Tarnished Gold

5

Denied the Sun

Sometime during the night someone must have come into my tiny room and pulled down the shade so that when dawn came it provided only a dim light through the sole window. Of course, it had to be Gladys. It shocked and amazed me that I hadn't heard and awoken when she had entered the room. But the emotional strain associated with coming here and my own pregnant condition had put me into a deep sleep.

The moment my eyes snapped open and I had scrubbed the drowsiness from them, my instinct was to rise and pull up the shade, but Gladys Tate's warnings buzzed around in my head like a bee trapped in a jelly jar. How dismal it was to open my eyes and not see the bright sunshine or be able to look out the window and see the birds flitting and flowers spreading their blossoms to catch the invigorating rays. Mama always said I was like a wildflower and needed the sunshine to make me happy and help me grow and be healthy.

I sat up, but I couldn't peel back the blanket of depression. Would I be able to endure this for the number of months I had left before the birth of the baby? Had I made promises I couldn't keep? All I could do to counter the dreariness and despair was remind myself of how this would keep the shame from our doorstep and provide a good home for the baby who bore no blame for its existence. Why should a child suffer for a father's sin?

The aroma of freshly brewed, dark Cajun coffee, just-baked bread, fried eggs, and sausages permeated my room, slipping in under the floorboards. It made my stomach churn in anticipation. I rose and, because of the dimness, turned on the lantern. Then I dressed and, using the back of one of Gladys Tate's toy cooking pans as a mirror, brushed and pinned my hair. I used the chamber pot and some of the water to wash my face and feel as refreshed as possible under these conditions. After that, I sat on the bed and listened hopefully for the sound of footsteps that would signal Gladys's arrival with my breakfast. I could hear the muffled voices of people below, the slam of a door, the barking of dogs, some grounds workers shouting to each other outside, but I heard no footsteps heralding her arrival.

Bored with the wait, I rose and began to explore the room. First I took the lantern to the small closet and, after blowing the dust away, brought out the books, which were all children's stories. What had Gladys Tate been thinking when she had said I could read these books to pass the time? They were designed for a child who had just learned to read and consisted mostly of pictures with occasional simple words.

The most impressive thing in the closet was the handmade dollhouse with everything inside it constructed to scale. I quickly realized that it was a model of The Shadows, and by studying it, I could learn where every room was and what was in each room. However, absent from the model was the room in which I was presently living.

There was tiny furniture, even tiny books in the bookcases and tiny kitchen implements in the kitchen. My fingers were too thick to fit in some of the small openings, so I imagined it had been built for Gladys when she was very little. Aside from the dust that had made it a home, the dollhouse was in perfect condition. Exploring it further, I discovered that the roof could be detached and I could have a godlike view of the interiors. I saw what I was sure was meant to be Gladys's mother and father lying beside each other in the king-size bed in the master bedroom. What looked like Gladys's room had a bed with a canopy, but the miniature doll meant to represent her was gone. There were wee dolls to represent the maids, cooks, and the butler, even minuscule replicas of some hound dogs sleeping in the den by the fireplace.

There were no other children in the dollhouse, and the only other bedrooms were for the maids or empty guest rooms. The kitchen, as in most Cajun homes, was in the rear, and just behind it was a pantry filled with things so small, my fingernail was twice the size. I decided whoever had built this toy world had been a master craftsman, an artist in his or her own right.

I put the house aside and rummaged through the old magazines. I found coloring books and a pad of dry watercolor paints with stiff brushes. There were moldy crayons, pencils, and a toy sewing kit with some material meant for doll's clothing. I found a toy nurse's set with a stethoscope, a nurse's cap, a fake thermometer, and some real bandages and gauze. That, too, looked barely used.

At the bottom of the pile, I discovered a notebook that had been used as a drawing pad. The first few pages had crude line drawings, but as I turned the pages, I felt I was turning through the years of Gladys Tate's development until I reached the point at which her drawings were more sophisticated. One page in particular caught my interest.

I thought it looked like Gladys Tate's self-portrait: the face of a little girl who had similar features. Behind the little girl was the looming face of a bearded man. She had drawn nothing more of his body, but hovering just above her shoulder was what was obviously meant to be his hand, the fingers thick, one with a marriage band.

When I lifted the notepad a little higher to bring it closer, I saw something slipping from between some pages. It was a card with a small bird on the outside. Inside were scribbled the words: To my little Princess. Love, Daddy. There was a second card, also with a bird on the outside. This time the scribbled words read: Never be afraid. Love, Daddy.

I turned a few more pages, observing crude drawings of a man without a shirt, his chest covered with what I was sure was meant to look like curled hairs. In the middle of the torso was a light drawing of a face with the mouth stretched in what looked like a scream.

Curious and now intrigued, I flipped past the drawings of birds, trees, and a horse to find the picture that made me gasp. It had been drawn with a shaky hand. The lines wobbled, but it was clearly meant to be the body of a man, waist down, naked, his manliness drawn quite vividly. I closed the notebook quickly, put it back in the closet, and stood up, slapping my hands together to shake off the dust. What strange things for a little girl to draw, I thought. I was afraid to permit myself to wonder what it all meant.

I went to my door and opened it slowly, listening keenly for the sound of footsteps. Surely she would be bringing me something to eat soon, I thought. I was very hungry and my stomach was growling with anger. Frustrated, but aware that if I didn't occupy myself, my hunger would only bellow louder, I turned to the shelf of dolls.

I found some cloth to use for dusting and took the first doll down to carefully wipe its arms, legs, and face. All these dolls looked like they had been expensive ones. Some had features so perfect, I was positive they were handmade. Observing the line of them on the shelf, I realized that there were only two male dolls, and they had been placed a little behind the others.

As I put the first doll down on the table, I noticed something odd when the doll's dress was raised. I peeled back the skirt and gazed with horror at what had been done. A blotch of black ink had been painted between the doll's legs where its female genitals would be. I inspected the other dolls and found either that or a chipping away of the area that had been done with some crude implement. The worst damage, however, was inflicted on the two boy dolls. They had been smashed so that their torsos ended just under their belly buttons.

I hated to think what this all possibly meant. Suddenly I heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the short stairway. I hurriedly returned the dolls to the shelf and sat on the bed just as Gladys Tate opened my door, my tray of food in her hands.

"Well," she snapped. "Don't just sit there waiting to be served. Come take it."

I hopped off the bed, took the tray, and placed it on the table.

"Thank you," I said. I pulled the chair close and sat. "Why is that lantern on?" she asked.

"It's so dark in here with the shade drawn."

"You're just wasting the kerosene. I can't be bringing up kerosene every day too. Use it sparingly," she ordered, and turned it out, draping us in shadows. Nevertheless, I began to eat and drink the coffee while it was still warm.

"I see you've been looking at things already," she said, noticing the things on the floor by the closet.

"Yes, madame. That's a very nice dollhouse, a replica of this house, isn't it?"

"My father made that for me. He was artistic," she said, "but he did those things only as a hobby."

"It is a work of art. You should have it on display, downstairs."

"I don't think I need you to tell me how to decorate my house," she snapped. "It belongs up here and here is where it will remain."

"I'm sorry. I just thought you would be proud to have other people see it."

"If you must know, it's personal. He gave it to me for my fifth birthday." She closed her eyes as if it had been painful to explain.

"You must have loved it. I looked at the books. They're all for very small children."

"Umm. I'll see about bringing up something more equal to your maturity. My father used to make me read Charles Dickens. He had me stand before him and read passages aloud."

"I have read some of Charles Dickens's novels in school, yes."

"Well, any one of them will keep you busy awhile," she said. "You were sufficiently quiet this morning," she offered in a tone as close to a compliment as she could manage. "No one noticed anything or mentioned anything to me. That's good. Keep it that way," she commanded.

"One thing you must do, however. Rise before dawn and close the shade. It has never been up during the day, and someone will surely notice."

"Why has it never been up?" I asked.

"It just hasn't," she shot back. "This room has been abandoned up until now."

"Why?" I persisted. "I would think your old playroom would have some nice memories for you, and you would want to keep it nice."

"You would, would you? Who do you think you are continually offering your opinion as to what I should and shouldn't do in my house?" She flicked her stony eyes over me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to . . ."

"Just worry about yourself. There's plenty to do there," she said. "I'll be right back," she added, and left the room.

While she was gone, I finished eating. When she returned, she had a pail of water and a handful of rags in her hand.

"I brought you this so you could start cleaning this room. Do it as quietly as possible."

"I'll need more than one pail of water, madame," I said. She snapped her head back and lifted her shoulders as if I had slapped her.

"I know that, you fool. You'll start with this. You don't expect me to cart pail after pail of water up here, do you? Tonight you can dump this out with your chamber pot and bring up another pail of water along with your drinking water. I was just being nice giving you the first pail."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful," I said, which took the steel out of her spine. She didn't smile, but her eyes warmed.

"If you're finished eating, we have some very important matters to go over," she said.

"Certainly, madame." I turned, waiting.

She folded her arms over her chest and took a few steps toward the window. "I, as you know, have never been pregnant. I know as much about it as any woman my age should," she added quickly, "but there is nothing like the actual experience. That's true about everything, I suppose, but especially true when it comes to pregnancy."

I nodded, not sure what it was she was trying to say.

"If we are to make this work, have people believe me when I say I am pregnant, I had better behave as if I am. I know you're just about two months pregnant, right?"

"That's right, madame."

"Well," she said, and waited. When I didn't say anything, she snapped, "Tell me about it."

"Tell you? Where should I begin, madame?"

"At the beginning, where else? How did you find out you were pregnant?"

"Mama told me. I woke up nauseous and had to vomit. After it happened again, she asked me if I had missed my period."

"Yes?"

"I had and then she asked me if I was sensitive here," I said, indicating my breasts.

"Sensitive?" She stepped closer. "Exactly what does that feel like?"

"It feels like my breasts are fuller. Sometimes they are tender and sore."

"Really?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

I felt odd describing these things to her. For the moment it seemed as though I were the adult and she were the younger woman. How could she appear so sophisticated in other ways but be so ignorant of womanly things? I wondered.

"Yes," I said. "Sometimes they actually hurt." Her eyes widened. "I'm also tired more often and find myself dozing off."

"Yes?"

"And I have to go to the bathroom more. . . urinate," I said.

"Did you throw up this morning?" she asked.

"No. Mama gave me some herbs that help me."

"Good. For her first visit, I'll have her bring me the herb, too," she said. "If it works, why not?" she added, which I thought was a strange thing to say. Why would she actually want it? "Now, what about your stomach? I can't tell because of that skirt, but you don't seem to be showing much."

"No. Mama told me she didn't show until she was nearly five months, but I do see a small difference," I said.

She stared at me a moment and then nodded. "I want to see for myself," she said.

"Pardon, madame?"

"I want to see. I have to know exactly what you look like now and as time goes by to do this right, don't I? Take off your clothing."

I hesitated.

"What's wrong? You go parading about in the swamp nude, don't you?"

"I don't go parading about," I said, tears coming to my eyes.

"It's the same thing, whatever you want to call it. Now, just get undressed. I told you, warned you, you would have to be cooperative," she said in a threatening tone. "Either you do what I ask or march right out of here now. Make up your mind."

I swallowed back a throat lump and sucked in my breath. Then, first turning away from those glaring eyes of stone, I lifted my dress over my head. I unfastened my bra and slipped out of my panties. Before I could turn around, her arms came over my head, a tape measure in her hands. She had brought it up with her, planning all along to do this. She wrapped it roughly around my stomach and pulled to take a measurement.

"Turn around," she ordered. I did so and she gazed at my breasts. "You're not normally this big?"

"No, madame," I said. "And the color has changed here," I said, pointing to my nipples. "Darkened."

"Oh?" She studied me with interest. "I'll have to stuff my bra a bit," she mused, and nodded. "Once a week I'll take the measurement of your stomach and adjust my own dimensions accordingly. You can get dressed now," she said.

She waited as I dressed myself and then in a kinder tone of voice she said, "I'll bring you some Charles Dickens with some dinner tonight. The maids are about to begin upstairs and will be working right beneath you, so keep as quiet as possible when you clean. I hope," she added, "that if you do vomit, you do it as silently as possible." She took my tray. At the doorway she turned back to me. "I'll be sending for your mother very soon, perhaps later today."

"Thank you, madame," I said. I couldn't wait to see Mama. Even though I had been here only one night, I missed her terribly.

Gladys Tate closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed down the stairway. I stood there for a moment, realizing that I was trembling, and then I set about cleaning the room and keeping my mind occupied so I wouldn't dwell on this strange, hard woman who would someday soon be the mother of the child I carried.

Gladys Tate brought Mama up to see me after dinner. One look at Mama's face when she came up the stairway and stepped into the room told me she was infuriated.

"You're keeping her up here, in this . . . closet?" she said, turning sharply on Gladys.

"It's the only secluded place in the house," Gladys said, unflinching. 'Tin trying to make her as comfortable as possible."

Mama gazed about the room and then fixed her eyes on my empty dishes. Of course, I wasn't sure if it had been done for Mama's benefit more than my own, but Gladys had brought me a gourmet feast: a bowl of turtle soup, Cornish hen in a grape cognac sauce, sweet potatoes in oranges, and tangy green beans. For dessert, there was a slice of pecan pie. Gladys proudly ticked off the menu, explaining I would always eat what they ate.

Mama's eyebrows rose with skepticism.

"I wish to speak with my daughter alone," she said. Gladys tightened, her mouth becoming a tiny slice in her taut cheeks. She then gave Mama a small smile, tight and cold.

"Of course," she said, and pivoted sharply. She closed the door behind her and descended, her feet barely tapping down the stairway.

"You can't stay here," Mama began immediately. "This is horrible. I had to sneak up here with her, like some kind of swamp rat."

"It's not so bad, Mama. I'll keep busy and the time will pass quickly."

"I don't like it," she insisted. "You're too much a creature of Nature, Gabrielle. You can't be shut up like this."

"I'll manage, Mama. Please. What will be the alternative? These are rich and important people here. They will make me look like the bad one, and the baby, the baby will grow up an outcast. Besides," I said with a smile, "I bet Daddy's already spent some of the money."

"Some? I'll wager he's spent most of it or gambled it away by now." She sighed deeply and sat on the bed. "Look how tiny everything is. What was this room?"

"Her playroom."

"Playroom? What does she think, this is another childish game, you're another toy, a distraction? That woman irks me, Gabrielle. Something's very wrong with her. She wants me to bring her herbs."

"I know. She's determined everyone will believe the baby is hers. She's really getting into the pretending."

"Too much. I was alone with her and she was telling me she's had nausea in the morning and lately she's had to go to the bathroom more often. Why tell me those things without anyone around?" Mama pointed out.

I shrugged. "Maybe she was just practicing."

"I don't know. I'm not getting good vibrations here," Mama said, gazing around with that special vision. "This was not a happy room. It wasn't a playroom so much as it was . . . a hideaway," she concluded. "And that's what she's made it into now," she added, turning to me.

"If it gets unbearable, Mama, I'll come home," I promised.

Mama squinted and curled the corner of her mouth. "You have a lot more tolerance for abuse than most people, Gabrielle, and you're too forgiving. I'm afraid you won't do what's in your own best interests. You'll think of everyone else first."

"No, Mama, I promise. . . ."

She shook her head and then her face reddened a bit with anger.

"Has he come around? Do you see him?"

"No, Mama. I haven't seen Octavious Tate once since I arrived. I think he's afraid of her," I offered.

Mama nodded. "That's what your father says. He's not much of a man to live under his wife's shadow and to have done what he did to you. I want you to know I was tempted to turn your father loose on him. When he drove off with that in mind, I wasn't eager to stop him. I was just as angry, but . . ." She sighed. "Maybe having a good home for the baby and keeping you from the disgrace that some would lay on you no matter what, like you say, is for the best. I just don't like the thought of you being caged up."

"I'll get out as much as possible, Mama. And you'll be by to see me now and then."

"You can bet on that," she said. She dug into her split-oak basket and took out some more herbal medicines, a jar of homemade blackberry jam, a loaf of cinnamon bread, and a package of pralines. "Don't eat all this at one time," she warned. "You gotta watch you don't get too fat, Gabrielle."

"I won't, Mama," I said, and laughed.

She sighed again and stood up. We heard Gladys coming up the stairway. She knocked on the door, which was something I was sure she would never have done if Mama weren't there.

"Yes," Mama said.

Gladys entered. "I'm sorry, but if you remain up here much longer, my maids will notice."

"You should get maids you can trust," Mama shot back. Gladys didn't respond, but she made her eyes small and sucked in her breath. "I'll be by in a couple of days," Mama said. Then she turned to Gladys. "You see she gets time out of this room. She needs exercise or the birthing will be difficult, even dangerous."

"Of course, Madame Landry. I will permit whatever is possible."

"Make it possible," Mama insisted. "See that she has plenty of water to drink, too. There's two to take care of here. Keep that in mind."

"Anything else?" Gladys asked with visible annoyance.

"Yes. You should have a fan up here."

"Why? You don't have fans in your shack, do you?"

"No, but she's not locked up in a room in our shack," Mama retorted.

"There's no electricity up here, and even if there were, the noise would attract attention," Gladys explained.

"It's all right, Mama. Really," I said.

"Humph," Mama said, and then turned back to Gladys. "You make sure your husband doesn't come within ten feet of her."

Gladys turned so red, I thought the blood would shoot up and out the top of her head.

"Don't bother to make promises," Mama followed before Gladys could open her tight mouth. "Just make sure it don't happen." Mama turned to me. "I'll see you soon, honey," she said, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she glared at Gladys once more before she started out. Gladys took my tray of empty dishes and shot me an annoyed look before leaving. When they got to the bottom of the stairway and went out the corridor door, Gladys did not lock it. I was glad of that.

After Mama left, I relaxed on my bed and read some of the Charles Dickens novel Gladys Tate had brought me. Since the sun had gone down behind the trees, I was able to pull up the shade and permit more air to come into the room. The sound of a flapping bird's wings interrupted my reading and I went to the window to look out on the night heron. She did a little dance on the railing and turned to peer back at me.

"Hello," I said. "Shopping for dinner or just out for a stroll?"

She lifted her wings as if to reply and then the muscles in her neck undulated as she dipped her beak before rising to swoop down and toward the forest and ponds where she would hunt for her dinner. Never did I wish I had the power of flight so much as I did at the moment. If I had it, I would fly alongside the heron and glide over the swamp before lifting myself higher and higher toward the glittering promise of stars.

The sound of the door being opened below and footsteps on the stairs startled me. I turned from the window to greet Gladys Tate.

"You can bring your chamber pot down now and take a bath, if you like. My maids have gone to bed. Empty that pail of dirty water and get some more to do some more cleaning tomorrow," she instructed. "Don't forget to fetch water for yourself and our baby," she added. "When you get to the bottom of the stairs, it's the first door on the right. Towels and soap and everything else you need is there."

"Tres bien, madame," I said. "Thank you."

"I hope," she said, "you told your mother I'm doing all I can to make the best of a horrible situation. It's not easy for me either. She should understand that when she comes here," she whined.

"I don't have to tell Mama anything, madame. She has the power to see the truth. She always knows what's truly in a person's heart. That's her gift."

"Ridiculous folklore. No one has that power, but I asked around and people say your mother is the best midwife in the bayou," she admitted. "I was told she's never lost a baby in birthing, except for those already dead." She smiled. "Everyone thinks it's a good idea to have her look after me."

She stared at me a moment and then she brought her hands to her breasts as if she had just experienced the sort of tenderness I had described I experienced.

"It bothers you when you sleep on your stomach sometimes, doesn't it?" she asked.

"Oui, madame."

"Then it will bother me, too," she vowed. "Don't go anywhere else in the house. My butler is still wandering about," she warned, and descended.

A moment later, I took the chamber pot and followed. The bathroom was almost as big as the room I now lived in upstairs. It had pink and white wallpaper with a fluffy blue throw rug beside the bathtub. All of the fixtures were brass. The vanity table had bath powders, soaps, and colognes. I emptied the chamber pot and then closed the door and began to fill the tub with warm water. I found some bubble bath and put some in as the water filled the tub. Then I undressed and soaked for nearly twenty minutes. It was really rather delightful and something I couldn't do at home. I made a mental note to tell Mama so she would be less anxious about my staying here.

The towels were big, soft ones. After I washed my hair, I scrubbed it dry with one and then wrapped a towel around myself as I sat at the vanity and brushed out my long strands. Staring at myself in the mirror, I thought I detected more chubbiness in my cheeks and remembered Mama's warning about getting too fat. I indulged myself by spraying on some of the cologne and then I put on my dress and, after cleaning up the bathroom, carried my chamber pot back upstairs. I returned to fill my water jug and get a clean pail of water for the cleaning I would do.

As I was leaving the bathroom again, I heard a horrible sound. It resembled someone retching. I stood completely still and listened. It was definitely someone retching and it was coming from the first doorway down left. My curiosity was more powerful than Gladys Tate's warning not to wander. I tiptoed along, keeping close to the wall. When I reached the doorway, I inched my head around to peer into what I remembered from the model house was the master bedroom. I could see clearly through the room and into the bathroom because the bathroom door was open. Octavious was nowhere, but Gladys Tate was on her hands and knees, hovering over the toilet, vomiting.

I snapped my head back, an electric chill shooting up my spine.

Was she vomiting because of something she had eaten that was too rich or not good or . . .

No, I told myself. That's too far-fetched. She couldn't imagine it and then actually have it happen, could she? My jug of water tapped the wall.

"Octavious?" I heard her call. "Is that you?"

I didn't move.

"Octavious? Damn you, I'm sick."

I waited, my heart pounding. Then I heard her retch again and I quickly retreated to the doorway and ascended the stairs, taking care not to spill any of the water out of the pail.

I closed the door behind me and stood there, catching my breath and wondering if I had made the right decision after all. These people were rich, Gladys Tate's family was one of the most famous and respected families in the bayou. Their factory gave many people employment, and everyone, from the priest to the politicians, showed them respect. But there were shadows and memories looming in the corners and the closets of this house. I wondered if I could stay here and not be touched by the sadness and evil that I suspected had once strolled freely through the corridors and rooms. Perhaps, I thought with a shudder, it was all still very much here.

Sleep did not come easy the second night. I flitted in and out of nightmares and tossed and turned, waking often and listening to the creaks in the wood. Sometimes I thought I heard the sound of someone sobbing. I listened hard and it would drift away and I would fall back asleep. Shortly before daybreak, I was awake again and this time heard the soft sound of someone tiptoeing up the stairway. The door opened slowly, and for a moment, no one was there. My heart stopped. Was it a ghost? The spirit of one of Gladys Tate's angry ancestors, enraged by my presence in the house?

Then a dark figure appeared and made its way across the room to the window shade. I pretended to be asleep, but kept my right eye slightly open. It was Gladys Tate. She pulled down the shade, waited a moment, and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly. I could barely hear her descend the stairs. She had moved like a sleepwalker, floating. It filled me with amazement. It did no good to close my eyes. I remained awake and saw the first weak rays of sunlight penetrate the shade and vaguely light the room to tell me morning, the beautiful bayou daybreak, had come. Only I would not be outside to greet it as I had all my life.

The next few days passed uneventfully. I cleaned and scrubbed the room until I believed it looked as immaculate as a room in a hospital, the old wood shining, the window so clear it looked open when it was closed. I took everything off the shelves and out of the closet, dusted and organized it, and then I dusted and polished all the small furniture.

Despite herself, Gladys Tate was impressed and commented that she was happy I was taking good care of my quarters.

I was lonely, of course, and missed Mama terribly, as well as the world outside; but every night, without fail, my night heron paid me a visit and strutted up and down the railing a little longer each time as I spoke to him through the window. I told him to tell all my animal friends in the swamp that I had not deserted them and I would be back before long. I imagined the heron visiting with nutrias and deer, snakes and turtles, and especially blue jays, who were the biggest gossips I knew, giving them all the news. At night the cicadas were louder than ever, letting me know that all of Nature was happy I was all right and would return. It was all silly pretending, I know; but it kept me content.

On my first Thursday morning after my arrival at The Shadows, Gladys Tate announced that I would enjoy my first meal downstairs in the dining room and then be able to wander about freely. I decided to wear the nicest of my three dresses, not to impress and please her but to please myself. I brushed down my hair and pinned it and then waited as the time drew near for her to call up to me. I heard the downstairs door open, followed by her declaration.

"It's all right for you to come down, Gabrielle."

I appeared instantly. "Thank you, madame," I said, and descended.

She gazed at me and then smiled coldly. "Octavious will not be joining us," she said. "There was no need to make any extra preparations. I made a promise to your mother that you would not see Octavious, and I mean to keep that promise."

"I made very little preparation. I have no desire to see him, Madame Tate. In fact, I'm rather relieved he won't be there," I added. She raised her eyebrows, but looked at me skeptically before we went down the stairs to the dining room where our dinner of whole poached red snapper had been laid out. Although I thought the table was rather fancy, Gladys Tate made it perfectly clear at the start that it was dressed nothing like it was when she had significant guests.

However, the fish itself was covered thickly with sauce and decorated with parsley to cover the separation marks at the head and tail. Radishes had been placed in the eyes and a row of overlapping slices of lemon and hard-boiled egg was down the center. The platter was garnished with lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, pimentos, and stuffed eggs. If this was an ordinary meal, I wondered what an elaborate one looked like.

She told me to sit at the opposite end of the table so we faced each other. The chandelier had been turned down and two candles were burning. Shadows danced on the walls and had a strange and eerie effect on the faces of the people painted in the scenes of sugar plantations and soybean fields that hung on the adjacent walls. The sad or troubled faces of the laborers looked like smiles, and the smiles on the rich landowners looked sinister. The far wall was all mirror so that I was looking at Gladys Tate's back and myself, only in the mirror, I seemed miles away.

"You may pour us each some iced tea," she said, and I rose to do so. The crystal goblets sparkled and the silverware felt heavy. The dishware had a flower print.

"This is a beautiful table setting," I remarked.

"It's our everyday tableware. But it has been in the family a very long time," she admitted. "I suppose you're used to eating off a plank table with tin forks and spoons."

"No, madame. We have plates, too. Not as elegant as these, of course, but we do have dishes."

She made a small grunting noise and took some of the red snapper. "Help yourself," she said.

I did so and found it delicious. "You have a very good cook."

"She was trained in New Orleans and never ceases to surprise us with her Creole creations. As you can see," she said, throwing a gesture in no specific direction, "our baby will enjoy only the finest things available. You have made a very wise decision."

"I think the events made the decision for me, madame," I said. No matter what she claimed to be doing for me, I wanted to be sure she understood I was the real victim, not her.

"Whatever," she said. "How's your appetite in general?" she inquired.

"Unpredictable. Sometimes I'm very hungry in the morning, and sometimes I don't feel like eating anything. Even the thought of food upsets my stomach."

"Pregnant women have these weird cravings, don't they?" she asked, once again making me feel as if I were the adult and she the young woman.

"They can. Mama told me about a pregnant woman who used to eat bark."

"Bark? You mean from a tree?"

"Out, madame."

"Ugh," she said, grimacing. "I was just referring to strange combinations. Do you have any such cravings?"

I thought a moment. "I had a passing craving for pepper jelly smeared over a piece of pecan pie."

She nodded. "Yes, that's more like it," she remarked. I started to smile, but she suddenly looked very angry.

"I want you to tell me these things as they occur. Hold nothing back," she ordered. "I must know exactly what to say to people. We'll be showing soon and they will have questions about my pregnancy. Understand?"

"Oui, madame."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me right now?" I thought and then shook my head.

"Very well, eat your dinner," she said, and ate silently for a while, her eyes vacantly focused on some thought rather than on me. All the food was delicious. I enjoyed every morsel.

"There's French chocolate silk pie," she announced, and lifted a cover off the dish.

"I'll have just a small piece, madame. Mama told me to watch my weight."

"Oh? There!" she pounced. "You see, there was something else for you to tell me. Watch my weight. Must I discover these things by accident?"

"I didn't think . . ."

"You've got to think." She leaned forward, her eyes beady. "We have an elaborate and complicated scheme to conduct. We must trust each other with the most intimate details about our bodies," she said, and I wondered what detail about her body she imagined I would have the vaguest interest in. I decided to risk a question.

"Have you ever seen a doctor or another traiteur about your difficulty getting pregnant, madame?"

She pulled herself back in the seat. Her face turned crimson and her eyes widened. "Don't assume because you are living here under these circumstances that you may take liberties with my privacy," she declared.

"I meant no disrespect, madame. You yourself just said we must trust each other."

She stared a moment and then, just as suddenly as she had become indignant, she erased that indignation and smiled.

"Yes, that's true. No. I haven't gone to any physicians or traiteurs. I trust in God to eventually bless my fertility. I am, as you can see, in every other way a healthy, vigorous person."

"Mama's helped some women get pregnant," I offered. She raised her eyebrows.

"I'm sure she would help you, too."

"If I ever get that desperate, I will call on her," Gladys said. The grandfather clock bonged and she shifted her gaze to the door.

"Did you want me to return to my room before Octavious comes home?" I asked, assuming that was what concerned her.

"Octavious won't be home until much later," she said. "Your mother said you must exercise to make the birthing easier. You can go for a walk around the house, but don't go down the driveway, and whatever you do, don't speak to any of my field workers if one of them should be nearby. My maids, however, will return around eleven, so you must be upstairs before that."

"Oui, madame."

She stared at me again, her face softening. "Do you want coffee?" she asked, nodding at the silver pot on a warmer.

"Please," I said. She rose and actually served me. Then she sat down and sighed deeply.

"I am not happy with what Octavious has done, of course," she began, gazing around the large dining hall, "but the prospect of little feet pitter-pattering over these floors, and hearing another voice in this house, is a wonderful thing. I will spend all my time with my baby. Finally I will have a family."

"You have no brothers or sisters, Madame Tate?"

"No," she said. "My mother . . . my mother did not do well when she was pregnant with me, and the delivery, I was told, was very difficult. She almost died."

"I'm sorry."

"My father wanted a son, of course, and was very unhappy. Then he finally settled on finding a proper son-in-law, proper in his eyes," she added, almost spitting the words. She glared at the table a moment and then raised her eyes quickly. "But that's all in the past now. I don't want to think about it." She smirked. "I would appreciate it if you would not ask me so many personal questions," she continued, her voice taking on the steely edge of a razor. "For me to answer them is like tearing a scab off a wound."

"I'm sorry, madame. I didn't intend . . ."

"Everyone has such good intentions. No one means any harm," she said with a sneer. Then her face crumpled and she looked like a little girl for a moment. "Daddy, my daddy, he never meant any harm either. All the men in my life meant no harm." She laughed a thin, hollow laugh. "Even Octavious meant you no harm, he says. He meant to give you the gift of the love experience. Can you imagine him telling me such a ridiculous thing? I think he really believes that."

I shook my head, my heart pounding, not sure what to expect next. She didn't fail to surprise and shock me. Her face turned into granite again.

"Where do you think he has gone tonight?" she asked with venom. "To give some other poor, deprived young woman the benefit of his love experience. So," she said, her eyes steaming as she leaned over her plate toward me. "Don't feel sorry for yourself. Feel sorry for me and do whatever I ask to make things right."

I could barely nod. My throat wouldn't swallow and my fingers felt numb.

She sat back. The granite softened again and she sighed deeply. "Go enjoy your walk," she said with a wave of her hand. "Your inquiries have given me indigestion."

I rose slowly. "Can I help you with anything?" I asked, nodding at the table.

"What? No, you fool. Do you think I do anything with the dishes and food? My maids will take care of it all when they return. Just go, go."

"Thank you, madame. It was a delicious dinner," I said, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts. I left her sitting there, her head tilted slightly to the right, her eyes watery and her chin quivering.

I did feel sorrier for her than I did for myself at the moment. Despite her big house, filled with the most expensive and wonderful artifacts, furniture, paintings; despite the money her and Octavious' factory made, she appeared to be one of the saddest and most unhappy women I had ever met.

What was happiness? I wondered. From what well was it drawn? Money and wealth in and of itself didn't guarantee it. I knew far poorer families in the bayou who had ten, no, twenty smiles for every one on Gladys Tate's face. If she doubled her lifespan, she wouldn't laugh and sing as much as they had already laughed and sung.

No one was truly happy unless he or she had someone who loved him or her and someone she or he could love, I realized, and with that realization came the understanding of why Gladys Tate had so eagerly, willingly, and now cleverly worked on taking the baby into her home and into her life.

She would finally draw up a pail of pleasure from the well of happiness, but the path to get there was still cluttered with obstacles and even dangers. How I wished this journey would soon be ended.