Hidden Jewel

  I knew Aubrey was being kind to say Daddy had gotten dizzy. Surely he had risen from the sofa in his office and, still quite drunk, started up the stairs. "Does he know where I am?"

  "Yes, mademoiselle. He found the note you pinned to him. It was still on him when he fell down the stairs. I heard the commotion and found him there. We got the doctor immediately, and he decided it would be all right for monsieur to remain at home. I took the liberty of calling Mrs. Hockingheimer and she will attend to his needs. I expect her arrival at any moment."

  "That's good, Aubrey. When my father wakes up, please tell him I called and I will call again later today. Tell him . . tell him my mother is still here and I hope to find her soon. Then we'll both come home."

  "Very good, mademoiselle."

  "Bye, Aubrey." I cradled the receiver slowly.

  "More problems?" Jack asked and I told him. He shook his head. "A lot has surely fallen on you, Pearl. Sure you want to stay here?"

  "I've got to find my mother," I said and then thought I should call the hospital and ask after Pierre. The nurse at the ICU nurses' station was curt. My brother was still going in and out of a comatose sleep. His last sleep had lasted eight hours, and he had been conscious for less than a half hour. The doctors hadn't seen him yet this morning. The nurse advised me to call back in the afternoon.

  My face wrinkled with worry as I sat down again. "Anything else I can do for you?" Jack asked after I gave him the hospital report.

  "No. You'd better get back to work. I'll go visit my aunt Jeanne and then return." I told Jack where Aunt Jeanne lived, and he gave me directions and drew a small map on a napkin. Then he gave me the trailer telephone number.

  "Just call here if you get into any trouble or need anything at all," he said.

  "Thank you, Jack."

  "You look like you could use a good hug," he said and did it before I could protest, not that I wanted to. He held me close and I laid my head on his shoulder. "Things will get better," he promised. "You'll see. And for good, logical reasons," he added with a smile. His words brought a desperately needed smile to my own lips, and then I left to see Aunt Jeanne.

  Jack's directions were perfectly clear. I arrived at Aunt Jeanne's house a little over a half hour later. Aunt Jeanne's husband, James, was a successful attorney, but her family, the Tates, were one of the wealthiest in the bayou anyway. Her home, although not as large and grand as Cypress Woods, was impressive.

  I entered the grounds through an avenue of large oaks and cedars, the canopy of thick leaves and branches casting long, cool shadows over the drive and giving me the feeling I was traveling through a tunnel into another world. Acres and acres of lawns and gardens surrounded the house. A small pond lay off to my left, the water now covered with an island of lily pads. The house itself was a long one-story structure with a gallery that ran across the entire front and one side of the house. French doors connected the front rooms to the gallery.

  I parked my car and stepped out slowly. I heard the whir of lawn mowers trimming the grounds behind the house and saw a gardener pruning flowers in a garden on the far right. The flower beds were abloom with hibiscus and blue and pink hydrangeas. In the middle of the garden stood a three-tier fountain. Gray squirrels scurried around the gardener, some so close he could have reached out to pet them. He gazed up at me, but went right back to pruning as if an unseen overseer were scrutinizing his work.

  The morning sky was streaked with long, thin clouds resembling mist floating over the light blue background, but I could see thunderheads off toward the Gulf, and I surmised that it was raining in New Orleans. As I stepped forward, a pair of cardinals paraded across the gallery roof and paused to look my way. Aunt Jeanne's home was certainly set in an idyllic location, magical and peaceful, I thought. I moved quickly up the steps and rapped on the door with the brass knocker. A moment later the butler greeted me.

  "I'm here to see Mrs. Pitot," I said.

  "And who should I say is calling,

  mademoiselle?" he asked. He was much younger than Aubrey, perhaps only thirty-five or forty, and had light brown hair and hazel eyes. He was slender with a pointed nose and pencil-thin lips drawn taut in anticipation of my response.

  "Pearl Andreas," I said. He nodded and stepped back to permit me to entry. I paused after he closed the door behind me.

  "One moment, sil vous plait," he said.

  I gazed around the entryway. It was a bright house with windows everywhere to let in the sunshine. It had beautiful cypress floors and eggshell white walls decorated with pastoral paintings and scenes of fishermen in the canals. A bleached oak grandfather clock stood just ahead of me, and across from it was a fan of ivory and gold leaf painted with senoritas in ball gowns.

  A few moments later, in a bright pink robe and Japanese slippers, Aunt Jeanne came sweeping down the corridor, her face beaming. Her unpinned dark brown hair hung down over her shoulders.

  "Pearl! What a wonderful surprise!" She held out her hands and when I took them, she drew me to her for a hug. "Is your father with you?"

  "No, Aunt Jeanne," I said.

  She grimaced with concern. "Your mother is still missing?" I nodded and she shook her head and sighed. "How dreadful for all of you on top of everything else that's happened. How is Pierre?"

  "Not well. Very bad, in fact. It's why I'm here. I've got to find Mommy. Pierre needs her. I was hoping you might have heard from her."

  "Not a word, not a syllable. I'm sorry. No one I've asked has seen or heard anything. But surely she'll turn up," she added. "Come," she said taking my hand again, "Mother and I were just having a late breakfast. Are you hungry?"

  "No," I said. I hadn't expected to see Mrs. Tate. My legs began to tremble and my heart pound.

  "How do you like our home?"

  "It's beautiful and so peaceful," I said.

  "Yes. I just love to share it with people I love. You must stay here tonight. Promise you will," she followed.

  "I can't," I said. "But maybe another night," I added quickly when her smile faded.

  "Well, if you promise that, I'll let you get away with not staying tonight. Come meet Mother." As she pulled me along I gazed into the first room, a pleasant sitting room done in teacup blue.

  "Many of our furnishings are antique," Aunt Jeanne explained. "James loves to buy and restore things. It's his hobby. He gets more excited over a valuable find in someone's old barn than he does over his law cases. You see that sofa?" she said, pointing. "It's upholstered with material from a homespun bedspread, and that chair beside it dates from the early 1800s. In his office James has an original French Creole plantation desk made of rosewood and walnut. And his walls are covered with knives and swords and helmets that date back to the Spanish occupation of Louisiana. Ooh," she said pausing to hug me again, "I'm so happy you're finally here. Even though it's under terrible circumstances."

  "Thank you, Aunt Jeanne," I said and took a deep breath as we entered the dining room.

  Mrs. Tate had her back to us. She was seated at the table in a wheelchair and chewing slowly on a piece of toast. Aunt Jeanne brought me around so Mrs. Tate didn't have to turn her head.

  "Look who's here, Mother."

  Gladys Tate's head seemed to have sunk back in her neck because of the arthritis. Her short gray hair was so thin that her scalp was visible in spots. Her face was etched with wrinkles on her forehead, along her chin, and around her dark, watery eyes. Her pink and blue robe made her look even more shriveled and thin. It hung off her small shoulders and dangled around her. My eyes were quickly drawn to her hands. The fingers were swollen at the knuckles and curled like claws. The obvious attention given to her nails seemed bizarre, as did the rest of her makeup. Her face powder had been dabbed on so heavily, and her lipstick was too thick, giving her a clownish appearance. Overkill to detract from her pasty pallor, I thought.

  She didn't smile. Her stony eyes burned into mine, and then her lips quivered into a sardonic grin. She lowered the toast to her
plate, swallowed some coffee, and nodded. "It's her, is it?" she finally said.

  "Isn't she beautiful, Mother?"

  Gladys Tate shot a reproachful look at Aunt Jeanne and then gazed at me again, her eyes

  scrutinizing me so closely, I felt like a specimen under a microscope.

  "She has a nice face," she offered. "Looks more like her father than she does a Landry. Which is fortunate for you," she added, nodding at me.

  "My mother is considered one of the most beautiful and talented women in New Orleans," I retorted, fixing my eyes on her as intently as she fixed hers on me. "I'd be proud and grateful to be considered like her in any way."

  "Humph," she said and raised the toast to her mouth. I saw she couldn't quite close her fingers enough to keep it secure. She chewed slowly, each swallow an effort. Age looked more like a disease than a natural course of events in her case.

  "Please sit down and eat something, Pearl," Aunt Jeanne insisted. I sat down and the maid quickly served a cup of coffee. "That's homemade jam," Aunt Jeanne said nodding toward the dish in the center of the table.

  The small rolls beside it did look good. I thanked her and took one and dipped my butter knife into the jam. Aunt Jeanne asked more about Pierre. I explained his condition.

  Mrs. Tate studied every word I said and every move I made. "How old are you now?" she snapped, obviously not interested in our tragedy.

  "I'm almost eighteen, ma'am."

  "She's just graduated from high school, remember, Mother? She was valedictorian, and she's going to go to college to become a doctor."

  Mrs. Tate smirked, deepening the valleys of those wrinkles. "Your father was supposed to become a doctor, too," she said, and then quickly added, "Don't be surprised that I know a great deal about your parents. You were almost brought up here, you know. You should have been."

  "Now, Mother, you promised not to talk about that anymore."

  She glared back at Aunt Jeanne with her cold gray eyes shooting devilish electric sparks. "Promised. What good are promises? Do people keep promises? Promises are no more than elaborate lies," she declared. Perhaps she had recently had a minor stroke, I thought, noticing the way one corner of her mouth twisted while the other corner remained still. Her right eye was closed a little more than her left, too.

  "I don't know what you think, Mrs. Tate," I said. "But I will become a doctor."

  For a moment she seemed impressed. Then she nibbled on her toast. "You know," she said, "my son, Paul, would have been a good father to you. Of course, I didn't want him to be your father, but she put a spell on him."

  "Mother!"

  A white line was etched around Mrs. Tate's tight, hateful lips. "Don't tell me. I know about spells," she said. "Some of the people here think your greatgrandmother was a healer, a spiritual person, but I know the truth. She was a witch. I told Paul. I begged him to stay away from that shack, that house of evil, but he was entranced, doomed."

  "Mother, if you're going to continue like this, I'll have to take Pearl someplace else to eat. The past isn't her fault."

  "Whose fault is it, then? Mine? Look at me," she said holding up her clawlike hands. "Look what that woman did to me. She cursed me. And for what? For trying to save my son. My son," she groaned.

  "I'm sorry," Aunt Jeanne told me.

  "It's all right. Pain distorts people's thinking," I said. "I'm sorry you're suffering with arthritis, Mrs. Tate, but it's not because of some curse. I imagine your doctor has diagnosed it as rheumatoid arthritis," I said. "Are you taking an anti-inflammatory drug?"

  "Drug. I have cabinets filled with drugs. Not one of them does me any damn good," she muttered.

  "Perhaps you should go to a specialist in New Orleans."

  "I've been to specialists. None of them are worth a damn. It's a curse, I tell you. No medicine will help me."

  "That's not true, Mrs. Tate. I think--"

  "You think? Listen to her, Jeanne. She thinks. What arrogance. Are you a doctor already?"

  "No, but . ."

  "But nothing," she said. "Jeanne, get me one of those pills. At least they keep me from suffering."

  "Okay, Mother." Aunt Jeanne looked at me and then got up. The moment she left the room, Mrs. Tate seemed to have a surge of new energy. She leaned toward me, her eyes small dark beads. "Tell me about your mother. Quickly."

  I explained again what had happened to Jean and why Mammy had returned to the bayou.

  The story apparently pleased her. She smiled and sat back. "It's true," she said. "She is responsible, and more will happen until she . ."

  "Until she what?"

  "Drowns, just as my son drowned," she said bitterly.

  Before my eyes, her face seemed to shrivel and grow haggard with the impact of her hate. The sight of this transformation sent a hot flash through my spine. Bitterly I met her eyes. "That's a horrible thing to say. You're not just sick in your body; you're sick in your mind. Daddy was right. You're twisted up inside, and your hatred has turned you into this . . . creature!" I cried and got up.

  "Pearl!" Aunt Jeanne said, returning. "What happened? Mother, what did you say?"

  "Just the truth," she muttered. "Give me the pill." I ran from the room, my heart thumping, my face burning with anger and fear.

  Aunt Jeanne caught up with me on the gallery steps. "Pearl, wait! Please! You mustn't listen to her, Pearl. She's not well."

  "No, she isn't. She's so full of meanness and hate, it's eating her alive," I said. "I was hoping, praying, that for some reason Mommy would have come to you. She always liked you, but I can see why she would stay away," I said looking back through the front door.

  "She might still call me, Pearl."

  "I'm returning to Cypress Woods," I said. "That's where she was last."

  "Cypress Woods? Oh, dear. I hope she'll be all right. The poor thing. There's nothing worse than losing a child. Look what it did to my mother," she added and I softened. She was right. There was no excuse for Gladys Tate's viciousness, but it was understandable that she would think the world had been cruel to her.

  "Come on back inside, Pearl. She'll calm down and go to sleep, and you and I will be able to visit."

  "Thank you, Aunt Jeanne, but I would just be on pins and needles thinking about Pierre and Mommy and Daddy."

  "But what can you do at Cypress Woods?"

  "Wait, hope, keep searching," I said. "I'll drive by the shack again and see if she's gone back there, and then I'll return to Cypress Woods."

  "I'd go searching with you, but I can't leave my mother just yet," she explained.

  "I'll be all right, Aunt Jeanne."

  "My mother's going to return to her own home tomorrow. Then you can come and stay with me, okay? If you want, I'll ride around with you, too."

  "I'll see." I was praying that I wouldn't have to be here tomorrow. "Thank you." We hugged, and I went to my car. She stood on the gallery, her arms folded, smiling hopefully at me. I saw the butler approach her and heard him say, "Mrs. Tate wants to see you immediately, ma'am."

  Aunt Jeanne waved, and I got into the car and drove away, understanding a little more about the turmoil and unhappiness my mother had endured while she was a part of the Tate family.

  At first the shack didn't look any different. I thought the path through the overgrown weeds might be more trampled, but I couldn't be sure. The front door, however, was now dangling, the top hinge having been broken off, and when I entered the shack, I gasped in shock. The remaining old furniture had been overturned and tossed about like toy furniture. The legs of the sofa were cracked, as were the arms of the rocker. There were marks on the wall where a chair had been slammed against it.

  The kitchen was worse. The table had been overturned, and the cypress floorboards were cracked and splintered. The woodstove had been pulled away from the wall and the shelves above it smashed.

  The sight of such wild destruction put terror into my heart. I gazed up the stairway. Mommy couldn't have done this, I thought. Even in a mad
rage, she wouldn't have this kind of strength. But who would do this? And why?

  Hesitant but curious, I started up the stairway. The steps creaked so loudly that I feared I would fall through. I gazed through the doorway of the first room I came upon and gasped. Someone had sliced up the mattress; the stuffing was strewn everywhere. There were deep gashes in the walls, too.

  Suddenly I heard a thud, and for a moment my heart seemed to have fallen into my stomach. My first impulse was to turn and run down those stairs, but panic held me motionless. The thud was repeated. It seemed to becoming from below and behind the house. I took a deep breath, turned, and descended the steps slowly, quietly, listening.

  There were no more thuds, but I was sure I hadn't imagined them. The silence was more frightening. My heart pounding, I walked out of the shack and looked around the grounds. Across the way, perched on a thick sycamore, a marsh hawk gazed at me with what looked like suspicion. It moved its wings nervously and turned on the branch. Then it flew off, soaring above me and away. I took another deep breath and went around the shack. I heard something slither through the grass and paused when I saw a long cottonmouth coiled on a rock, sunning itself. I couldn't swallow. I was afraid to make another sound.

  Then I heard something splash in the canal, and I moved quickly to the corner of the house, reaching it just in time to see someone disappear around the bend, poling a pirogue. I turned slowly to look at the rear of the shack and saw that someone had thrown gobs of mud against the shack. But why? What did all this rage and destruction mean? Was it just vandalism?

  Tiptoeing over the narrow pathway back to the front of the house, I hurried to the car. I sat in it for a while, thinking. Then I decided to go into town before returning to Cypress Woods. My throat was so parched that it felt like sandpaper. I needed a cool drink. I stopped at a small restaurant simply called Grandmere's Kitchen. It had a white Formica counter with ten stools and about a dozen folding card tables with wooden chairs. The aroma of crawfish, jambalaya, and gumbo stirred my stomach juices, and realized that this emotional roller coaster I had been riding had made me hungry.