Tarnished Gold

1

My Own Eden

The sound of the screen door being slammed sharply at my family's shack house ricocheted like a gunshot through the willow trees and cottonwood, quickening my footsteps. I was almost home from school. Part of the way I had walked with Evelyn Thibodeau and Yvette Livaudis, the only two girls in my class who cared to talk to me at all. Most of the time we had all been speaking at once. Our excitement boiled over like an unwatched pot of milk. It was our last year. Graduation loomed around the corner with all its promises and terrors hanging like so much Spanish moss.

Evelyn was going to marry Claude LeJeune, who had his own shrimp boat, and Yvette was going to Shreveport to live with her aunt and uncle on their sugar plantation. Everyone understood she would eventually marry the foreman, Philippe Jourdain, with whom she had carried on a letter correspondence all year. They had really seen each other only twice and he was nearly fifteen years older, but Yvette was quite convinced that this should be her destiny. Philippe was a Cajun, and Yvette, like most of us, would marry no one else. We were descendants of the French Arcadians who had migrated to Louisiana and we cherished our heritage.

It was 1944. The Second World War still raged and young, eligible Cajun men were still scarce, even though most farmers and fishermen had exemptions. Evelyn and Yvette were always chiding me for not paying attention to Nicolas Paxton, who was going to inherit his father's department store someday. He was overweight and had flat feet, so he would never be drafted.

"He's always been very fond of you," Yvette said, "and he's sure to ask you to marry him if you gave him the time of day. You won't be poor, that's for sure, n'est-ce pas?" she said with a wink.

"I don't know which I would hate most," I replied. "Waking up in the morning and seeing Nicolas beside me or being shut up in that department store all day saying, 'Can I help you, monsieur? Can I help you, madame?"'

"Well, you've turned away every other possible beau. What are you going to do after graduation, Gabrielle, weave split-oak baskets and palmetto hats with your mother and sell gumbo to tourists forever and ever?" Evelyn asked disdainfully.

"I don't know. Maybe," I said, smiling, which only infuriated my sole two friends more.

It was a very warm late spring day. The sky was nearly cloudless, the blue the color of faded dungarees. Gray squirrels with springs in their little legs leapt from one branch to another, and during the rare moments when we were all quiet, I could hear woodpeckers drumming on the oak and pecan trees. It was too glorious a day to get upset over anything anyone said to me.

"But don't you want to get married and have children and a home of your own?" Yvette demanded as if it were an affront to them that I wasn't engaged or promised.

"Oui. I imagine I do."

"You imagine? You don't know?" Her lips moved to twist into a grotesque mockery. "She imagines."

"I suppose I do," I said, committing myself as much as I could. My friends, as well as all the other students at school who knew me, thought I was born a bit strange because my mother was a spiritual healer. It was true that things that annoyed them didn't bother me. They were always fuming and cursing over something some boy said or some girl did. Truly, most of the time I didn't even notice. I knew they had nicknamed me La Fille au Nature!, the Nature Girl, and many exaggerated stories about me, telling each other that I slept with alligators, rode on the backs of snapping turtles, and never was bitten by mosquitoes. I was rarely bitten, that was true, but it was because of the lotion Mama concocted and not because of some magic.

When I was a little girl, boys tried to frighten me by putting snakes in my desk. The girls around me would scream and back away, while I calmly picked up the snake and set it free outside the building. Even my teachers refused to touch them. Most snakes were curious and gentle, and even the poisonous ones weren't nasty to you if you let them be. To me, that seemed to be the simplest rule to go by: Live and let live. I didn't try to talk Yvette out of marrying a man so much older, for example. If that was what she wanted, I was happy for her. But neither she nor Evelyn could treat me the same way. Because I didn't think like they did and do the things they wanted to do, I was foolish or stubborn, even stupid.

Except for the time Nicolas Paxton invited me to a fais do do at the town dance hall, I had never been invited to a formal party. Other boys had asked me for dates, but I had always said no. I had no interest in being with them, not even any curiosity about it. I looked at them, listened to them, and immediately understood that I would not enjoy being with them. I was always polite in refusing. A few persisted, demanding to know why I turned them down. I told them. "I don't think I would enjoy myself. Thank you."

The truth was a shoe that almost never fit gracefully on a twisted foot. It only made them angrier and soon they were spreading stories about me, the worst being that I made love with animals in the swamp and didn't care to be around men. More than once Daddy got into a fight at one of the zydeco bars because someone passed a remark about me. He usually won the fight, but still came home angry and ranted and raved about the shack, bawling out Mama for putting "highfalutin" ideas in my head about love and romance.

"And you," he would shout, pointing his longer forefinger at me, the nail black with grime, "instead of playing with birds and turtles, you should be flittin' your eyes and turnin' your shoulders at some rich buck. That pretty face and body you've been blessed with is the cheese for the trap!"

The very idea of being flirtatious and conniving with a man made my stomach bubble. Why let someone believe you wanted something you really didn't? It wasn't fair to him and it certainly wasn't fair to myself.

However, even though I never told my two girlfriends or even Mama for that matter, I did think about love and romance; and if believing something magical had to happen between me and a man was "highfalutin," then Daddy was right. I didn't want people to think I was a snob, but if that was the price I had to pay to believe in what I believed, then I would pay it.

Everything in Nature seemed perfect to me. The creatures that mated and raised and protected their offspring together were designed to be together. Something important fit. Surely it had to be the same way for human beings, too, I thought.

"I can't do that, Daddy," I wailed.

"I can't do that, Daddy," he mimicked. Liquor loosened his tongue. Whenever he returned from the zydeco bars, which were nothing more than shacks near the river, he was usually meaner than a trapped raccoon. I had never been in a zydeco bar, but I knew the word meant vegetables, all mixed up. Often I heard the African-Cajun music on the radio, but I knew that more took place in those places than just listening to music.

Of course, I burst into tears when Daddy ridiculed me, and that set Mama on him. The fury would be in her eyes. Daddy would put his arms up as if he expected lightning to come from those dazzling black pupils. It sobered him quickly and he either fled upstairs or out to his fishing shack in the swamp.

My biggest problem was understanding why Mama and Daddy married and had me. They were beautiful people. Daddy, especially when he cleaned up and dressed, was about as striking a man as I had ever seen. His complexion was always caramel because of his time in the sun, and that darkness brought out the splendor of his vibrant emerald eyes. Except for when he was swimming in beer or whiskey, he stood tall and flu in as an oak tree. His shoulders looked strong enough to hold a house, and there were stories about him lifting the back end of an automobile to get it out of a rut.

Mama wasn't tall, but she had presence. Usually she wore her hair pinned up, but when she let it flow freely around her shoulders, she looked like a cherub. Her hair was the color of hay and she had a light complexion. Her eyes weren't unusually big, but when she fixed them angrily on Daddy, they seemed to grow wider and darker like two beacons drawing closer and closer. Daddy couldn't look at her directly when she interrogated him about things he had done with our money. He would put up his hand and plead, "Don't look at me that way, Catherine." It was as if her eyes burned through the armor of his lies and seared his heart. He always confessed and promised to repent. In the end she took mercy on him and let him slip away on his magic carpet of promises for better tomorrows.

As I grew older, Mama and Daddy grew further apart. Their bickering became more frequent and more bitter, their animosity sharp and needling. It hurt to see them so angry at each other. As a child, I recalled them sitting together on the galerie in the evening, Daddy holding her in his arms and Mama humming some Cajun melody. I remember how Mama's eyes clung worshipfully to him.

Our world seemed perfect then. Daddy had built us the house and was doing well with his oyster fishing and frequent small carpentry jobs. He wasn't a guide for rich Creole hunters yet, so we didn't argue about the slaughter of beautiful animals. We always appeared to have more than we needed during those earlier days. People would give us gifts in repayment for the healing Mama performed or the rituals she conducted, too.

I know Daddy believed he was blessed and protected because of Mama's powers. He once told me his luck changed after he married her. But he came to believe that that same spiritual protection would carry over when he indulged in backroom gambling, and that, according to Mama, was the start of his downfall.

What I wondered now was, how could two people who had fallen so deeply in love fall so quickly out of it? I didn't want to ask Mama because I knew it would make her sad, but I couldn't keep the question locked up forever. After a particularly bad time when Daddy came home so drunk he fell off the galerie and cracked his head on a rock, I sat with Mama while she fumed and asked her.

"If you have the power to see through the darkness for others, why couldn't you have seen for yourself, Mama?"

She gazed at me a long moment before she replied.

"There's no young man you've looked at who has made something tingle inside you?"

"No, Mama," I said.

She thought for another long moment and then nodded.

"Maybe that's good." Then she sighed deeply and looked into the darkness of the oak and cypress trees across the way. "Just because I was handed down the gift of spiritual healing and became a traiteur doesn't mean I'm not a woman first," she said. "The first time I set eyes on Jack Landry, I thought I had seen a young god come walking out of the swamp. He looked like someone Nature herself had taken special time to mold.

"It wasn't a tingling that started within me, it was a raging flood of passion so strong, I thought my heart would burst. I sensed that when he set eyes on me he liked what he saw, and that stirred me even more. Something happens when the woman in you takes a front seat, Gabrielle. You stop thinking; you just depend on your feelings to make decisions.

"You remember I told you about the shoemaker who worked so hard for everyone else, he had no shoes for himself?"

"Yes, Mama. I remember."

"Well, that was me. I couldn't see what would happen to me the next hour, much less over the next ten years. Jack Landry was all I wanted to see, and he was . . ." She smiled and sat back. "Very charming in his simple way. He was good at spinning tales and making promises. And he was always showing off for me. I remember the Daisys' shingling party. After the roof was raised, there was a picnic and games. Your father wrestled three men at the same time and whipped them all, just because I was watching. Everyone knew it. They said, 'You put the life in that man, Catherine.' Then he took to saying it, and I came to believe it.

"You're old enough for me to tell you your father was a wonderful lover. We had a few good and wonderful years together before things started to go sour." She sighed deeply again. "Beware of promises, Gabrielle, even the ones you make yourself. Promises are like spiderwebs we weave to trap our own dreams, but dreams have a way of thinning out until you're left with nothing but the web."

I listened, but I didn't understand all of it, for I thought if Mama with all her wisdom could make a mistake in love, what chance did I have?

I had been thinking deeply about this after I left Evelyn and Yvette. Their questions had stirred up the same old questions about myself.

Then I heard the screen door slam a second time, this time followed by Mama's angry screams.

"You don't come back here until you return that money, Jack Landry, hear? That was Gabrielle's dowry money and you know'd it, Jack. I want every penny replaced! Hear? Jack?"

I broke into a trot and came around the bend in time to see Daddy stomping through the tall grass, his hip boots glistening in the afternoon sun, his hair wild and his arms swinging. Mama was standing on the galerie, her arms folded over her bosom, glaring after him. She didn't see me coming and pivoted furiously on her moccasins to charge back into the shack.

Daddy began to pace back and forth on our small dock, raging into the wind, his arms pumping the air as he complained to his invisible audience of sympathizers. I hesitated on the walkway and decided to speak with him first. He stopped his raging when he saw me approaching.

"She send you out here? Did she?" he demanded.

"No, Daddy. I just came home from school and heard the commotion. I haven't spoken to Mama yet. What's wrong now?"

"Aaaa," he said, waving at me and then turning away. He stood there with his hands on his hips, his back to me. His shoulders dipped as if he carried a cypress log on them.

"I heard her shout something about money," I said.

He spun around, his face red, but the corners of his mouth white with anger.

"I had a chance to make us a bundle," he explained. "A good chance. This city fella comes along selling this miracle tonic water, see? It comes from New York City! New York City!" he emphasized with his arms out.

"What's it supposed to do, Daddy?"

"Make you younger, take all the aches and pains out, get rid of the gray in your hair. Women especially can rub some of it into their face and hands and wrinkles disappear. If you got loose teeth, it makes 'em tight again. I seen the woman he was with. She said she was well into her sixties, but she looked no more than twenty-five. So I run back to the shack and I dig out the bundle your mother's kept hidden from me. Thinks I don't know what she's doin' with all the loose change . . . Anyway, I go back and buy up all the tonic the man has. Then I come back and tell your mother all she got to do is tell her customers what this tonic does and they'll buy it at twice the price. Everyone believes what she says, right? We make twice the money, and quickly!"

"What happened?"

"Aaaa." He waved at the shack and then bit down on his lower lip. "She goes and tastes it and says it's nothing but ginger, cinnamon, and a lot of salt. She says it ain't worth the bottle it's in and she couldn't tell anyone to buy it for any purpose. I swear . . ."

"Why didn't you bring home one bottle first and ask her to look at that before you bought all of it, Daddy?"

He glared at me.

"If you ain't birds of a feather. That's what she said, too. Then she starts that ranting and raving. I went back looking for the man, a course, but he and his lady friend are long gone. I was just trying to get us a bundle," he wailed.

"I know you were, Daddy. You wouldn't just give away our money."

"See? How come you understand and she don't?"

"Maybe because you've done things like this many times before, Daddy," I said calmly.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Mary and Joseph. A man can't live with two women nagging him to death. He needs breathing room so he can think and come up with good plans." He looked back at the house. "You got any money?"

"I have two dollars," I said.

"Well, give it to me and I'll try to double it at bourre," he said. That was a card game that was a cross between poker and bridge. Mama said she had fewer hairs on her head than the number of times Daddy had stuffed the pot, which was what the loser did.

"Mama hates when you gamble with our money, Daddy. We have bills to pay and cotton jaune to buy for the weaving and—"

"Just give it over, will ya?"

Daddy always brushed aside problems as if they were lint not worth noticing.

I dug the two dollars out of my pocketbook and handed it to him. He took it and shoved it into his pocket and then stepped into the pirogue.

"Only two more days of school for me, Daddy," I said. "Sunday's graduation. Don't forget."

"How could I forget? Your mother jabbers about it all day." He gazed at the shack again. "Don't know why she's so upset about the dowry money. You ain't got no beau lined up. You keep listening to that woman, you'll end up some spinster weaving hats and blankets to keep alive. Hear?"

I nodded and smiled.

"Aaaa," he said, pushing away from the dock. "What's the sense of talking? No one listens. That woman," he said, glaring at the house. I watched him pole the pirogue through the dusty shadows. Before I turned, I saw him reach into his back pocket and come up with a small bottle of whiskey. He emptied the bottle and then threw it over the water. It hit with a splash and glittered for a moment before it disappeared, just like Daddy as he went around a bend of flowering honeysuckle.

Mama was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, when I entered the house. I put my books down quickly and went to her.

"It'll be all right, Mama. I don't need that money just yet."

She looked up, her face so full of fatigue, she looked years older. I felt like I, too, could get a glimpse of the future, but I didn't like it. It was as if a cold hand had clutched my heart.

"It's gone," she moaned. "Just like everything else that man touches." She smiled and brushed back some loose strands of my hair. "I only want you to have better," she said.

"I'm fine, Mama. Really."

She laughed and shook her head.

"I do believe you think so," she said, and sighed so deeply, I thought she had drawn up the last pail of strength from the deep well of her soul. "Well, any real good man who falls in love with you and wants you for his wife won't care about no dowry money, I suppose. He'll see the dowry's in you, in your goodness and your beauty. It's more than any man deserves."

"I'm not any more beautiful than other girls, Mama."

"Sure you are, Gabrielle. The wonder is you don't notice or parade with arrogance." She looked around, resembling someone who was lost for a moment, someone who forgot who she was and where she was. "I ain't even started the roux for tonight's dinner, that man got me so mad."

"That's all right, Mama. I'll do it," I said. Every woman in the bayou had her own touch when it came to preparing the sauce we used with our fish or fowl. Mama's specialty, the one she taught me, was gumbo made with filé, a powder she said came from the Choctaw Indians, made from ground-up sassafras leaves. It was guaranteed to clear the sinuses.

"You go out to the galerie and sit awhile. Go on," I insisted.

"That man," she said, "stirs the thunder in me."

Finally she gave in and went out to sit on her rocker. With summer on our doorstep, the sun was still quite high in the late afternoon. Sometimes we would have a cool breeze come up from the Gulf and there was enough shade on the galerie this time of day to make it tolerable, but after I set the roux to simmering, I decided I would go for a swim.

"Smells good," Mama said when I came out. "That man don't deserve a good meal tonight and probably won't get one. Where'd he tell you he was going?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. She was worried about what he would do next. I didn't want to tell her he had taken my two dollars and headed for a card table at some zydeco bar where he could easily get into a fight. But instead of lying, I just left out information.

"He went poling downstream, Mama."

"Humf," she said, and rocked harder. "Come home drunk as a skunk, that's what he'll do. Probably fall on his face out here and sleep on the galerie floor all night. Won't be the first time."

"Don't worry, Mama. We'll be fine," I said, and squeezed her hand.

"Just a few days until you graduate," she said. "Imagine that. Something good to celebrate for a change," she added. She leaned over to kiss my cheek and then sat back, finally noticing the towel in my hand.

"What are you going to do, Gabrielle?"

"I'm just going for a dip in the pond, Mama," I said. "Be careful, hear?"

"Yes, Mama."

I bounced down the stairs and went down to the dock where my pirogue was tied. Daddy had built it for me when I was only eight. At eight I was already a good swimmer and soon to become very good at poling through the canals. In the beginning Daddy thought it was amusing. He would brag about his nine-, ten-year-old daughter who could wind her way around the trickiest bends and through the narrowest canals better than most fishermen.

When I was younger, I kept pretty close to home, but as I grew older and stronger, I ventured farther and farther out in the swamps until I knew as much about them as Daddy did, and even found places he hadn't. My favorite was a small pond about a quarter mile east of our house. I found it by venturing through some overgrown cypress. All of a sudden it was there, quiet, peaceful, secluded, with a large rock in the middle upon which I would sun myself.

This time of the day the sun would seep through the thick moss, oak, and cypress leaves and cast a veil of soft sunshine over the tea-colored water, which this afternoon was remarkably clear. I could see small rocks and plants, turtles and bream. The frogs grew louder as the sun dipped behind the tall trees, serenading me with their croaking. Nutrias scurried in and out of their dome houses along the banks of the pond, and as usual a pair of egrets paraded on the big rock, even as I drew closer to it.

The mistress of the pond was a dark blue heron who had made her nest in a gnarled oak tree on the north side. She and I had gotten to know each other well and I had even succeeded in having her land on the rock while I was there. She kept her distance in the beginning, strutting carefully along the edges and watching me every moment. I spoke softly to her, but hardly moved, and in time she grew close enough for me to reach out and touch her if I wanted. I never did because I knew that would spook her. It was just an unwritten agreement between us. She would trust me as long as I didn't violate the trust. It was enough to see her so close and watch her swoop down from her nest, gliding gracefully over what had become our pond.

This afternoon when I poled my way to the pond, I saw her nestled comfortably in her nest. A school of bream were in a feeding frenzy among the cattails and lily pads. There was a gentle but constant breeze threading through the swamp and lifting the bed of moss on the dead cypress trees. The sun was at that point where its rays washed over the big rock. Here all my troubles and worries, my fears and dark thoughts, were chased from my heart. No one shouted, no one cried. There were no threats or complaints, except the complaints of egrets when marsh hawks came too close to their bed of eggs.

I fastened my pirogue to the branch that stuck up near the rock and then I stripped off my dress, unfastened my bra, and stepped out of my panties. Leaving my clothing in a neat pile in the canoe, I took my towel and stepped onto the rock to spread the towel and lie down. Everything in nature was unclothed; it seemed right for me to be so, too. Nudity gave me a sense of freedom and I loved feeling the sun everywhere on my body. I put my hands behind my head and smiled at the rays that kissed my cheeks and caressed my breasts. When I got too warm, I dove into the pond and swam in circles around the rock. Then, dripping, but cool and refreshed, I returned to lie a little longer before returning home to have what I expected would be a dinner attended only by Mama and myself. For now, I didn't want to think about it.

I had almost drifted into sleep when I heard the distinct sound of a splash and opened my eyes. At first I saw nothing, and then he was there, gazing up at me from his pirogue and smiling widely. I recognized him immediately as Monsieur Tate, the owner of the biggest cannery in Houma. He was a man in his late twenties, married without children as yet. Daddy had worked for him on two occasions. He was a handsome man, slim, tall, with chatlin hair, which was what we Cajuns called blond mixed with brown. I had never seen him in anything but a jacket and tie.

Mr. Tate had been fishing and wore only a T-shirt and dungarees right now.

I gasped and pulled the towel out from beneath me to wrap myself in it. My heart throbbed in triple time as I held my breath. A nearly paralyzing numbness gripped me.

"You're about the prettiest creature I've ever seen in this swamp," he said. I felt my face fill with blood and my neck redden. I shrank into a tighter ball, but he simply gazed around. "Didn't think anyone else knew about this pond. I caught the biggest sac-au-lait here,"

"I didn't know anyone knew about this pond either," I said, nearly in tears.

"That's all right. No harm done. Skinny-dipping isn't bad. I haven't done it in a long while, but it sure looks inviting here."

I waited, expecting he would just turn around and pole his way out, but he stood there, smiling.

"Out, oui," he said, "it seems like a very good idea." He pulled his T-shirt over his head and began to unfasten his pants. I stared in disbelief. A few moments later, he was naked and unashamed of what I saw. He laughed and dove into the pond.

"Beautiful!" he cried. "Come on in."

"No, monsieur. I have to go home," I said.

"Oh, nonsense. Come on. I don't bite."

My blue heron, disturbed by Monsieur Tate's presence, swept down over the water and then over the trees and away, an omen I should have given more of my attention.

"No," I said, and began to inch my way toward the edge of the rock and my pirogue. He saw where I was going and what I wanted to do and swam to my canoe before I got to it. He unfastened it and started to swim back toward his own.

"Monsieur!" I cried. "What are you doing?" He laughed and tied my canoe to his.

"Now you have to swim," he said. "Come on. Dive in."

I shook my head. "Bring back my pirogue."

He behaved as if he couldn't hear me, swimming round the canoes and then to the rock. I backed away as he boosted himself up and onto it.

"It feels good to be in Nature, to be au naturel, n'est-ce pas, Gabrielle?"

"Please, monsieur," I said.

"Don't be frightened," he said, and squatted down beside me. Then he lay back on the rock, putting his hands behind his head the way I had had my own. My heart was pounding. Here he was a married man, sprawled naked next to me. "Oh, that feels so good," he said. "How long have you been coming here?"

I was sitting with my knees pulled up, the towel wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Could he not see how embarrassed I was? He behaved as though we were having a quiet conversation at a Sunday school picnic, but my abdomen felt like a hollowed-out cave.

"A long time," I said.

"Very good. I can see why. You found a little piece of paradise. It's a wonderful spot. I love to get away from the noise and bustle of my business, get away to a place like this where you can be with your own thoughts and commune with Nature. That's what you do, isn't it, Gabrielle? Everyone calls you La Fille au Nature. I see why now," he said, smiling. I continued to blush and looked away quickly.

"Please, monsieur."

"What's wrong? A beautiful girl like you must have been with a man before, no?"

"No, monsieur. Not like this."

"Really?" He turned on his side and reached out to touch my thigh. I nearly jumped off the rock. "It's all right. Nothing to be afraid of. It's just as natural as . . . as your fish and birds."

"But you are married, monsieur."

"Married," he said as if it were distasteful even to have the word in his mouth. "I married too quickly and for the wrong reasons," he added.

I glanced at him. Was no one happily wed? Was everyone fooled?

"What reasons?" I asked. He touched me again, tracing along my thigh with his finger as if he had his finger in beach sand.

"Money, wealth, power. Gladys's father owned the cannery."

"You weren't in love?"

He laughed and rolled over on his back.

"Love," he pronounced with his lips tight, as if saying it left a horrid taste on his tongue. "I said it and she said it, but neither of us believed it. We swallowed our lies like castor oil and said 'I do' in front of the priest. Even he had doubts when he pronounced us man and wife. I could see it in his eyes. Mon Dieu. Love. Is there really such a thing?"

"Yes," I said firmly.

"Your mother and father, are they truly in love?" he challenged with laughing eyes.

"They were," I replied. He stared at me for a moment and then he smiled.

"I could fall in love with someone like you in the blink of an eye."

"Monsieur Tate!"

"I'm not that old," he protested. "Yvette Livaudis, a girl in your class, is going to marry a man older than I am, right?" In the bayou everyone knew everyone else's business. I wasn't surprised he knew about Yvette. "You shouldn't think me too old."

"You're not old, monsieur," I granted.

"That's right. I'm not." He looked back at our canoes and then at me. "I'll swim back and get your canoe," he offered. "Thank you, monsieur."

"For a kiss," he added, smiling.

"No, monsieur!" I cringed.

"Why not? It's harmless enough. Just one kiss and you're free again." He sat up and leaned toward me. I turned away until I felt his lips on my shoulder and then my neck. I started to protest when he reached behind my head to pull my lips closer to his. Then he kissed me. I tried to pull away, but he held me firmly. I felt his tongue between my lips and then his hand move up the side of my body until the palm found my breast. I backed away quickly and he laughed.

"There, now wasn't that nice?"

I shook my head, clutching the towel against my bosom.

"To the canoe," he shouted, and dove off the rock. He swam quickly and got into mine. "Have no fear, damsel in distress, I'm coming to rescue you."

He began to pole my canoe toward the rock, behaving as if we were two children pretending. He brought the canoe back to the rock and stood there, holding out his hand.

"Come on. I'll help you in."

"I can get in myself. I've done it hundreds of times." When I spoke, I tried not to look at him standing there stark naked.

"I'm sure you have, mademoiselle, but we're surrounded by alligators."

"We are not," I said.

"You can't see them like I can. Come," he said, beckoning. I thought there was no other way to rid myself of him, so I gave him my hand and kept my eyes down. But when I stepped into the canoe, he embraced me and pressed his body to mine. We tottered as I struggled to be free.

"Whoa," he said. "We're going to fall in."

"Please, let me go," I pleaded. And then we did fall over and into the water. He shouted as we splashed under. When I came up, I no longer had my towel and he was already climbing back into my canoe.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Get out of my canoe."

"First I have to do the gentlemanly thing and help you to safety," he insisted. "Come along now." He reached out and seized my wrist. I climbed up and over the side of the canoe, and he sat back as I got in, this time pulling me over him and throwing his arms around my waist. His mouth was on mine again and then his lips moved quickly over my neck and down to my breasts, trailing his kisses with laughter. I tried to struggle out of his grip, but he was too strong and he turned me over so that I was now beneath him. Then he leaned back and smiled.

"Quite a temptation, you lying out here like this, waiting for a man like me."

"Please, monsieur. I was waiting for no one."

"No boyfriend about to arrive?" he asked with skeptical eyes.

"No, please."

"Come on now, you don't expect me to believe that a daughter of a man like Jack Landry wasn't waiting for some excitement. Why settle for a teenage boy? You have a man at your disposal," he insisted.

Before I could offer more protest, he lowered himself toward me, squeezing himself more firmly between my legs. I felt him nudge me with the hardness that had grown between his legs and then he pushed forward, dropping the weight of his body over my arms, pinning me back as he slipped farther under until . . .

The shock of it stunned me at first, but the more I squirmed, the more he enjoyed what he was doing and the tighter he made his grip on me. I was trapped beneath him, his hot breath over my face. He was mumbling, pleading, pressing deeper and deeper into me, his thrusts faster, harder, until finally I felt him quiver. I uttered a tiny cry and stopped resisting when he filled me with his hot lust and passion. All I could do was close my eyes and wait for it to end.

After it had, we were both silent. I didn't move, but I felt him lifting himself from me. I kept my eyes shut tight, hoping that I could erase what had happened from my mind and my body if I just didn't look.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just . . . couldn't help myself. You're so beautiful and my wife and I . . . we . . . It's been a while. I'm sorry. You're okay. It's nothing. Really. You're fine."

I waited. Then I heard him dive into the water and start to swim back to his own pirogue. I opened my eyes as he pulled himself into his canoe. I sat up and took a deep breath. All the blood had drained from my face. I thought I would faint. He dressed himself as quickly as he could, looking at me periodically until he was finished. Then he seized his pole.

"It's all right. It was nothing," he said, and began to push away. "I'll never come back here. I promise. This will be your special place again. Bonjour," he added as if we had just had afternoon tea. A few moments later, he was gone.

The pirogue rocked in the water. I didn't move. It was deadly quiet. Even the frogs had stopped croaking. Only the insects circled madly over the water, but the bream, frightened by the commotion above, had swum deeper and waited in the cool shadows to be sure it was safe.

I started to cry, but stopped myself. It would do no good and it would only make me look even more horrible when Mama set eyes on me. I was terrified of that. Feeling dirty and violated, I lowered myself off the side of the pirogue and scrubbed my body vigorously. Then I got back into the canoe and dressed quickly, swallowing down my sobs, choking back my tears.

It terrified me to think of what would happen if everyone found out what Mr. Tate had done. The scandal would be worse than a hurricane. Hateful gossips would find a way to blame me, I was sure. Why was I naked in the swamp? Those who had made up fantastic stories about my wild ways with animals in the bayou would see this only as a reinforcement of their terrible lies. And poor Mama, she would bear the brunt of the storm. Daddy would only get drunker and into more fights.

No, I decided, there was nothing to do but try to forget; although right now, I didn't see how that was possible. For one thing, I could never return to my beautiful pond without recalling this nightmare. The surroundings lost their pristine beauty for me. I would be afraid to return. What if he returned when I was alone again?

How horrid and guilty I felt. Maybe this was my fault. Maybe I was wrong to bathe nude. I had a woman's mature body and I would be a liar to claim I never craved to be touched, to tingle and fulfill my own longing for love; but it was a longing I had hoped to satisfy with someone who truly cherished and loved me, too.

I desperately longed to talk to Mama about it, to get her advice and wisdom, but I didn't see how I could do so without her realizing what had happened. Mama would take one deep look into my eyes and know the truth. I had to be strong and not appear to be avoiding her gaze tonight, I thought. I sat there with my eyes closed and held my breath. Then I released it and took long, deep breaths, willing my heart to stop thumping like a drum. I would be calm. I would press this memory down and smother it with other thoughts.

My legs were still trembling when I stood up to begin my poling, but as I gathered speed and momentum, they grew stronger and more sturdy. I pushed myself away from the pond, the leaves of the sprawling cypress closing like a door behind me. I didn't look back. For a while as I continued, I darted my gaze from side to side, afraid Monsieur Tate might be somewhere nearby, waiting to apologize or plead with me to say nothing. The thought of facing him ever again set my heart pounding. What would I do? What would he do?

When I reached our dock and tied up my pirogue, I checked my clothing and tried to see my reflection in the water. Mama would think my appearance was due only to my swim anyway, I assured myself. I looked up at the shack where I knew she was waiting, setting the table, lighting a butane lantern, putting a record on our windup Victrola, trying to forget her own troubles. I had to do everything I could to keep what had just happened to me buried outside the house.

I took a deep breath and started up the pathway. As soon as Mama heard my steps on the galerie, she called.

"Is that you, Gabrielle?"

"Yes, Mama. I'll just go up and change into something else," I said. "I got this dress wet and dirty," I added before she could inquire. I flashed a smile at her in the kitchen and hurried up the stairway to my bedroom.

"How was your swim?" she called.

"Refreshing, Mama. You should come with me someday." I heard her laugh.

"I don't remember when I swam last. Probably that time your father took us all to Lake Pontchartrain, before the war. Can you remember that?"

"Yes, Mama."

I studied myself in the long mirror over the oak armoire in Mama's room. My shoulders were red and there were faint patches of irritation on my neck, too. What was I to do? I put on my yellow and white dress, the one that had the buttons up to my collarbone, and then I wiped my hair vigorously with a towel, brushed it down, and wrapped the towel over my neck like a scarf. I kept my fingers crossed and descended to the kitchen. Mama looked up from the stove.

"This roux is delicious, honey. I boiled some crawfish, too."

"I'm starving," I said. I got us some napkins and some of Mama's lemonade. She brought the pot to the table and ladled out the crawfish and roux. She had thrown in some vegetables and rice. It smelled delicious.

"What'cha doin' with that towel?" she asked with a smile before she sat.

"My hair's still very wet, Mama. I'm too hungry to wait." She laughed and we started to eat.

"Well, like I told you. Your father's not coming home for dinner. I'm locking him out tonight," she declared. "He's nothing but a thief, stealing your dowry money for that stupid scheme. If he spent half the time and energy he spends on schemes doing legitimate work instead, we'd be millionaires, as least as rich as the Tates," she said, and I nearly dropped my spoon.

"What's wrong, Gabrielle?" she asked quickly.

"I swallowed too fast, Mama."

"Well, take your time, honey. You got all the time in the world. Don't rush your life like I did. Think twice and then think twice more before you say yes to anything. No matter how simple or small it seems."

"Yes, Mama."

The music had stopped.

"I'm going to wind it up again," Mama said. "Tonight I just feel like hearing music. Tonight I don't want to hear silence."

I watched her get up and go to the Victrola. I hated being deceitful to her, but she was so down, so depressed and alone, I could never add even a pinch of sadness to her misery. I lowered my eyes to my food. After I ate, I helped clean up and then went upstairs to finish sewing my graduation dress. Mama had cut out the pattern. She went out on the galerie to-weave some split-oak baskets, but she wasn't out there long before Mr. LaFourche came to fetch her in his Ford pickup truck. His wife was having terrible stomach cramps.

"I got to go make a visit," she called up to me. "You be all right?"

"Yes, Mama. I'm fine."

"If that no-account father of yours shows up, don't give him anything to eat," she said.

"I won't, Mama," I said, but she knew I would. After I heard the truck leave, I came out of the loom room and put on my dress. I went to Mama's mirror again and gazed at myself in the light of the butane lamp. The dress fit perfectly. I thought it made me look years older.

But I didn't smile at my image.

I didn't feel my heart burst with joy and excitement.

I began to cry. I sobbed so hard, my stomach ached. And then I ran out of tears and sat silently on my bed, staring through the window at the sliver of moon above the willow trees. I sighed deeply, took off my graduation dress, put on my nightgown, and crawled under my blanket.

When I closed my eyes, Mr. Tate's face with his lustful smile appeared. I moaned and sat up quickly, my heart pounding. How would he sleep tonight? I wondered. Was it easier for him to put the sinful act out of mind than it was for me, or would his conscience come roaring down over him and drive him to his knees to pray for forgiveness?

I was very angry. I wanted to pray to God to refuse him. I wished him centuries of pain and suffering. I hoped that when he had left my pond, he had fallen out of his canoe and been attacked by snakes and alligators. His cries would be music to my ears. I raged for a while like this and then I felt guilty for doing so and shut down my vengeful thoughts.

But Mr. Tate had stolen more than my youth and innocence when he had attacked me, he had invaded and stained my private world. My sadness was deeper because of that. I was afraid of what it meant, for before this, I never felt alone. No matter that I had no real friends; no matter that I wasn't invited to parties and did not go to dances and shows.

But if I lose my world, I thought, if I lose the swamp and the animals, the fish and the birds, the flowers and the trees, if I fear the twilight and cringe when shadows fall, where will I go? What will become of me?

Would the beautiful blue heron return to her nest above the pond?

I was afraid of the morning, afraid of the answers that would come up with the sun.