Tarnished Gold

14

Up in Smoke

I woke on the sofa in the living room. Mama had a cold washcloth on my forehead and a glass of water ready for me. I groaned and sat up confused.

"What happened, Mama? Why am I on the sofa?"

"You fainted, honey. You'll be all right. Here, drink this," she said, bringing the glass to my lips. I took a few sips and she told me to follow that with a deep breath. As my senses returned, so did my memory.

"Daddy!" I cried, gazing frantically about the room. "He's not here. I chased him away for frightening you," Mama said.

"Where's he gone?" I asked, a twilight gloom pervading my entire being as I recalled the things he had vowed.

"Off to blow some steam at one of his hangouts, I'm sure," she said with a smirk.

"I've got to warn Pierre about him," I said, standing. I wobbled for a moment and Mama steadied me.

"You can't go anywhere just yet, Gabrielle. Just rest," Mama insisted. She forced me to sit and lie back on the sofa. "I'll mix up something to help give you strength. You're going to need extra nutrition, as you know," she added.

I swallowed hard, nodded, and closed my eyes. Mama went into the kitchen, but she was there only a moment before I heard her shout, "Oh, mon Dieu!"

I rose as quickly as I could and went to her.

"What's wrong, Mama?"

"There's a fire someplace," she announced, nodding toward the window.

Looking south over the tops of the cypress and willows, I saw where the sky was turning from pink to a darker red, and black smoke was billowing. A flock of rice birds was in a frenzy, madly circling. My heart stopped. It looked like the smoke was coming from the direction of the old Daisy shack. The blood that had been restored drained from my face again.

"Pierre!" I gasped, and turned to run out of the house. "Gabrielle! Gabrielle, where are you going?"

I didn't wait to reply. Instead, I nearly tripped over the steps, but caught myself on the railing as I whipped around the corner and down the pathway to the dock.

"Gabrielle! Come back!" Mama shouted behind me.

I broke into a run. As soon as I stepped into my pirogue, I gathered all the-strength I could muster and pushed away from the dock. My chest felt as if I had swallowed a ball of pins, all sticking into my lungs, but I didn't pause even though the pole felt ten times as heavy. My shoulders ached with the strain. I grew dizzy again and feared falling over into the water. I could pass out and drown, I thought, but I took a deep breath and continued, determined. This was a very big fire! I had to see if Pierre was all right.

More of my strength returned as I gazed ahead and saw the sparks floating skyward on the shoulders of the smoke. Minutes later I could see the actual flames licking at the darkness. Their glow illuminated the water. Alligators, frogs, snakes, and even the fish retreated deeper into the swamp. By the time I reached the dock, the entire shack was engulfed, its walls crumbling, the roof collapsed. Despite the distance, I could feel the heat on my face.

"Pierre!" I called, hoping he was safe nearby. "Pierre, are you here? Pierre!" I heard nothing but the cracking of the flames and the shrieking of birds. I remained in my canoe, searching the illuminated areas for signs of him. I called again and again, but to no avail.

Some of our neighbors and those who lived close enough to the Daisy shack to see the fire and smoke arrived to be sure the flames didn't spread. I heard their shouts. I docked my canoe and approached the fire, drawing as close as I could under the waves of heat that undulated from the conflagration. Way off to my right, I saw Jacques Thibodeau, Yvette's father, with two other men. I hurried toward them.

"Monsieur Thibodeau," I called, approaching.

"Hey, what'cha doin' here, Gabrielle? It's dangerous. You get back, hear?"

"Was there anyone in the house?" I asked frantically.

"Not that I know," he replied, and looked at the others, who shook their heads. "Your pere's out there on the road. He'd be plenty upset if he knew you were back here so close to the fire, Gabrielle, no?"

"Daddy's out front?" I asked. My hope that Mama had been right—that he had gone to a zydeco bar to blow off steam—was doused with the cold reality that what I feared the most had occurred.

"Oui. Now get yourself back home."

"Are there any strangers?" I inquired. "Anyone else nearby?"

"None I seen, but Guy here says the shack had been bought by some rich man from New Orleans. He ain't going to be too happy to hear about this, no?"

The three men shook their heads.

"Someone had to start that, for sure," Guy Larchmont said, nodding at the fire. "You seen anyone around here?" he asked me. "Some mischievous kids, maybe?"

I wagged my head, barely listening.

"Better get home before your pere sees you wandering about here," Monsieur Thibodeax warned. "He don't look to be in the best of moods as it is."

"Merci, monsieur," I said, and retreated from the fire, moving slowly back to the dock and my canoe. I watched the galerie cave in and the last piece of wall melt away. All of my precious gifts, my clothing, our wonderful love nest, went up in flames. The smoke carried our secret into the night. I felt as if I were at a funeral, watching Pierre's and my love cremated in sacrifice to some angry god.

I didn't pole home directly. Instead, I sat in the canoe, watching the fire burn itself out. More people arrived and drew closer as the flames weakened. Soon whole families appeared. A fire like this was special excitement in the bayou. The children were permitted to come along and sit in the automobiles or stand near them and watch the activity.

What had happened to Pierre? Surely he was there when Daddy arrived, I thought. He probably thought it was me returning. I felt numb all over, my stomach hollow. For a while I was dizzy again and wished I had listened to Mama. I rested, splashed water on my face, and finally stood up and poled myself back to our dock. Exhausted, I made my way to the shack, my legs trembling, my heart thumping. Mama was beside herself with worry.

"Where did you go, Gabrielle? What's wrong with you charging out of here like that after you fainted?"

"Daddy burned the shack, Mama," I complained. "I know he did. He was there, watching with the other people. Pierre was supposed to be waiting for me. I don't know what happened to him," I wailed.

Mama embraced me. "There, there. I'm sure he's fine," she said. "Most likely he ran off and your father took his anger out on the shack. Come on inside. I want you to lie down and get some rest now, hear?"

I had no strength to resist, although I wanted to be awake and waiting when Daddy returned. He didn't come home until nearly morning, however. I learned from Mama the next morning that after the fire had burned itself out, he and some of his friends had gone to drink and talk about it. And when he came home, he was so drunk and tired, he collapsed in his bed.

He didn't rise until midafternoon. I sat on the galerie, rocking in Mama's chair, waiting to hear what had happened. Finally the screen door opened and Daddy appeared, his face pale, his eyes so bloodshot, I couldn't see the pupils. He scrubbed his hair, yawned and stretched.

"Where's your mama?"

"With Mrs. Sooter, treating her foot corns," I said. He nodded and started to go back inside. "Daddy. What happened last night? What did you do?"

"Do? I didn't do nothin'," he said quickly, turning his face to avoid my gaze.

"I know you did, Daddy. I know you set fire to the shack. Was Pierre there? What happened?" I demanded.

He turned back slowly and stared at me a moment. Then he shook his head with disgust.

"I wanted you to marry Nicolas Paxton, but you were too high and mighty for the likes of him. Instead, you go get yourself pregnant with some rich Creole who don't care a hoot what happens to you, your baby, or us who got to live here in shame," he replied.

"That's not true, Daddy. Pierre cares about me. What did you do? What happened to him?"

"Shoot," he said, shaking his head. "Cares." He spit over the side of the galerie. He paused and gazed in the direction of the Daisy shack. "He was there," he finally admitted.

"He was? What happened? Tell me!"

"I'll tell you. I ain't got nothing to hide. I asked him what he was planning to do to make up for what he had done, and he goes and runs off instead of facing me."

"He ran off?"

"Scurried away faster than a nutria. His shadow had trouble keepin' up with him," Daddy added. "So much for your rich lover man. Now what, huh? A daughter should live and work toward makin' her daddy proud of her. She should find ways to help him, too.

"Ahh," he said, waving at me, "your mother spoiled ya somethin' terrible, Gabrielle, and I been too busy to do much about it. Now look at the mess you're in. I got to sit some and give it all a good think, no?"

He went into the house. I looked toward the road and thought about Pierre. I was happy that at least he had gotten away safely. I was sure he would contact me soon. A wave of relief passed over me and I permitted myself finally to close my eyes. I fell asleep quickly and didn't even wake when Mama returned and went into the house. Her and Daddy's shouting was what finally woke me. It was painful to listen to them. He was blaming her for what I had done and for what had happened.

"I'm the one who's no damn good. I'm the one who is a no-account, lazy so-and-so, and I don't provide; but where's her moral learning, huh? She goes and does this right under your nose, Catherine. You go and face your saints now, hear? You go and wave your wand and make this all go away.

"I won't be looked down on anymore," he emphasized. "You and your daughter ain't nothin' special. Just remember that and remember to stop cursing the Landrys, hear?"

Mama had no strength to reply. I heard her go into the kitchen and start dinner while Daddy continued to rant and rave to himself in the living room. When he came out, I pretended to be asleep and kept my eyes closed. I felt him standing there, staring at me, and then I heard him charge down the steps and go off in his truck, mumbling to himself.

I never felt so sick inside, so depressed and disgusted with myself. Poor Mama, I thought. She had to take the brunt of Daddy's rage. I went inside to apologize and found her sitting at the table, her palms pressed against her forehead.

"It's all my fault, Mama. I'm sorry," I said. For a moment she didn't move. Then she raised her head slowly, as if it weighed as much as a barrel of rainwater. She looked so tired and worn and she looked like she had been crying, too. It made my heart ache and tears burn the insides of my lids.

"What's done is done," she said. "Don't let your father's ranting bother you. He just looks for excuses to be the no-account man he is. He'll use this to justify getting drunk and wasting time and money, is all." She rose. "Let's eat."

"I'm not very hungry, Mama."

"Me neither, but we better put something good inside to help fight the bad outside," she declared, and gave me a tiny smile.

I went to her and we embraced. She stroked my hair and kissed my forehead.

"Pierre will be back to help, Mama. I know he will," I said to reassure myself as well as her.

"Oui,” she said with a tired voice. "But until then, we better learn to help ourselves, no?"

Mama and I ate and then had some coffee on the galerie.

It was one of those nights when the air is so still, you think the world had stopped spinning. Nothing moved either, not a bird, not a rabbit, nothing. The stillness had a way of creeping inside you, too, making you feel hollow and full of echoes. Mama was just as quiet for most of the time, and then she suddenly put down her cup and turned to me.

"I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you the truth, Gabrielle," she declared. "Goodness knows, I kept it locked up too long."

"The truth? The truth about what, Mama?"

"About me and your daddy. About you," she added.

Her bleak eyes told me it was a dark surprise. I held my breath and waited for her to continue. She had to swallow a few times before she did so.

"I often told you how handsome he was. He still can be when he cleans himself up and cares enough. Well," she said, "he courted me on and off for some time. He was unreliable then, too, but I didn't pay enough attention to that. My mother didn't want me to marry him, of course. She knew the Landrys, and warned me time after time, but . . . as I told you before, I let the woman in me have first say.

"The fact is," Mama said, turning to me again, "I got pregnant before I got married."

"You did?"

"Oui. We lied about our marriage date, pretended we got married by a judge months before we actually did. We had a church wedding just to satisfy the family. I didn't think your father was going to marry me when he found out I was pregnant, and I wasn't sure I was going to marry him, even then; but he surprised me by being happy about it and told me if I didn't marry him, he'd tell everyone in the world you were his child anyway.

"My mother was brokenhearted about it. She barely said a word after the actual wedding, but being married seemed to settle Jack Landry down for a while. He was productive and responsible, and then he just fell back into his old ways.

"But whenever I stop and have regrets, I think how lucky I am to have you, honey," she added, her face beaming.

"Oh, Mama," I wailed, "I just keep adding to your burden."

"Now, now . . . what I'm trying to tell you is I don't want you to apologize and feel bad about me. It says in the Bible that he without sin cast the first stone. I'm no one to cast stones, and your daddy, he couldn't cast a pebble at an ax murderer. Understand, honey?"

"Oui, Mama," I said.

"I mean it," she said firmly.

I smiled. Mama's confession gave me the strength to offer my own.

"Mama, I wanted Pierre's baby and I still do. Very much. I know it's wrong, especially because Pierre is married, but you know how terrible I feel about losing Paul."

"Yes," she said with a deep sigh. It amazed me how she could bear so much weight on those small shoulders. "We'll make do, somehow. We always manage. Great strength comes from great burdens, I suppose.

"But," she added, turning back to me with a very serious expression on her face, "we have to live here, and some of these people can be pretty mean and vicious when they want to, you know. I think it might be best to come up with some explanation down the road. I don't like lying to anyone, even to your father; but it may be necessary to stretch the truth a bit. We have so many other sins to be forgiven for, a little white lie don't seem like much to add, no?" she said with a smile.

"No, Mama. But I'm sure Pierre will help us," I added confidently.

Mama smiled. "We'll see," she said. She sat back, sighed deeply again, and then stood up. "I think I'll turn in. It seems like it's been a very long day."

"I'll be right behind you in a moment, Mama," I told her.

"Don't stay up late," she advised, and went inside.

I sat on the galerie and stared into the darkness of the road that ran by our shack and off to the main highway that would take anyone to New Orleans.

"He'll be back," I told the shadows that hovered around me. "And soon, too.

"And everything . . . will be all right."

Days passed into weeks and I heard nothing from Pierre. Every morning I would wake expecting something, a package, a letter, a messenger, and at night I would sit on the galerie after dinner and stare at the road in anticipation of something; but there was nothing but silence and darkness.

I knew Mama felt bad for me. If I looked her way and caught her gazing with pity, she would shift her eyes quickly and pretend to be interested in something else.

Daddy came and went, sometimes staying away for days. When he did come home, the first thing he would do was come to me to ask if Pierre had been back.

"He come around here, Gabrielle? You tell, hear?"

"No, Daddy," I replied. He nodded, satisfied I wouldn't lie to him. I often caught him staring at me, though. He always looked like he was in deep thought. It made me nervous, but I didn't say anything about it to Mama or to him.

Weeks after the fire, I finally gathered the strength to return to the ruins of Pierre's and my love nest. It had been reduced to rubble, a pile of charred wood and metal. Wandering through the ashes, I saw the small remnants of one of my dresses and sifted through the soot to find some pearls. I gathered them quickly and cleaned them off. Then I put them in my pocket and brought them home to keep them close to me.

Even my nights alone, shut up in the Tates' attic room, weren't as lonely and as melancholy for me as the nights after the fire were. When I finally did go up to sleep, I would sit by the window and look out toward the canal, toward the places where I had seen Pierre waiting for me in the moonlight. I would hope and pray so much that my eyes would play tricks on me and I could swear he was there. Once, I even went out to see, and of course, found no one.

When I did fall asleep, I tossed and turned a great deal, fretting in and out of nightmares. In one I saw myself drowning and calling for Pierre to help. He was just standing in the pirogue, watching, and when he finally decided to pole in my direction to help me, someone called him back. I couldn't see who it was. I woke as my head sunk into the dark, tea-colored water of the canal. My heart was pounding, my face and neck were damp with sweat. After nightmares, I didn't fall back asleep until it was almost morning light, and when I heard Mama moving about, getting ready for the day, I groaned and got myself up to help.

"I want you to rest more, Gabrielle," she told me, and studied me a moment. "You look like you're swellin' up faster this time." She pinched my arm gently and watched the color in my skin, nodding to herself. "Every time a woman gives birth, it's different. Makes sense it should be, the baby's different. You mind and take care, hear?"

I promised I would. These days I wasn't filled with too much energy and enthusiasm anyway. Even my walks were shorter, and I stopped my canoe trips through the canals. Occasionally I went along with Mama to town, but even that held no interest for me and I stopped. I spent hours at the loom or sitting on the galerie weaving palmetto baskets and hats. The mechanical work seemed to fit my empty thoughts. My- fingers moved as if they had minds of their own, and I was always surprised to discover I had finished something.

Had Daddy really driven Pierre away forever? I wondered when my mind did work. What would become of our special love? Would it wilt and crumble like leaves?

The rumble of thunder and rugs of dark clouds that were laid over the sky fit my mood. When the rains came, they seemed to wash away my memories as well as plants and flowers. Hurricane winds tore off branches and blew over tables and chairs. The shack strained and groaned. I hovered under my blankets waiting for it to end, pressing my face to the pillow, wondering how so much gloom could have come so quickly to my world of light and hope.

And then one night after a particularly bad storm, after Mama and I had to clean up our galerie and the front of the shack, Daddy came barreling in with his truck, slamming the door and whistling as if he had won the biggest bourre pot of his life. Exhausted, Mama and I were sitting at the plank table in the kitchen, neither of us with much of an appetite. She looked up at him with disgust.

"Now you come home, Jack," Mama began. "After the storm, after we done all the work, man's work?"

"This house can blow itself down to hell, for all I care," he said. "It don't matter no more."

"Is that right?" Mama began, her eyes blazing despite the film of fatigue that had settled over them. "My house don't matter no more, you say?"

"Now, just hold on, Catherine," he said, raising his hands. "Sit yourself back in that chair, hear, and behave yourself. Otherwise," he said with a wide, silly grin, "I might just not tell you what I done and what's going to be."

"I'm probably better off not hearing it if it's something you've done," Mama mumbled.

"That so? See?" he said to me. "See how she's always smart-talking me all the time, putting me down, making me look bad to my friends and neighbors?"

Mama started to laugh. "Me? No one has to work at making you look bad, Jack. You do that the best."

Daddy's smile faded. He stared at her for a moment and then he took on the most self-satisfied leer I had seen on his face. He dug into his pants pocket and came up with a fistful of money, and planted it on the center of the table. As the bills unfolded, we saw they were fifties and hundreds. It was the first time I had ever seen a hundred-dollar bill.

"What's that?" Mama asked suspiciously.

"What's it look like, woman? That there's good old U.S. currency, and that pile there is for you to do with what you please, hear?"

Mama glanced at me before looking up at Daddy again. "And where's it come from, a bourre pot filled with money folks can't afford to lose?"

"Nope. It comes from here," Daddy said, poking his right temple with his right forefinger. "It comes from being smart."

"Is that so? Well, this I gotta hear," Mama said, and sat back, her arms folded under her bosom.

Daddy went over to the cupboard, found himself some cider, and poured himself a glass first. We watched him gulp it down, his Adam's apple bobbing. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and glared at me.

"She may know the swamp and the animals better than most around these parts," he said, nodding at me, "but she don't know nothin' when it comes to men."

"Never mind Gabrielle, Jack. We're talking about you now and what you done to get this money."

"Right. I think to myself, Jack Landry, why is it you've been the one left holding the hot potato here, huh? Why is it you got to be the one to figure out what else to do to feed another mouth, make a home, bear the brunt of insults, huh? Why is it those rich people can come in here and use us the way they want, use us like a. . a towel and then throw us away, huh? Well, they can't, is what I say!" he exclaimed, pounding the sink top with his fist.

"Most men in these here parts don't know their right from their left when it comes to going someplace other than the bayou. Once you take them out of the swamp, they're confused, stupid fools. But I ain't no swamp rat, hear? I'm Jack Landry. My great-grandpère worked the riverboats, and my mère's great-grandpère was one of the best gamblers this side of the Mississippi," he boasted. "It's true, he was hanged, but that was a mistake."

"All right, Jack. I know how wonderful your ancestors were. Get on with it," Mama demanded.

"Yeah. You know. You know everything, don'tcha, Catherine Landry? Anyways, I upped and took myself to New Orleans."

"What?" I said with a gasp.

"That's right," he said, his eyes blazing.

"What were you doing in New Orleans, Jack?" Mama asked.

"I found out where those Dumas men live and I paid 'em a little visit. Turns out the old man is not really unhappy with what I come to tell him either," Daddy said, nodding.

Mama stared, astounded. She looked at me and then she leaned forward.

"What did you tell him, Jack?"

"I told him about Gabrielle here and the condition his son put her into," he said, standing proud. "That's what I told him, and I didn't spare no words, neither. I told him about the shack and the way he done seduced my little girl."

"He did not!" I cried.

"Hush a moment," Mama said, her eyes brighter, her face flushed. "Go on, Jack. What else did you tell him?"

"I told him I was about to bring Gabrielle into New Orleans and take her to the newspaper people if I had to," he said, nodding and smiling. "I would let the whole city know what his fine, upstanding, well-to-do businessman son done to a poor, innocent girl in the bayou."

"Where was Pierre?" I asked, my heart pounding.

"Hiding himself someplace, I bet," Daddy said. "He didn't show his face the whole time I was there. They got a palace, not a house, Catherine. You can't even imagine the rich things in the house and the size of the rooms, and there's a tennis court and a swimming pool and—"

"I don't care about any of that, Jack. Just tell us what you told Monsieur Dumas."

"Well, I expected to get the money I needed to look after Gabrielle here. You ain't gonna find yourself a good husband now, Gabrielle," he said, turning to me and shaking his head. "A woman with a child and no marriage ain't got a chance and certainly ain't got the pickin's. Why, I couldn't even get you Nicolas Paxton now, and it's your own doin'."

"Never mind all that, Jack. You haven't told us anything we don't know."

"Right." He straightened up. "Well, Monsieur Dumas, he says his son already told him about what he had done. He knew the details, and what's more, he said his son's wife knew the details, so I couldn't threaten him none."

"His wife?" I gasped.

"That's right. That's what he says, and full of arrogance, too. I was about to protest and start ragin' at him when he puts up his hand, looks away for a moment, and then says he's willing . . . no, he wants to buy the child."

"No!" I cried.

"Not again, Jack?" Mama said. "You didn't go and make a bargain with the devil again?"

"This is different, Catherine," Daddy protested. "We got no way to hide Gabrielle's condition. We can't keep the community from knowing she's a fallen woman. I got to look after the future. These people are so rich, they make the Tates look like paupers. You see that pile of money there?" he said, pointing to the table. "Well, that's just payment for me to think on it. I'm going to get us enough to take care of us forever. We don't have to worry about Gabrielle finding herself a good man, see? And you don't have to go running off at everyone's beck and call to tend to their insect bites and coughs."

Mama was silent a moment. The tears were streaming down my cheeks. Where was Pierre? How could he have permitted his father to make such an offer? Mama rose to her full height, which wasn't much, but with her eyes wide, she looked taller, and Daddy stepped back, shaking his head.

"You gotta admit I done good, Catherine. You gotta admit that."

"You done good? You done good? How, Jack? By running off to sell your daughter's child? You think children are just like a bag of oysters? It's part of her, which makes the child part of us, too. It's our flesh and blood."

"And it's our burden," Daddy said, his determination firmer than I had ever seen. He didn't flinch or retreat from Mama's anger as he usually did. "I know I done right." His courage mounted, his chest pumped. "I'm the man here, see? I make the decisions. You might be the best traiteur in these parts, Catherine, but you're still my wife and that's still my daughter, and what I decide is . . . is what will be when it comes to this family, hear?"

"Go to hell, Jack Landry," Mama said. Daddy's face turned so red, I thought the top of his head would explode. He looked at me. I was holding my breath, my eyes so wide, they hurt. It only added to his embarrassment. "Take your bargain back to the devil," Mama hissed.

Daddy didn't retreat.

Mama started toward him, and suddenly he swung his open right palm and caught her on the side of the face. The blow sent her flying against the table. I screamed. Daddy stood there, surprised at what he had done himself. He started to stutter and stammer an apology as Mama shook the dizziness out of her head and stood up to him again. This time she pointed her finger at the door. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper, her voice cold and throaty.

"Get out of my house," she said. "And never set foot in here again or I'll put the blackest curse on your head. I swear by my ancestors."

Daddy's mouth opened and closed. I felt so faint I thought I would collapse on the table myself. He looked at me a moment and then at Mama, but his eyes shifted from hers quickly. It was as if he were looking right into the heart of a blazing fire. He raised his hand as if to block a blow she might throw at him and retreated.

"You'll be sorry you talked to me like that, Catherine. I might just not return," he threatened.

"I'm telling you not to return, ever," she retorted. "Everything that's yours will be on that galerie in less than an hour. You come by and take it away, and with it, your dirty, filthy soul. Get out! Get out!" she shouted.

Daddy turned and pounded over the floorboards. He slammed the door behind him and marched over the galerie. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and then . . . a deadly, deep silence until I heard his truck engine start.

"I won’t come back until you apologize!" he cried, and then the truck spun away.

Mama pivoted and rushed toward the stairway to go upstairs and do what she said she would: gather Daddy's things and put them on the galerie. I heard her rip through the dresser drawers and pull out the clothing from the closet. She heaved it down the stairs and then followed, pounding the stairs with such anger, I was afraid to get in the way. I spoke to her, but she acted as if I weren't even there. It took her only ten minutes to gather everything that belonged to Daddy. She cast it all out the door, just as she had vowed. It was the worst fight ever between them.

And all I could think was I was the cause of it all.

Daddy didn't return for his things that night. I kept waking up, thinking I heard him, but when I listened hard, there was only silence, no footsteps, nothing. Mama had gone to sleep early. She seemed to age years in minutes, and right before my eyes, too. I remained awake as long as I could, sitting by the front door, and then I went up to bed.

Mama was up earlier than ever the next morning. I suspected she had gone downstairs before the sun had risen. I had woken so many times during the night, my eyelids felt like they were made of slate. It took gobs of cool rainwater to snap them open. When I walked past Daddy's things scattered over the galerie, I felt my heart sink like lead in my chest. Mama wouldn't talk about it. She rattled on about the things she had to do all day and described some of the chores she wanted me to complete.

She moved in and out of the shack all day that day without as much as glancing at Daddy's things. I saw some of his socks had been cast over the railing, but I was afraid to touch anything. We had a few customers and Monsieur Tourdan brought his mother to get Mama to treat her warts. When anyone asked her about the clothing on the galerie, she looked at it as if she saw it for the first time herself and said, "That's Jack Landry's business, not mine."

The way she spoke about Daddy, it was as if he were some stranger, someone she barely knew. She avoided saying "husband." In her mind her husband was dead and gone, and this man, Jack Landry, a boarder, had to get his stuff away from here. No one said anything or asked anything. Everyone just nodded, understanding. Most people had often wondered how Mama had put up with Daddy all these years anyway, ascribing it to her healing powers.

It wasn't until dinner that I finally brought the topic up. "I just hate myself for causing all this, Mama," I told her.

She laughed. "You? Believe me, honey, the forces that caused Jack Landry to be the man he is come from the Garden of Eden. Don't you blame yourself for your father, Gabrielle."

"Maybe Daddy was right," I said mournfully. "Maybe I'm wrong wanting to keep my baby. Maybe it is like hoisting a flag of sin in front of our house."

"If there is such a flag, your père wrapped himself in it years ago."

I looked away and thought before turning back to her. "I don't understand why Pierre hasn't returned to see me, Mama." My chin quivered.

"He got himself into a pot of gumbo, too, honey. I'm sure about now he'd like to be able to make it all disappear."

I shook my head, my hot tears streaking my cheeks. "But he loves me; he really does."

"Maybe so, but it's something he can't do. I'm sorry, Gabrielle, but it looks like he's come to that realization. Don't expect him anymore. You're only adding to the pain you got, honey," she advised wisely. "Take a deep breath and turn the corner."

I nodded. It looked to me like she was right, just as she usually was.

Another day passed and Daddy didn't return for his things. But sometime during the night, he did. I heard his truck and I heard the truck door slam. I waited, expecting to hear the sound of the screen door, but all I heard were his footsteps on the galerie. After a few moments, he shouted.

"You'll all be sorry! Hear! I ain't coming begging to live in my own home, no! You'll beg me to come back. You'll see!"

His voice reverberated. It sent shivers through me. Mama didn't get up or say anything. I heard the truck door slam shut and then I heard him drive away.

The darkness seemed thicker, the silence deeper. I took a deep breath and waited.

My eyes were still open when the first rays of sunlight peeked through the moss-draped trees, but Daddy was gone. It had a sense of finality to it. Mama sensed it, too. There was a funereal air about our home. More than once that day, both of us gazed at where Daddy's clothes had been, but neither of us mentioned his coming and going. Mama finally picked up one of his socks he had missed. She crushed it in her hand and dropped it in the garbage.

Her eyes were frosted with tears when she looked at me this time.

"Mama?"

She shook her head. "I've really been a widow for a long time, Gabrielle. It's just that now, I'm mourning."

I cried a lot that day. I cried for the daddy I never really had as much as the daddy who had left. I cried over the memories of the good times. I cried thinking about Mama's smile and the sound of her laughter. I cried for the sunshine and the warm breeze, the fiddle music and the steaming hot gumbos we once all shared. I remembered holding Daddy's hand when I was a little girl and looking up at him and thinking he was so big and so strong, nothing in the world could ever hurt me. I trusted his embrace when he carried me over the swamp and I had faith in everything he told me about the water and the animals.

He was a different man then. That which was good in him had its day, and maybe, because I was more like a boy than a little girl sometimes, he saw himself again and it made him feel good to reach back and be younger.

It's the death of a precious childhood faith when you become old enough to understand that the man you call Daddy isn't perfect after all. Then, desperate and afraid, you look elsewhere for your prince, for the magic.

He had come to me, just like in the Cajun fairy tale. One day he was there in the canoe, smiling, handsome, full of promises and hope, turning cloudy days to sunny ones and making every breeze warm and gentle. The world was once again filled with kisses and hugs, and once again I felt safe.

But now that was gone too.

Darkness came thundering over the swamp, rolling, seeping, thick and deep. We were drowning in it. I clawed out a little space for myself and curled up in bed, wondering what sort of a world awaited the child of love inside me. Being born was probably our greatest act of trust, our greatest faith. As we let go of the precious, safe world inside our mothers, we entered this one hopeful.

It's not really the mother who's expecting; it's the child, I thought.

I began to wish I could keep him or her forever inside me. That way there would be no disappointments.

I started to turn the corner, just as Mama had told me to do.

And I trembled.

And I was afraid.

And I had every reason to be.