Tarnished Gold

3

Hiding from Mama

Summer had begun as timidly as a white-tailed deer the year I graduated high school, but a little more than a week after the ceremony, the heat became more oppressive than I had ever known it to be. Mama said it was the worst she could recall, and Daddy said she had finally gotten her wish: She had brought him hell on earth. Nights were no cooler than the days. At times the air was so heavy with humidity, my hair would become damp and my dress would cling like a second layer of skin to my body.

All of Nature appeared just as depressed. Every animal restricted its travel to bare necessity. The gators dug themselves deeper into the mud; the bream seemed reluctant to come out of the water even to feed on the clouds of bewildered insects. Part of the problem was we didn't have much of a breeze coming up from the Gulf. The air was so still, leaves looked wilted and painted against the sky, and birds looked stuffed and fastened on branches.

What little tourist business there normally was during the summer months dried up. A snake could curl around itself in the shady area of our road and feel safe. We could count on our fingers the vehicles that rumbled by between morning and night. Every day Mama complained about how hard things were getting, but Daddy continued to sweep aside problems as if they were dust on his boots. Mama made some income and bartered food from her traiteur missions, two of which involved bad snakebites, and another three involved insect bites. There were more skin rashes than ever, lots of heat exhaustion, and then finally there was Mrs. Townley, who went into a strange coma that lasted nearly a month.

Even though Daddy had little or no work, when an out-of-town contractor finally came by and offered him and some of the other men work in Baton Rouge, he was reluctant to take it, complaining it meant he would be gone nearly six weeks. Mama told him he was gone nearly that long on and off, drinking and gambling anyway, so what difference did it make? At least now he could send hone some money for us.

Despite the harsh line she took with him, I saw sadness in her eyes when it came time for him to get into his truck and join the others for the journey to Baton Rouge. She made him a thick po'boy sandwich filled with oysters, shrimp, sliced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and her sauce piquant.

"You ain't made me a sandwich like this for a while, Catherine," he told her.

"You ain't gone off to do decent work for a while, Jack Landry," she replied. He shook his head and shifted his guilty eyes away a moment. They were parting on the galerie. I was just inside behind the screen door. I hated it when they argued, and I hoped if I remained inconspicuous, they might be gentle with each other.

"Sure you're going to be all right without me, woman?" he asked her.

"Should be. I've had plenty of practice," she replied. Mama could be hard as stone when she felt the need to be.

"You don't let up on me," he complained. "I'm going off, won't see you for weeks. Cut me some slack, woman. Give me a chance to gulp some air before you push my head back underwater, hear?"

"I hear," she said, a tiny smile on her lips. Her eyes twinkled. His whining amused her. I don't know why he tried to put on false faces. Mama could read the truth through a mile-high pile of dead Spanish moss, but Daddy, especially, was a windowpane.

"Well," he said, sliding his boot over the galerie floor, "well . . ." He looked at me and then he leaned forward and pecked Mama's cheek like a chicken. "You take care. And you, Gabrielle, you spend more time with your mama than with them animals, hear?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Don't worry about me, Jack. Just don't drop the potato this time," she warned him.

"Aaa, what am I standing around here for? I got to go." He hurried off and got into the truck, waving once as he turned out of our yard and onto the road. I stood at Mama's side and waved after him.

"It seems unfair he has to go so far to find work, Mama."

"He don't find it. He was just lucky it came looking for him. If he was an ambitious man, he'd make his work for himself here, like most others do. But whoever whipped up the gumbo called Jack Landry left that ingredient out," she complained. "Let's go see if we can find a cool spot in the house."

The sun looked like a ball of rust behind the thin veil of a cloud. The cloud wasn't moving. I half expected to discover that the clock had stopped as well, the hands too exhausted with the effort to tell time in this heat.

"That's a good idea, Mama," I said. She stared at me at moment, tilting her head slightly to the right the way she often did when she was a little suspicious about something someone said or did.

"It's been nearly two weeks that you graduated and just about that long that summer came down with a wrath over us, yet you haven't gone off to your swimming hole, Gabrielle. How come?"

"I don't know," I said quickly, too quickly. Mama screwed those scrutinizing eyes more tightly on me. "Something scare you out there, something you're not telling me, Gabrielle? One of your loving animals didn't try to feast on you, did it?"

"No, Mama." I tried to laugh, but my face wouldn't crack a smile.

"I know you, Gabrielle. I know when you've laughed and when you've cried. I know when you're so happy inside, your face becomes a second sun and when you're so sad, the clouds are in your eyes. I nursed and diapered you, fed you and cleaned your bottom. Don't keep no secret locked from me, honey. I got the keys and will find it one day anyway."

"I'm fine, Mama. Please," I bel :ed. I hated not being honest. Mama shook her head.

"It'll be only a matter of time," she predicted, but she relented and I was able to get her to talk about other things while we worked on items to sell at our roadside stand.

We had far more than we needed for our tourist booth, but we worked on hats, baskets, and wove blankets to have for sale as soon as summer ended and the tourists started flocking back to the bayou. Days passed, one day indistinguishable from the other, mostly. Every day after a week, Mama looked for the check from Daddy, but none arrived. She mumbled about it under her breath and went on to do other things, but I knew it was eating away at her like termites in a dead tree. She didn't have to say it, but we were dipping deeply into her stash.

And then one-afternoon, just about ten days after Daddy had left, a late-model automobile appeared in our yard and two tall, stout men, one with a thin scar across his chin and the other with what looked like a piece of his right ear missing, came stomping over our galerie to rap hard on the front door. I was in the living room thumbing through a copy of Life magazine Mrs. Dancer had given Mama when Mama went to treat her stomach cramps. Mama was in the kitchen and walked quickly to the door. I got up and followed.

"Yes?" she asked.

"You Landry?"

"Yes, we are," Mama said. Instinctively she stepped back and pushed me back too. "What do you want?"

"We want to see your husband, Jack. He been here?"

"No. Jack's in Baton Rouge, working on construction."

"He ain't been here?" the man with the chipped ear demanded.

"I said no," Mama replied. "I'm not in the habit of telling lies."

They both laughed in a way that chilled my blood.

"Married to Jack Landry and you don't tell lies?" the man with the scar said. His thin lips curled into a smile of mockery.

"That's right," Mama snapped. The back of her neck stiffened and she moved forward, all retreat out of her eyes. She fixed them on both men. "Now, what is it you want with my husband?"

"We want him to pay his debts," the other man said. "What debts?"

"Gambling debts. Tell him Spike and Longstreet been here and will be back. Make sure he gets the message. Here's our calling card," he added, and took out a switchblade knife to cut a seam in our screen door. I felt the blood drain from my face. I screamed and Mama gasped, putting her arm around me quickly. The way they stood there glaring in at us made ice water drip down my spine.

"Get off my galerie! Get off my land, hear! I'll call the police. Go on."

They laughed and took their time leaving. We watched them get into their car and drive away, both our hearts pounding.

"Now what trouble has that man brought on our heads?" Mama wailed.

"Maybe we should go to town and tell the police, Mama."

"They won't care. They know your father's reputation. I'll fetch a needle and thread and sew up that screen," she said, "before we get a flock of mosquitoes in here."

We both tried to not talk about the two 'men, but every time we heard a car engine, we looked up fearfully, expectantly, and then sighed and released our held breaths when the car went on past our shack. It was hard enough to fall asleep with the heat and humidity, but now with fear loitering at our door, too, we both tossed and turned and opened our eyes and listened hard whenever we heard any unusual sounds at night, and especially whenever we heard automobiles.

The two ugly men didn't return, but four days later, while Mama and I were having a salad for lunch, we heard a horn and looked out to see Daddy's truck bouncing over the front yard. He nearly drove it into the house. He took a swig of a jug he had beside him on the front seat and then heaved the jug out the window. He practically fell out of the truck getting out. He stumbled and made his way to the galerie where we stood, both wide-eyed.

"What' cha both standin' there lookin' like ya seen a ghost?" he demanded, stopping short so quickly, he nearly toppled over. It's only me, Jack Landry, home. Ain'tcha glad to death?" he said, and laughed.

"What are you doing back here, Jack, and tanked up with rotgut whiskey, too?" Mama asked, her hands on her hips.

"Work ended faster than I expected," he replied, unable to stop his swaying. He closed his eyes, a silly smile on his lips.

"In other words, you got canned again, right?" Mama asked, wagging her head with anger.

"Let's just say me and the foreman had a disagreement to a point beyond compromise."

"You came to work drunk as a skunk," Mama concluded. "That," Daddy said, waving his long finger in the air like the conductor -of an orchestra, "is a dirty, low-down lie."

"I bet you ain't got a penny in your pocket, neither,"

Mama continued.

"Well . . ."

"And you never sent home a dollar, Jack."

"You didn't get nothin' in the mail?" he said, his eyes wide.

Mama shook her head. "When you get to hell, the devil's gonna learn a trick or two."

"Catherine, I swear on a stack of—"

"Don't say it. It's blasphemy," she warned. He gulped and nodded.

"Well, I did put some money in an envelope. Them postal workers stole it, for sure. They open the envelopes with a candle, Gabrielle, and then they reseal them with the wax," he said.

"Oh, Daddy," I said, shaking my head.

"Don't you two look like a pair of owls." He started to laugh, but Mama stepped to the side and pointed to the screen door where she had sewn up the slash.

"See that, Jack? Your friends came a-calling and cut up our screen door when they didn't find you here." "Friends?"

"Mr. Spike and Mr. Longstreet."

"Here?" His face turned paper white and he spun around as if they were waiting for him behind a tree. "What'dja tell them?"

"That you were working in Baton Rouge. Of course, I didn't know I was telling a lie."

"When were they here?"

"A few days ago, Jack. What do you owe them?" "Just a little money. I'll straighten it out," he said. "How much is a little, Jack?" she pursued.

"I got no time to talk to you, woman," he said. "I gotta go upstairs and rest from the journey."

He climbed the stairs, pulling himself up and nearly pulling out a rafter at the same time. Then he went into the house and stumbled up the stairs, leaving a cloud of sour whiskey stench behind him.

"I bet his will be the first corpse the worms reject," Mama said, and plopped into her rocking chair. It made me sick to see her so defeated and depressed. I thought it was that and the heat and my own gloom that upset my stomach something awful that night. Mama thought I might be coming down with some sort of summer dysentery. She gave me one of her herbal drinks and told me to go to bed early.

But the next morning I woke up just as nauseous and had to vomit again. Mama was worried, but once I finished throwing up, I suddenly felt better. My headache was gone and my nausea passed.

"I guess your medicine worked, Mama," I told her. She nodded, but she looked thoughtful and unconvinced. I wasn't sick again for nearly a week, but I was continually tired and sluggish, once falling asleep in Mama's rocker.

"This heat," Mama said, thinking that was the cause. I tried to keep cool, wrapped a wet towel around my neck, drank lots of water, but I was still tired all the time.

One afternoon Mama noticed me returning from the outhouse.

"How many times you been to the bathroom today, Gabrielle?" she asked.

"A few. Just to piddle, Mama. My stomach's okay." She still stared at me suspiciously.

And then the next morning I woke and had the same nausea. I had to vomit again.

Mama came to me and put a wet towel on my forehead and then she sat on my bed and stared at me. Without speaking, she pulled the blanket back and looked at my breasts.

"Is it sore there?" she asked. I didn't reply. "It is, isn't it?"

"A little."

"You tell me the truth and mighty quickly, Gabrielle Landry. Did you miss your time?"

"It's come late before, Mama."

"How late is it, Gabrielle?" she probed.

"A few weeks," I admitted.

She was quiet. She looked away and took a deep breath and then she turned to me slowly, her eyes sad but firm. Her lips were pressed together so hard, the color drained from them, but there was a redness in her cheeks and in her neck. She sucked in some air slowly and looked up before she looked at me again. I couldn't remember Mama ever looking at me this sadly.

"How did this happen, Gabrielle?" she asked softly. "Who made you pregnant?"

I shook my head, the tears burning beneath my eyelids. "I'm not pregnant, Mama. I'm not."

"Yes, you are, honey. You're as pregnant as pregnant is. They're ain't no half-pregnant. When did this happen? I ain't seen you with no boy here and don't remember you going off except to go . . ." Her eyes widened. "Into the swamp. You been meeting someone, Gabrielle?"

"No, Mama."

"It's time for the whole truth, Gabrielle. No half sentences."

"Oh, Mama!" I cried and covered my face with my hands. "Mama!"

"What in tarnation's going on here?" Daddy complained. He came to my doorway in his tattered underpants. "A man's trying to get some rest."

"Oh, hush up, Jack. Can't you see something's happened to Gabrielle?"

"Huh? Whaaa ." He scrubbed his cheeks with his rough palms and ran his long fingers through his hair. "What happened?"

"Gabrielle's pregnant," she said.

"What? When . . . Who . . . How did this happen?" he demanded.

"I'm trying to find that out. If you'll just clamp down on that tongue . . ."

My shoulders shook with my sobs. Mama put her hand on my head and petted me.

"There, there, honey. I'll help you, don't worry. What happened?"

"He . . ."

"Go on, honey. Just spit it out," Mama said. "Best way to get something bitter and distasteful from your mouth is quick," she assured me.

I took a deep breath and sucked back my sobs. Then I raised my head and took my hands from my face.

"He had his way with me in the canoe, Mama. I couldn't stop him. I tried, but I couldn't."

"That's all right, Gabrielle. That's all right,"

"What?" Daddy said, stepping closer. "Who did this? Who had his way? I'll—"

"Hush, Jack. You'll frighten her."

"Well . . . no one's gonna . . ."

"Gabrielle, did this happen at your swimming hole?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Who was it, honey, did this to you? Someone we know?" I nodded. Mama took my hand into hers.

"These young bucks, these worthless, good-for-nothing . . ." Daddy rattled.

"It was Monsieur Tate," I blurted, and Daddy stopped ranting, his jaw falling open.

"Octavious Tate!"

"Mon Dieu," Mama said.

"Octavious Tate done this?" Daddy fumed. He stood there, his eyes widening, his face a magenta color from his rage. Then he frightened both Mama and me by slamming his fist into the wall so hard he bashed in a hole.

"Jack!"

"Gabrielle, you get up out of that bed, hear? You get yourself dressed and out of that bed right now," Daddy directed, jabbing his right forefinger at me.

"Jack," Mama cried. "What are you going to do?"

"Just get her dressed. I'm the man of this house. Get her dressed!"

"She's not—"

"It's all right, Mama," I said. "I can get up." I never saw Daddy so full of fury. There was no telling what he would do if he didn't have his way.

"Well, what's he planning to do?" Mama cried. She looked at me. "My poor baby. Why didn't you tell me this all before?"

"It happened right before graduation, Mama. I didn't want to start anything then and . . . I wasn't sure whether or not it was partly my fault."

"Your fault? Why?"

"Because I . . . swim without my clothes," I said.

"That still don't give no man the right to do what he done," Mama said.

"Get her up and dressed!" Daddy screamed from the other room.

"I will not," Mama replied.

"No, Mama. I'll do what Daddy wants. I made this trouble worse by not telling you about it." I rose and began to dress, my hands trembling, my legs shaking, feeling as if I were sinking, drowning, going under in a pool of hopeless despair, and not even thinking for the moment that there was a baby growing inside me.

"Where you taking her, Jack?" Mama demanded. After I was dressed, Daddy took my hand and led me out and to his truck, practically dragging me along. Mama followed to the galerie steps.

"Get in the truck," he ordered, and then turned to her.

"You hush up now, woman," he said to Mama. "This here's a man's job to do."

"Jack Landry . . ."

"No. If you didn't let her wander about freely, this probably wouldn't have happened, hear?" he accused.

I felt terrible for Mama and buried my face in my hands. What had I done? It was all my fault. First, I shouldn't have been so unaware and trusting in the swamp, and afterward, I should never had kept it such a deep, dark secret from Mama. She looked so small and defeated on the galerie and so disappointed. I knew she blamed herself for bringing me up to believe I led a charmed life. It was true I always felt nothing in Nature would harm me, but I never counted on another human being invading the sanctity of my precious perfect world.

Daddy started the truck and slammed it into gear. He pressed down hard on the accelerator, tearing up some grass and gravel as we shot off. The truck bounced so hard my head nearly hit the roof. Daddy mumbled angrily to himself and slammed the steering wheel with the ball of his palm. I kept my eyes low. Suddenly he turned sharply to me.

"You didn't offer yourself to this man, didja, Gabrielle?"

"Oh no, Daddy."

"You was just swimming in your pond and he come on you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"And you tried to get away, but he wouldn't let you?"

"He took my clothes," I said.

"That low-down . . . rich . . ." Daddy's eyes got so small, I didn't think he could see the road. The tires squealed as we went around a turn.

"Where are we going, Daddy?"

"You just keep your head low and your mouth closed until I tell you to speak, understand, Gabrielle?"

"Yes, Daddy."

A short while later, we drove over the gravel in front of the Tate Cannery. Daddy brought the truck to a sharp stop, the wheels sliding and jerking.

"Come on," he said, opening the door.

I got out slowly. Daddy came around the truck and seized my left hand. He marched us up to the office door and pulled so hard on the knob, the door nearly came off the jamb. Mr. Tate's secretary, Margot Purcel, looked up from her desk sharply. She was typing an invoice, but when her eyes fell on Daddy, they widened and she looked terrified.

"Where is he?" Daddy demanded.

"Sir?"

"Don't you 'sir' me. Where's Tate?"

"Mr. Tate's on the telephone in his office," she said. "Can I tell him why you want to see him?"

She started to rise.

Daddy glared at her and just tugged me once toward the inner office door.

"Sir!"

Daddy opened the door and pushed me in ahead of him. Then he slammed the door behind us.

Octavious Tate sat behind a large, dark hickory desk. He wore a cream shirt and tie and had his suit jacket over the back of the chair. The fan in the corner hummed and created a nice breeze that circulated around the office. The shades on the-east side were drawn to block out the late morning sunlight, but the shades were up on the west side, so we could see the trucks loading up and men working.

Mr. Tate was on the phone, but he told whomever he was speaking to that he would call him back and quietly returned the black receiver to its cradle. Then he sat back.

"What is this?" he asked so calmly, I wondered for the moment if I had indeed dreamed everything.

"You know what this is," Daddy said.

Mr. Tate shifted his eyes to me, but I did what Daddy had told me to do and looked down.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Landry. I'm a busy man. You've got no right to come busting in my office. If you don't turn around and just march out that door,

Daddy walked up to his desk and slapped his hand down. Then he leaned over until his face wasn't a foot from Mr. Tate's.

"That's my daughter standing there and she's pregnant with your baby. You done raped her in the swamp, Tate."

"What? Now . . . see . . . see here," Mr. Tate stammered. "I did no such thing."

Daddy straightened up and gave him a crooked smile.

"Everyone knows my daughter ain't no liar." He stepped to the side. "This the man who jumped you, Gabrielle?" he asked.

I lifted my head slowly and looked at Mr. Tate. He curled his lips in and stared at me.

"Yes," I said softly.

"Well?" Daddy said.

"I don't care what she claims. It's ridiculous."

"You're going to pay, Tate. It's either going to be easy or hard, but you're going to pay."

Mr. Tate swallowed hard and then gathered his strength. He lifted the receiver again. "I'm going to call the police and have you arrested if you're not out of this office in ten seconds," he threatened.

"Okay then," Daddy said. "It will be hard."

He spun around, scooped my hand into his, and jerked the office door open. Without closing it behind us, he marched us out. Margot Purcel stood up and looked toward the inner office as we went past her and out the door.

"Get in the truck," Daddy said.

"Where we going now, Daddy?"

"Just get in. I know how to deal with the likes of him," he said.

Ten minutes later we turned up the long driveway to the Tate mansion, which was known as The Shadows because of the grand moss-draped oaks, willows, cypress, and magnolia trees that surrounded it and kept it in long, cool silhouettes most of the day. I had seen it only from the road before this. Our family was never invited to the famous parties that the Tates held there, nor was Mama ever called upon to treat Monsieur or Madame Tate.

As we continued up the long driveway, my heart throbbed in triple time and I shrank into a tighter ball, fearful of what Daddy had in mind to do next. Daddy's battered truck rattled over the gravel, kicking up dust clouds behind us. The grounds were so immaculate and neatly trimmed, I felt as if we were tracking mud over a new carpet.

All the oak trees had beds of azaleas and camellias under them. Queen Anne's lace bordered both sides of the driveway. To the right toward the canal, I saw the seemingly endless vegetable gardens and fruit trees. A short, stout black man with stark white hair and a tall, lean black woman with her ebony hair pinned up were harvesting crops. They looked our way for a moment and then went back to their labor.

I turned toward the house.

Before us the two-and-a-half-story structure rose with a majestic confidence that bespoke its grandeur and richness. It had classic columns rising from the ground to the entablature that supported the roof. There were upper and lower galleries and shutter-enclosed stairs. When we turned toward the front, I saw that the bayou side had a recessed galerie with brick arches below and turned Doric columns above. Ferns and palm leaves worked their way up and around the brick. There were three gabled dormers on the roof over the upper front galerie, each with four rows of paneled windows. The chimney rose from the rear of the building.

"What are we going to do here, Daddy?" I asked. Daddy turned off the truck engine and glared at the house for a moment.

"I know about the Tates," he said. "Octavious had nothing until he married Gladys White. She wears the britches in this family. Get out," he said.

I stepped down gingerly. This close, the house looked even more intimidating. Late morning shadows curved and then soaked the front in shade so thick, I felt as if we were stepping across one world and into another when we approached the tall, paneled door flush with fixed glass panes. Clumps of purple wisteria dangled from the scrolled iron railing above us. A half dozen silver bells on leather strings were hung over the door.

Daddy rattled them hard and then he let them fall against the door. A few moments later, a tall, spindly-looking, almond-complected, balding man with a long, thin nose and very thin lips opened the door. He wore a butler's uniform, but he had his tie loosened and apparently was just finishing chewing something. He swallowed quickly and raised his light brown eyebrows. They lifted at the middle as if there were an invisible hook hoisting them into his crinkled forehead.

"Yes?" he said, unable to hide his disapproval of the way Daddy was dressed, his hair wild, his shirt half in and half out, and his dungarees worn nearly clear through at the knees.

"I want to see Madame Tate," Daddy said.

"Really? And who wishes to see Madame?" the butler asked. He spoke with his head pulled back a bit so that the underside of his nose was clearly visible. There was a small but distinct dimple at the tip. He had a nasal tone and tucked his lips in at the corners after he spoke.

"Jack Landry and his daughter, Gabrielle," Daddy said.

"And I don't mean to be turned away," he added.

"Really? What is the nature of your visit, monsieur?"

"That's private."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really, really. You going to get her or am I going to get her?" Daddy asked.

The butler's eyes widened and those eyebrows were jerked even higher.

"One moment, please," he said, and closed the door.

"Snobby, rich . . . dirty . . ." Daddy mumbled. He looked around and nodded. "They think they own everything and everybody and can do whatever they please. Well, they ain't met Jack Landry head-on yet," he said.

"I think we should go home, Daddy," I said softly.

"Home? We ain't going nowhere till I get some satisfaction," he remarked. He shook the bells again. A moment later the butler opened the door, but this time standing beside him was Gladys Tate.

She looked formidable, towering, her shoulders back, her spine a steel rod. Her eyes were burning with indignation.

She looked like she had been interrupted doing something very important or was about to leave the house for an important appointment. She wore a polka-dot dark blue dress with a thin scarf. There was a matching polka-dot belt with a large bow at her waist.

This close up, confronting her, I realized how stunningly beautiful she was, but also how hard those slate-cold brown eyes could be. Steely faced, she stepped forward.

"How dare you have me summoned like this? What is it you want?" She threw me a glance, her mean look so sharp, I thought it could cut glass.

"I have business with you," Daddy said, undaunted.

"My husband handles the business."

"Not this business. This business is private," Daddy insisted.

"Really, monsieur, I don't think—"

"You're gonna hafta talk to me, madame, sooner or later. It be better sooner," Daddy said.

She shifted her eyes to me again. I could feel the curiosity twirling around in her brain, and her face softened.

"All right, Summers," she said to the butler. "I'll speak with these people." She said "people" as if we were lower than grasshoppers. "First room on the right," she ordered, and we entered the mansion.

I had never been inside a house this large and couldn't help but gape at everything: the mauve marble entryway, the great tapestries depicting grand plantation houses and grounds and Civil War scenes. Before us to the left was a square, polished mahogany stairway, and above us, from the high ceilings, dangled teardrop chandeliers with glittering brass necks. Beyond the entryway, the house seemed to go on forever. I saw pedestals with sculptures, and beside the tapestries, there was artwork covering every available space. It didn't look like a home so much as it looked like a government building or a museum.

We entered the room on the right. The first thing that caught my eye was the parasol roof. We stepped onto a rich beige carpet. The room had honey beige straw-cloth walls, blond beige woods, rosy beige leather on the French chairs.

Everything looked so clean and neat and new, I was afraid to touch anything. Gladys Tate stopped in the middle of the room and turned to Daddy. She ran her eyes from his head to his feet. He wore his old boots stained with mud. She looked like she was trying to decide where he could do the least damage. Finally she nodded at a small chair to the right.

"I'll give you five minutes," she said.

Daddy grunted and sat. He looked like he would bust the chair into pieces merely by leaning back. Gladys Tate sat on the settee, her back squarely against the cushion. She looked at me and then at Daddy.

"Well?"

"Your husband raped my daughter and made her pregnant," he said without hesitation.

I held my breath and didn't swallow. Gladys Tate did not change expression, but it was as if the shadows that carpeted the front of the great house had somehow penetrated the walls and darkened her face.

"I assume," she said after the heavy pause, "you have some proof to support this astounding accusation."

"My daughter's the proof. She'll tell you how it was exactly. She don't lie."

"I see." She fixed her stone eyes on me. "Where did this alleged incident occur?"

"In the swamp, madame," I said softly.

"The swamp?"

"In the canals. He was fishing when he come upon her in her pond, a place she goes swimming," Daddy said.

Gladys Tate stared at him as if it took a few moments for Daddy's words to be translated, and then she turned back to me.

"You know who my husband is?"

"Yes, madame."

"You say he came upon you while you were swimming?"

"I was actually sunning myself on the rock at the time.

When I opened my eyes, he was there. I was . . ."

"Nude?"

"Yes, madame."

She nodded. Then she smiled at Daddy.

"Do you know what it means to make false accusations, especially accusations of such a serious nature?"

"It ain't false," Daddy said.

"I see. And you have brought your daughter here for what purpose?"

"What purpose? He made her pregnant. That's gonna be a costly thing."

"Oh, so it's not justice you seek so much as it is money, is that it?" she asked with a wry smile painted across her lips.

"That's justice, ain't it?" Daddy retorted.

"Have you spoken with my husband?"

"Yeah, and he don't want to own up to it. But he will," Daddy threatened. "Look at her," Daddy said, pumping his hand toward me. "Look at what he done to my little girl. How's she supposed to find a decent husband when her stomach's two feet ahead of her, huh? And all because your husband had his way with her!"

Gladys Tate stared at me again. "You're the girl who ran off the stage at graduation, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes, madame."

"And you," she said, turning to Daddy, "are the man who made that ridiculous scene."

"That ain't got nothing to do with this."

She stared again. These silent pauses sent chills up my spine, but Daddy didn't seem to notice or care. Finally she sighed, shook her head.

"I wish to speak with your daughter alone," she said.

"What? Why?"

"If you want me to give you any more of my attention or time, you will do as I ask," she said firmly. Daddy thought a moment. It was easy to see she was determined and he would do best if he listened to her.

"I'll be right outside," he said, standing. "And only for a few minutes. Don't you try nothing sneaky on her neither," he added. He gazed at me, his face full of fury. "Call me if she does," he said, and walked out.

"Close the door," Gladys Tate ordered. I did so. "Sit where your father sat," she said. Then she sat forward. "Have you ever seen my husband before this incident in the swamp?"

"Just here and there, madame, but we never spoke."

"I see. Now, in your own words, tell me what you say happened."

I began slowly, explaining how I went swimming often in the pond and how this particular afternoon I had fallen asleep sunning myself. I described how he had taken off his clothing and climbed onto the rock. She didn't change expression until I told her what he had said about his marriage. Her eyes became smaller and a white lined etched about her tightened lips.

"Go on," she said. I described the way he teased me, how we fell out of the pirogue and then what followed. I felt the tears streaming down my face, but I did not wipe them off. They dripped from my chin.

She sat back when I was finished. Then she stood up abruptly and went to the door. Daddy was obviously eavesdropping and nearly fell into the room when she opened it.

"Well?" he said.

"I want you to wait right here," she told him.

"Why?"

"Do what I tell you to do," she ordered without hesitation. Even Daddy, fired up the way he was, was taken aback with her strength and firmness. He entered the room and sat on the settee. "I'll see that Summers brings you something cool to drink," she said, and left.

"What's that woman doing?" Daddy asked me. "You tell her something I didn't hear?"

"I told her exactly what happened, Daddy."

"I don't trust these rich people," he said, eyeing the door. A few moments later, the butler appeared.

"Would you like some lemonade?" he asked.

"Ain't ya got nothing stronger?"

"We have whatever you want, monsieur," he said, grimacing.

"Get me a cold beer. No glass."

"Very good, monsieur. Mademoiselle?"

"I'll have the lemonade."

He nodded and left.

"Maybe they'll poison us," Daddy said. "That's why I ordered it in the bottle." He winked. "Don't drink the lemonade."

"Oh, Daddy, she wouldn't do that."

He sat back and drummed the arm of the chair with his long fingers.

"Look at this place. I could live a year off what this room costs. Maybe longer."

The butler brought us the drinks. Daddy sipped his beer cautiously. He shook his head when I drank my lemonade, but it tasted good and refreshing.

A short while later, we heard the front door open, and after that, Octavious Tate appeared.

"I'm calling the police," he said, but when he turned, Gladys Tate was right behind him, standing as solidly as a statue.

"Just go inside and sit, Octavious," she commanded.

"Gladys, you're not going to give these thieves a moment of our time. You're—"

"Go inside, Octavious."

He shook his head and came into the room, sitting across from Daddy. He glanced at me once and then looked at his wife. She closed the door and remained standing.

"Well?" he said.

"Look at this girl, Octavious. Go on."

"I'm looking at her."

"Are you going to deny her story to her face?" she challenged.

He swallowed hard. "Gladys . . ."

"I want to know the truth and I want you to admit to it. She told me things you said about us, Octavious, intimate things she would not know otherwise."

"I . . ."

"You were in that swamp fishing, weren't you, Octavious?" she said, beginning her relentless interrogation.

"Yes, but . . ."

"And you poled to that pond, didn't you? You saw her there?"

"That doesn't mean I did what she claims I did."

"But you did do it, didn't you?" she pursued.

"Took off your clothes and climbed up on the rock to sit beside her? Well?"

"Look, she invited me to . . ."

"Octavious, you made love to this girl, didn't you?" she demanded, stepping toward him, her eyes wide and furious. He looked down. "Answer me and tell the truth! You're only prolonging this horrible moment and driving the knife deeper into my heart."

He nodded slowly, biting down on his lower lip. Then he looked up sharply.

"Ha!" Daddy said, slapping his hands on his knees.

"There's no way she can prove that her baby is my baby," Octavious said quickly. "This sort of girl—"

"Doesn't lie," Gladys said, nodding. She looked at me and then at him before she took a deep breath and looked away for a moment. When she turned back to us, I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes, but she sucked in her breath and blinked away those tears.

"How much does he want?" Octavious asked, glaring at Daddy.

"It's not only what he wants," Gladys replied. We all looked at her, Daddy the most surprised. "It's what I want," she said, and regained her composure to make the most astounding demands of all.