeup, she doesn't look more attractive than you."

"I doubt that," I said, the magic seeping out of my precious, special moment. "I never wore anything but a little lipstick. Mama says most of it is bad for your skin."

"And she's right."

"Why? Does Daphne have bad skin?" I snapped back quickly.

"She will," he said.

"The only perfume I've ever owned is the scents Mama concocts with her herbs and plants."

"And they're ten times better than what Daphne imports from France."

I shook my head, "I may look like a swamp rat, but I'm not that dumb."

"You don't look like a swamp rat. I'd match you against the most elegantly dressed debutante in New Orleans," he declared. "And you shouldn't dismiss your simple life out here. To me it looks like an idyllic world when I think of the turmoil, the phoniness, and the deceit I contend with day after day in the supposedly sophisticated city."

"Some idyllic world," I said, flopping on a chair. "My mother spends all her life helping people fight diseases and pains, bites and poisons, and then comes home to do battle with my drunken father."

"Why so sad, cherie?" Pierre asked, moving quickly to my side so he could take my hand. "This is not like you, especially when you talk about the bayou."

"It's Daddy again," I said, and described what he had done to our home and what had happened between him and Mama. "Money has made him worse, not better."

"I'm sorry. I wish there was a way to take you away and build you a castle someplace where you will always be safe and happy," he told me. He thought a moment. "Maybe I will."

"Don't be a dreamer, too, Pierre," I warned him. Thanks to Daddy, I knew too well what misery false promises could bring.

Pierre smiled. "My little old wise woman." He kissed me. "Come. Let's refuse to be sad. Remember our pledge? When we are here, we shut the rest of the world away and live only for ourselves." He put the music on again and held out his arms. "Come to me, Gabrielle. Let these arms comfort and protect you forever and ever."

I softened. "Am I really as pretty as a rich and elegant New Orleans debutante?"

"They can't touch you. You are fresh and beautiful in ways they couldn't even begin to understand," he said. My heart felt full again. He was right, I thought, we must live up to our pledge and think only of ourselves and our own happiness. I rushed into his arms and we danced, had wine and coffee, and then made love as passionately as ever. It seemed we would never grow accustomed to each other, never stop discovering something new and exciting about each other.

I felt so complete, so full and satisfied, when I went home that night. Mama was already asleep, or at least in bed, and Daddy was nowhere in sight. I moved through the shack as quietly as I could, but the stairs creaked and the floor groaned. When I lay back on my pillow, I thought I heard the sound of Mama weeping. I listened hard and didn't hear it again, but even the thought of such a thing put a sword of ice through me. I felt terribly guilty for being so happy at a time when Mama was so terribly sad.

In the days that followed, Daddy returned to eking out a small living harvesting oysters and Spanish moss, which was used by furniture manufacturers for stuffing chairs and sofas. He trapped muskrats and did some fishing. He seemed angry all the time, and Mama and he said very little to each other. Pierre offered to give me some money for him, but I thought that would only make Mama angrier, and Daddy would only spend it on jugs of whiskey. There was nothing to do but plod on and hope for the best. Mama must have felt the same way. She seemed busier than ever with her traiteur missions.

One afternoon Pierre arrived earlier than usual and had a basket of food. He thought it would be nice to try a picnic. He asked me if I knew any place in the swamp that was interesting, quiet, secluded. Of course, I thought of my special place, my pond, but that was where Octavious Tate had raped me, and I hadn't been able to go there and swim or sun myself since.

"There is one place," I said, "but I don't think I can show it to you."

"Why not?" Pierre asked, and I explained. He listened, his face turning grim and dark.

"It makes it even worse if you permit what he did to destroy what you had," he said after I finished describing what had happened. "It wasn't Nature's fault, was it?"

"No."

"Then what we must do is win back your special place, win back its magic for you."

"I can't go back there, Pierre."

"With me, you can do anything," he said defiantly and firmly. "Take me as close as you can and I will do the rest," he declared.

My heart pounding, fearful and nervous, I did as he asked, bringing us right up to the overgrown cypress before stopping the canoe.

"Well?" Pierre asked, sitting up and gazing around. "Is this it?" He looked very disappointed.

"No." I smiled. "It's through there," I said, pointing to the cypress.

"You can go through there?" He stood up. "Let me have that," he said, taking the pole from my hands excitedly. It was my turn to sit and watch him work. He pressed us forward, the canoe penetrating the branches and leaves, which parted like a door, and then we were there.

The horror of what had happened to me began to rush back through the halls of my memory, charging forward, every image, every sound, as vivid as they would be had it all happened minutes ago. I grimaced, but Pierre didn't notice. He was drinking in the beauty of my pond.

"It is magnificent here," he said, gazing over the clear water. There was my pair of egrets, strutting over the big rock. I looked up at the top of the gnarled oak on the north side. The heron's nest was still there, but I didn't see her.

"Is that where you used to go to sun yourself?" Pierre asked, pointing to the rock.

"Oui, "I said weakly. He pushed forward, tied the pirogue to the branch sticking up from the water, and stepped onto my rock.

"I, Pierre Dumas, do hereby exorcise any evil thoughts, memories, demons, creatures, and the like from this pond," he said, and waved his hands in the air. "There," he said, smiling down at me. "It's ours now."

I had to laugh. He did look handsome and strong standing there, waving his fist at my past horror. He pulled off his shirt and spread it over the rock. Then he sat on it and waited for me. Gradually, gazing about as if I half expected Octavious Tate to reappear, I stood and stepped onto the rock. For a while I just sat beside him gazing over the water, watching the bream feed, the nutrias scurry about the business of their daily lives. And then, as if it was meant to be a sign of renewal, my heron swooped in over the treetops, dipped toward the water to greet us, and then rose gracefully toward her nest.

"Beautiful," Pierre remarked. He turned to me. "Happy now?"

"Yes," I said cautiously. He smiled, kissed me, and then like an eager teenage boy, hurried to get our picnic spread on the rock. We did have one of our most beautiful days together. Although we kissed and stroked each other, laughed and even teased each other, we did not make love at the pond that day. Pierre was smart enough to go slowly. The look in his eyes promised we would next time, but for now, it was enough to conquer the old demons and reclaim my special place in the bayou.

I felt as if I had a glow about me when I returned home late that afternoon. I walked up from the dock, my eyes down, a small smile on my lips. As I drew closer to the house, I heard a strange voice and paused. The conversation was followed by some laughter and then the clink of bottles. Daddy was entertaining one of his friends, I thought, but I knew Mama never permitted him to do that at the house, so with great curiosity, I approached the front galerie. When I turned the corner, I saw Daddy sitting in Mama's rocker, and across from him sat Richard Paxton, Nicolas's father. The two looked my way sharply when I appeared.

"There she is!" Daddy exclaimed. "Lookin' as pretty as ever."

Monsieur Paxton nodded, his round face beaming as his lips twisted up into a smile. His son had his face, the same round eyes, the same rubber-band lips, always a pale red.

"Come on up here and say hello to Monsieur Paxton, honey. You know him. You've been in his store plenty of times. He's got the best and biggest store in Houma."

Monsieur Paxton nodded, his jowls shaking.

"Bonjour, monsieur," I said, and flashed a smile. I started for the door.

"Hold, up now, Gabrielle. Monsieur Paxton has come to see me on behalf of his son. You know him well, too, don'tcha?"

"I know him," I said.

"You two graduated together, and Monsieur Paxton here tells me you're the only girl in these here parts he's taken a fancy to. Ain't that right, monsieur?"

"All he talks about is Gabrielle Landry whenever we discuss marriage."

"Marriage?" I said, backing a few steps away.

"Sure. Why not?" Daddy asked. "Nicolas is going to inherit the store, right, Richard?" Daddy said, reaching across to slap Monsieur Paxton on the shoulder.

He laughed. "Oui, monsieur. He will that."

"See, honey? You can have a nice life, and Monsieur Paxton here says he will start you and Nicolas off with your own home, too. That's a good offer, ain't it?"

"No," I said quickly.

"No?"

Monsieur Paxton's smile evaporated. He looked nervously at Daddy.

"I can't marry Nicolas, Daddy. I don't love him."

"Love him? Hell, girl, you'll learn to love him. Those are the best marriages anyway."

"No, Daddy, please," I said.

"Lookie here," he cried as I moved quickly to the door. "I promised Monsieur Paxton you would—"

"No. Never!" I screamed, and ran inside. I heard Daddy mumble something and then follow. I was terrified. Mama wasn't home.

"How can you say no?" Daddy demanded. "What'cha wanna do, stay here the rest of yer life and play with the animals?"

"I don't want to spend the rest of my life with Nicolas Paxton, Daddy."

"Why not? You listen to me," he said, wagging his long right finger at me, "it's a father's duty to find a suitable husband for his daughter, and I did it. Now, you just march out there and tell Monsieur Paxton you will marry his son, hear?"

"No, Daddy. I won't," I said, shaking my head.

His face turned crimson. "Look how old you are already, and you know why you can't be so choosy," he said. "It's just luck no one else knows, too."

"I won't marry Nicolas, Daddy. I won't."

"Gabrielle . . ." He took a step toward me.

"I'd rather die," I declared.

The screen door opened, but I couldn't see past Daddy. He hovered over me like a hawk.

"You put one finger on that girl, Jack Landry, and I'll curse you to hell," Mama declared.

Papa turned quickly and looked at her. "I was just trying to get her a good husband, woman."

"Tell that man to go home, Jack. And give him back whatever he gave you," she added.

"What? Why, he didn't . . ."

"Don't waste your breath on a new lie," Mama said.

Daddy gazed at her for a moment and then at me. He shook his head. "Two chicks from the same egg," he muttered, and went out.

Mama stood there looking at me.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I can't marry Nicolas Paxton." "Then let's not talk any more about it," she declared, and went to put her things away.

Despite what Daddy had tried to do and how much he complained about my refusal to cooperate, the months that followed were the happiest of my life. Daddy finally stopped trying to get me to change my mind and went on about his business, which, more often than not, resulted in some new problem for Mama to solve.

But Pierre and I saw each other more than ever, and every time he appeared, he appeared bearing gifts. Our little love nest filled up with nice things, expensive things: pictures, throw rugs, more clothes for me, and silk robes and slippers for both of us. We ate there more often, poled to the pond, picnicked, made love in the sunlight and in the moonlight, played our music and danced, once until dawn.

Pierre spoke little about his life in New Orleans, occasionally mentioning something he had done with his business, but rarely talking about his wife or his father. I didn't ask questions, although they were always on the tip of my tongue. I knew that they would only bring sadness and pain to him, and we both guarded our pledge to each other religiously. The rule was, anything that would bring sorrow or unhappiness was forbidden from entering these four walls. This was a home for laughter and for love only. Anything else was to wait outside.

But Nature had taught me early in my life that everything has its season. Our romance grew and bloomed, flourished and ripened, with every passing moment, every kiss, every promise in our breaths. Happiness was a bird at full wing, gliding gracefully toward the warm sun.

I knew that clouds do come, that rain must fall, that shadows must darken, and that even though our love was good and pure and full, it wasn't strong enough to withstand the hard, cold truth that lay dormant at our doorstep, waiting like some patient snake, so still it was hard to distinguish from the surroundings, but ready and eager to strike at the first opportunity.

We weren't always careful when we made love. In the beginning our passion was so strong and overwhelming, we could no more hesitate to protect ourselves than we could hold back a hurricane. Afterward, when I had a chance to sit and think, I admitted to myself that it wasn't just carelessness or a devil-may-care attitude. I wanted Pierre's child. I wanted a part of him in me. I wanted to bond us some way forever and ever. Maybe he wanted the same thing.

Unfortunately, I knew the symptoms of pregnancy all too well. I didn't have to ask Mama what this or that meant. It came upon me one afternoon when I realized I was late, and all the other indications announced themselves with clarity and certainty.

Despite my feelings, I was frightened. I had no idea how I would tell Mama, but I thought I must tell Pierre first. He didn't return for nearly two weeks after I realized my condition, and when I saw the blue cravat, I felt a pang of trepidation along with a feeling of happiness.

Early that night when I poled to the Daisy landing and walked to the shack, my body was trembling. Was this the end of our love affair? Would he run from me once he learned what had happened? I couldn't prolong the answer and stop myself from drowning in that all too familiar pool of despair.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for my arrival. A bottle of wine was opened, more than half of it drunk already. He looked up with a smile.

But before I could blurt out what was happening, he greeted me with his own shocking news.

"Daphne," he said, "has found out about us."

"I didn't think she would even care," he said after having me sit at the table before telling me. He poured me a glass of wine and one for himself. He paced as he continued. "All this time I thought she enjoyed the freedom I was giving her, enjoyed her distractions, her charities and causes, her art galerie openings and dinners. She surrounded herself with so many people and lived for the society pages. Whenever I had to travel for business, she was unconcerned and disinterested. She never complained about our being apart.

"Apparently, her lack of interest in me and my affairs was just a smoke screen for her real intentions and actions."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"She hired a private detective and had me followed and all this traced," he said, indicating our love nest. "Yesterday she came into my office, closed the door behind her, and revealed with glee all she had learned and knew."

"She knows my name?"

"The smallest details," he said, nodding. "She enjoyed rattling them off. Of course, she made threats. She would bring down my family name, destroy the Dumas reputation, but I know she would never do any such thing. She's terrified of putting a spot on her own reputation. The worst thing for Daphne is social embarrassment," he said confidently, but I couldn't keep the terror from jumping into my heart and bringing goose bumps over my arms.

"Maybe she will do something like that this time. You didn't expect her to have you investigated," I pointed out.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's all just a bluff. Right now she's playing the role of an abused wife."

"Oh, Pierre," I cried, and buried my face in my hands.

"It's all right." He laughed at what he thought was my reaction to only his news. "I just wanted you to know what was happening, but I don't intend for any of this to interfere in any way with our happiness. As far as Daphne goes—"

"You don't know the worst of it," I moaned, raising my bloodshot eyes to gaze into his proud, handsome face. "And at this time, too!"

"Worst? What could possibly . . ." He grimaced. "Something with your father again," he said. I shook my head. "Your mother?"

"No, Pierre. With me. I'm pregnant," I blurted. The words clapped like thunder in my own ears.

"Pregnant?"

"And there is no doubt," I added firmly. My tears rolled freely. With Daphne on the warpath, what would happen now?

"Pregnant," he said again, and sat, looking stunned for a moment. Then he smiled, a light springing into his soft green eyes. "How wonderful."

"Wonderful? Are you mad? How can this be wonderful?" I asked, my anxieties twisted into a tight knot.

"You're having my child; how could anything be more wonderful?" he replied. I shook my head in amazement. Sometimes, despite his urban sophistication, his formal education, his years and years in business and society, Pierre seemed more like a foolish little boy to me. Was this the power of love: to hypnotize and turn grown men into children again, children who lived in fantasy worlds?

"But you are married, Pierre. And you've just finished telling me how you were painfully reminded of that fact, n'est-ce pas?"

He stopped smiling. "That won't make any difference. Our child will have everything he or she needs," he vowed. "I'll build you your own house. I'll provide everything: clothes, money, private tutors, nannies. You name it and it's yours," he declared zealously.

"But, Pierre, if Daphne has had you followed and investigated, she will surely learn about all that quickly."

"What of it?" he snapped. "Daphne would never reveal such a thing. She would die of shame. Don't worry," he assured me with a cool, wry smile. "I know my wife."

"Mama will be furious with me," I wailed. How could he not realize the hardships and pain I would endure?

"I'll retire her and your father for life. I'm a wealthy man, Gabrielle. Money will provide the answers to all and any problem. You'll see," he predicted. He thought a moment. "When are you going to tell your mother?"

"Tonight," I said. "I can't keep it a secret any longer."

He nodded. "All right. I was going to leave early in the morning, but I'll wait right here until you return to tell me what she has said and what she wants you to do. If you want, I'll go to see her."

"I'm afraid to tell her," I wailed. "After all her warnings, I let this happen."

"Because you wanted it to happen. I know I did," he confessed.

"You really did?"

"Yes. You don't know what it's been like for me thinking I might never have a child of my own. It's wonderful," he declared again, and jumped up to pour us glasses of wine for a toast. His exuberance overwhelmed me and made me question my own fears and doubts.

"We will have this private, secret life forever and ever," he promised. "Don't look so skeptical," he added, laughing. "It's almost a tradition for us Creoles, you know."

"What is?"

"Being married yet having the woman you really love as well. My father had a mistress and so did my grandfather. But," he said quickly, "you are more than a mistress. You are my true love. Don't worry. We'll take it a step at a time. First, we'll have our child. Then I will quietly build you a new home, a decent home for our child. You will have all the money you need so you will have only to raise our child. Sometimes," he continued, planning our dream life, "you will come to New Orleans and stay at the best hotels. We'll take trips to Europe, and when our child is old enough, we'll put him or her in the finest private school."

I stared at him. Could all this really be?

"Now," he said, kneeling at my feet and taking my hands into his, "how are you feeling? Do you want me to bring a doctor next time?"

"A doctor?" I laughed. "Mama is ten times better than any doctor. Don't forget she's delivered my baby before," I reminded him.

He closed his eyes. "That's not the same thing. This is a baby born out of love, a baby we want."

Although he didn't mean them to be, his words were like tiny arrows piercing my heart. I cried for little Paul and couldn't imagine any child more precious or beautiful than he was. I couldn't imagine loving a baby more.

"But if you feel confident, I feel confident," he said, and began to pace again as he thought aloud. "Of course, I'll try to visit you more often, and if there is the slightest problem or complication, I'll see to it immediately. The important thing is that you feel safe and happy. My father is going to be a bit of a problem, but I will tell him all of it now."

"You will?"

He nodded. "He'll understand," he said. "I don't think it will be all that much of a surprise to him. Well, that's not for you to concern yourself with anyway. Just dote on yourself, my chérie," he said. "Shall we eat?"

"Oui," I said, rising slowly. Already I felt twenty pounds heavier. Invisible burdens rested on my shoulders. Pierre embraced me to kiss me and reassure me. I smiled softly at him and prepared our meal. Afterward Pierre understood why I wasn't in the mood to make love. He held me and repeated his promises and elaborated on his plans. I left somewhat earlier than usual because I wanted to talk to Mama before she went to bed.

"Remember," Pierre said on the dock, "I'll be here if you need me."

"Yes. Good night."

"Good night, my secret wife," he whispered. He remained on the dock watching me glide over the water.

After I tied up the canoe, I walked to the house, and when I turned the corner, I was surprised to find Mama still on the galerie, but asleep in her rocker. Daddy's truck was there, too, but he was nowhere in sight.

For a moment I just stood there staring at her in sweet repose. Mama didn't deserve me, she didn't deserve another burden, another thing to accelerate her aging. Daddy was enough of a weight around anyone's neck. I knew no one who was as caring and loving as Mama, no one who worried about the elderly, the handicapped, the sick and the weak, as much as Mama did. She was truly a saint to her people, and what amazed everyone was how so much compassion and so much wisdom and goodness could be packed into so small a woman.

Her eyelids flickered and then opened once, closed and opened again when she realized she was looking at me. She sat up in the rocker and scrubbed her cheeks with her palms for a moment.

"What time is it?"

"It's not late, Mama."

She took a deep breath and nodded at Daddy's truck.

"He's inside, sleeping on the living room floor. I had to sew up a gash in his head. He got into a fight in town and someone hit him with a crowbar. Least, that's what he tells me. He could have fallen over a railing, dead drunk, too, and smashed himself on something."

She looked at me again. "What is it, Gabrielle? You've got something to say."

"Oui, Mama," I replied in a small voice. Her body tightened as if she were preparing to receive a blow herself. I guessed that's what it would be.

"I've been seeing Pierre for some time now."

"You ain't telling me anything I don't know, child. I might as well have spoken to the wind about that, no?"

I nodded. "I love him, Mama, and he loves me. It's not something we planned or something we can help. It happened and it is," I said, my head down.

"You're still not telling me anything I didn't know before, Gabrielle," she said, rocking.

I swallowed back a throat lump and rallied all the courage I could muster.

"I'm pregnant, Mama."

She stopped rocking, but she didn't say anything. She gazed into the darkness across the road and then began to rock again.

"Pierre knows and he wants to take care of me and the baby. He wants to take care of all of us," I said quickly.

Mama didn't look at me. She kept rocking. "Of course, that's what he would say now. He would say anything."

"No, Mama, he means it. Pierre really does love me. He bought the Daisys' shack just to be near me and—"

"Buying a toothpick-legged shack in the swamp ain't much of an investment for a man like that, Gabrielle. Taking care of a child from the day it's been born . . . that's an investment, not only of money, but of love and affection and concern. It doesn't come in an envelope every week either, hear?"

"I know that, Mama. But I want the baby more than anything. It's a baby that comes from love," I told her. I didn't even feel the tears that were streaming down my cheeks, but I felt them fall from my chin.

Mama sighed. "You're going to be some rich Creole man's mistress, have his child and live on his generosity for the rest of your life, Gabrielle? That's what you want?"

"I want Pierre as much as I can have him, oui, Mama," I told her.

She closed her eyes and put her hand on her heart. "I'm tired," she said. "I think I'll go to bed."

"Mama, please . . ."

"What is it you want me to say, Gabrielle? That I'm happy for you? That I'll help you any way I can? You know I will, but don't ask me to believe in promises like the ones you've been given." She stood and her face grew dark, serious, her eyes small.

"I don't know everything, honey. I don't know why the Legrands' five-year-old boy drowned last year; why Mrs. Kenner, who's only thirty-nine, had a heart attack and died on her rear galerie washing her children's clothes, and leaving Lyle with three young boys to raise; I don't know why hurricanes come and wipe out the fishermen and destroy natural, good things. I don't know why people are killing each other every day on the other side of the ocean.

"The world is full of mysteries and questions, and we struggle to understand our tiny part in it. I don't love anything more than I love you. I want your happiness more than I want anything else, but I can't pretend that what I know to be ugly and hard won't be.

"We'll do what we can and what has to be done. We always do and we always will as long as we have the strength and the breath, but we won't, or at least I won't, pretend to understand why what's happened, happened.

"Maybe," she said, looking into the darkness again, "maybe there's a reason for all this. Maybe it ain't all caprice, but we just don't have the power to understand. I guess we have to live with that faith if we're to live at all, no?"

She started to turn toward the door. My heart ached so, I thought my chest would burst open.

"Mama!"

"Don't apologize for anything, Gabrielle. I don't love you any less than I did a minute ago."

I ran up the steps and threw my arms around her. She held me for a moment and kissed my hair, stroking it gently.

"You're a very special girl, very special," she whispered.

Suddenly the screen door was thrown open behind us and we parted.

Daddy stood there, his hair wild, his eyes so bright they looked filled with fireflies.

"I heard it all," he said. His lips twisted between his overgrown mustache and his beard to form in a cold, hard smile. "So this is why you wouldn't marry Nicolas Paxton, huh?"

I started to shake my head, but he turned to Mama. "Don't you worry, Catherine. Don't you worry 'bout nothin'. I'll fix 'im. I’ll fix 'im good," he threatened, and pulled out his long, serrated fishing knife.

My legs turned into two sticks of freshly made butter. Mama screamed as I sunk to the galerie floor.