A short, bald man stood behind the counter with a stout woman who had a pleasant smile, big brown eyes, and light brown hair pinned tightly in a bun behind her head. Both wore full white aprons labeled Grandmere's Kitchen, Houma, Louisiana. Three of the tables were occupied, one with a party of elderly women, all of whom gazed at me curiously.
"Hello dere," the stout woman said to me. "Comin' for lunch?"
A blackboard announced that today's special was stuffed crabs.
"Yes, thank you," I said and chose the closest table.
She came around the counter. "Well, we ain't got printed menus, but we always have crawfish pie, Po'boy sandwiches, and Billy's special jambalaya." The bald man nodded and smiled. "Everything's served with country dirty rice. Today we have stewed okra and tomatoes, too, if you like."
"I'll have a lemonade and the jambalaya, please," I said.
"You hear that, Billy?"
"Yep," he said and went to work.
"Just passing through?" she asked, still standing beside me.
"Yes," I said. She stared as if she sensed I had more to say. "My mother used to live here," I added. "She came back, and I'm . . . hoping to join her."
"I lived here all my life. What's your mother's name?"
"Ruby," I said.
"Ruby? Not Ruby Landry!" I nodded, and she got excited. "You're Ruby Landry's daughter?"
"Yes."
"Listen up here," she declared to the room at large. "This is Ruby Landry's daughter." Everyone stopped eating and looked at me. "I'm Ella
Thibodeau," she said. "My grandmere was your greatgrandmere's friend. Where is your mother? Boy, I'd like to see her. We went to school together. She coming in here soon?"
"I don't know," I said. "She doesn't know I've come after her."
"Oh." She smiled, but her eyes reflected her confusion. "Been along time since Ruby was here. I hear she's a famous artist in New Orleans now. She come here to do some painting?"
"Yes," I lied. I shifted my eyes away quickly. Daddy always said my face was a book without a cover. Anyone could read my thoughts.
"Ruby must've gone up to Cypress Woods. Sad how that beautiful place has been left to rot. I hope she gets it back," she whispered. "Crazy Gladys Tate won't let anyone near it, even to fix a broken shutter. And those beautiful grounds . ." She made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Sad. Tragedy. Poor Paul Tate. Every one of us girls had a crush on him, you know, but your mother was the only one he cared to look at, really. We knew Gladys Tate didn't like Ruby. Mrs. Tate always walked around with her nose in the clouds. No one was good enough for the Tates.
"Then, when Ruby and Paul ran off and got married, we was all so happy for them. You were like a little angel child. Your mother was some brave young woman livin' in that shack house by herself with you, struggling along. Took Paul long enough to own up to his responsibilities," she said, "but once he did, he built that palace for Ruby. Tragedy," she repeated. "Some old curse for sure. If your greatgrandmere had been alive, none of that would have happened," she assured me. "She was a miracle maker, especially when it came to healing folks.
"I remember . . ."
"You're talking too much, Ella," Billy shouted. "Come get the lady's lemonade."
"Oh, hush your mouth," Ella snapped, but she brought my lemonade to the table. "What was I telling you? Oh, yeah. I remember once I had this terrible earache. Couldn't sleep on that side. I went to your great-grandmere Catherine, and she blowed smoke in my ear and covered it with her hand. Next day my earache was gone. Simple remedy, but only a real traiteur knew just how much smoke and just how to do it, hear?" she said. I smiled.
"That's what I've been told," I said.
"You go to school?"
"I'll start college in the fall."
"Oh, ain't that something," she said.
"Here's the lady's jambalaya. You want to give it to her before it gets ice cold?" Billy remarked.
Ella rolled her eyes and brought me my lunch. "Billy ain't from Houma. He's from Beaumont, Texas," she said, as if that explained everything.
"Did you visit my mother and me when we lived at Cypress Woods?" I asked as I began to eat.
"Me? No. Your mother stayed to herself most of the time in those days and rarely came into town. Paul did everything for her. No man was more devoted to any woman. Men from Beaumont," she added loud enough for Billy to hear, "could have learned something from him about taking care of their women."
"Get away from that girl and stop bending her ear out of shape," Billy told her.
"Of course, the custody trial was a shocker. To this day people still believe you were really Paul's daughter. I can tell you this," she said. "Every time I saw you in his arms, I felt my heart warm. Father or no father, he couldn't have loved you more. Tragedy," she said again. "Well, you get your mother to stop by and see me, hear? She shouldn't forget her old friends now that she's a famous New Orleans artist."
I nodded, and she returned to the counter. As I ate, I thought about the things Ella had said. For a time, life at Cypress Woods must have been idyllic for Mommy. She lived in a castle with a man who treated her like royalty. Her art was her only contact with the outside world.
The jambalaya was delicious, but my stomach felt so tight after I began to eat that I couldn't finish it all. After Ella cleared away the dishes, I called Daddy from the pay phone in the corner. This time he was awake.
"I've really gone and messed things up some more, haven't I?" he moaned. "I should be up there with you, looking for Ruby."
"I'm okay, Daddy. Are you in a lot of pain?"
"I deserve it," he replied. "Listen, Pearl, I don't want you wandering around up there by yourself. It's too dangerous. You better come home. After I recuperate another day or so, we'll figure something out."
"It's all right, Daddy. I know Mommy's here now. I can't leave without her. Jack Clovis is helping me."
"Oh. Well, at least someone is," he said, still overwhelmed by waves of self-pity. "Call me and keep me up to date, will you?"
"I will. The moment I find Mommy, I'll call," I promised.
"Now I can't even get over to the hospital to see Pierre," he groaned. "I'm a mess," he added and started to sob. I attributed his tearful mood to the medicine and his condition. I tried to comfort him some more and then hung up and called the hospital. This time I got Dr. Lefevre.
"I'm afraid things are going badly," she said. "Dr. Lasky has Pierre on the dialysis machine. His periods of withdrawal are getting longer, and he is completely unresponsive to me. What have you learned about your mother?"
"I'm trying to find her. I'm in Houma."
"Time is not on our side," she told me. "Pierre's blood pressure is falling."
After I hung up, my worried expression drew Ella Thibodeau's attention. She came over to me quickly. "Is there trouble, sweetheart?" she asked.
I shook my head, but tears were streaming down my cheeks. "No, ma'am," I said, my voice cracking.
"Well, if you need anything, you call us. Cajun folks stick by each other."
I thanked her and paid my check. Then I left quickly to return to Cypress Woods.
As I drove there, I calmed down again. After speaking with Ella, I felt I had a better understanding of what life at Cypress Woods had been like. I wondered what Mommy had seen when she returned. Did it depress her even more, or did she look at her former home through rose-colored glasses? Did her memories take her back to the time when flowers were blooming and birds were singing, a time of music and beauty, comfort and safety? Considering all that had happened, it didn't surprise me now that she would flee to Cypress Woods and the world where she had once been protected by Paul's money and love and by Grandmere Catherine's magic.
Where was that magic now? I wondered. We need it so.
13
The Past Comes
A-courting
.
The thunderheads had been creeping along in
our direction all day. By the time I retur
ned to Cypress Woods, they were overhead, growling and heralding rain and wind. I drove directly to the house, but a cloud burst just as I stopped the car. I waited a moment. However, seeing it was only going to get worse before it got better, I pulled my jacket over my head, lunged from the car, and ran up the gallery steps. The wind whipped the heavy drops at me, soaking my face.
I stepped inside and closed the large door to keep the gusty air and the rain out, but I, found myself standing in a very dark, dank entryway filled with stale air. A chill passed through me and settled like the cold palm of a large hand on the back of my neck. I shuddered and looked up the dark stairway.
"Mommy!" I yelled. "Are you here?" My voice reverberated, and the echo sounded like someone tormenting me, imitating my
desperation: "Mommy, are you here?"
Dead silence was followed by the heavy creaking of the wood frame and floors. Shutters rattled. It began to rain harder. Was my mother wandering about out there? I wondered. The thought of her being caught in this storm terrified me. Tears streaked my face as much as the rain streaked the windowpane, mixing with the raindrops on my cheeks. Another chill shot through my chest, making my teeth chatter. I had to find a warmer place.
I hurried into the sitting room on my right and pulled the dustcover off the settee. Although it was dusty, I used it as a blanket and curled up against the arm of the settee, squeezing my legs up against my stomach and embracing them.
The wind seemed to be circling and embracing the house, seeking out every opening, no matter how small, and then threading itself through to whistle and whip about the rooms, making the long drapes move in a macabre dance and the chandeliers swing ominously above. The storm grew stronger. I had heard that summer storms in the bayou were often worse than they were in New Orleans. This one appeared to have the power to lift this enormous house from its foundation and carry it off into the swamp.
I groaned. "Mommy," I whispered, "where can you be in all this? Are you safe?" Maybe she was upstairs, cringing in a corner just as I was cringing on this settee. I looked up at the ceiling, wishing I could see through walls for just an instant.
A decorative plate shook loose from one of the shelves of the hutch on my left and shattered on the cypress-plank floor. The crash startled me and I cried out. The wind grew louder, angrier. The chandeliers were rattling like old bones. In another room down the corridor, another piece of glass or china fell, exploding like a gunshot. Raindrops pelted the windows, zigzagging like sharp fingernails scratching their way down the panes. The wind that passed freely through the house stirred up the dust. I coughed and buried my face in my hands as I began to alternate between feeling chilled and feeling feverish. The raging tempest blustered harder and harder. I thought it was never going to end. The very walls threatened to fall in, crushing me. It grew so dark I could barely see my hand, and then I heard the front door blow open.
But I heard it close, too.
"Pearl! Pearl, where are you?" Jack cried. Never was I so happy to hear another person's voice, especially his.
"In here, Jack!"
He came rushing in, dressed in a slick black raincoat and hat and knee-high boots. He carried a flashlight and had a bundle under his arm. "Are you all right?" he asked hurrying over. He put down the flashlight and swept his hat off. Then he brushed the rain off the back of his neck.
"This storm is so horrible and it came so fast," I complained through my chattering teeth.
"We had hurricane warnings coming in over the radio," he said. "The storm built up as it traveled inland." He took the bundle out from under his arm. It contained a blanket and a kerosene lamp, which he set on a table. "I saw you drive up and tried to get you to come to the trailer, but you didn't see me waving."
He took off his wet raincoat and put it on a chair just as a gust of wind slammed against the house. I released a small cry. Jack was at my side instantly. I welcomed his embrace and cuddled against the warm pocket between his arm and his chest.
"You poor thing. You're freezing," he said, rubbing my shoulders and arms vigorously.
My teeth stopped chattering. "Oh, Jack, what are we going to do?"
"We'll wait it out," he said. "But anything that's loose is going to fly away. Let me light the kerosene lamp." I lifted myself away so he could do so. Then he sat back and offered his arm again. I leaned into him. The illumination from the flickering lamp threw distorted shapes over the wall. They looked like the silhouettes of grotesque marionettes dangling on strings, moving to the rhythm of the wind.
"Warmer?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you. No one mentioned a hurricane," I said.
"Sometimes they creep up on us. Makes it exciting to live here," he added smiling.
"I think I can do without this sort of thrill."
He laughed. "Did your mother contact your aunt? She was obviously not there if you returned to Cypress Woods," he concluded.
"No. I'm sure she won't call or go there either. I met my aunt's mother," I said with a grimace.
"Gladys Tate?" I nodded. "I never saw her around here, but I heard she's a tough lady. Actually," he said after a moment, "the boys say she's the one who wears the pants in that family. Whenever Mr. Tate does come around here, he looks whipped. It's none of my business, so I don't pay much attention, as long as we all get what's coming to us when it's coming to us."
"I returned to my great-grandmere's old shack, and, Jack, someone has been there since Daddy and I were there. Whoever it was tore the place apart."
"Tore it apart? What do you mean?"
I described the furniture, the walls. "Why would someone do that to an old, deserted place?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said with a look of worry. "It's strange." He thought a moment and shrugged. "Did you have anything to eat, drink?"
"I went into town and had some lunch in a place called Grandmere's Kitchen."
"Ella's place? Food's great, isn't it?"
"She went to school with my mother. I didn't tell her why I was really here," I said. "Nor did I say anything about the shack."
"Well, it won't take long for the truth to get out and around. My daddy says a phone's a waste of money in the bayou. One person tells another something, and it's passed on before the words die on the originator's lips."
"Cajun people are really close, aren't they?"
"One big family," he said proudly. "We have our feuds, though, same as any people."
"I'm half Cajun," I said, "but I feel as if I'm in another country."
"My grandmere used to say you can become Cajun only three ways: by the blood, by the ring, or by the back door. I tell you what," he added, gazing at me, "you got grit like a Cajun. Not many fancy New Orleans girls would come here all alone, I bet, no matter how important it was."
"I don't know what else to do. My mother's not home; my brother's getting worse and worse; Daddy's laid up with a broken leg . . ."
Jack nodded thoughtfully.
Suddenly I realized the storm had stopped. The house was cemetery quiet, and the air was still. "It's over," I said gratefully.
Jack shook his head. "The eye is passing over us. More to come," he predicted, and sure enough, moments later the wind began to whistle through the house again, the shutters slammed and pounded, and the rain splattered and drummed over the trembling windowpanes. Upstairs, a blast of air blew out a pane. We heard it shatter on the floor.
I cringed. Jack held me closer. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he thought it was his own.
"It'll be all right," he said again. I felt his lips on my hair, his warm breath against my cheek. The terror of the hurricane, the long storm of sadness that had been raining over us, and the desperation of our situation made me long for the calm and the security I found in Jack's arms. He was soft and loving and very sensitive.
I buried my face in his shoulder, unable to keep back the flood of tears. He held me tightly and comforted me as I sobbed. We hadn't known each other long, but his sincerity made that sho
rt period seem more like years. The wind howled, the rain stung the house, more things toppled and smashed, another window shattered. It seemed that the world was opening and we would fall into the gaping hole. The sky grew purplish and dark. The kerosene lamp flickered precariously.
"Wow," Jack whispered, and I knew that even he, someone who had been born and lived here all his life, was impressed with this particular storm. The house continued to shake. Everything on hinges was rattling. We clung to each other like two desperate swimmers clinging to a raft in a tossing sea. The wind rose and fell, sending wave after wave of rain against the house.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ended. Mother Nature relaxed and stepped over us, the storm trailing after her as she made her way northward to remind someone else how powerful she could be and how much we should all respect her. Jack eased his tight embrace around me, and we both sighed with relief.
"Is it finally over?" I asked, still skeptical.
"Yes," he said. "It's over. I just hate to go out there in daylight tomorrow and see the mess. You all right?"
I nodded, but I didn't leave his side. My heartbeat had slowed, but the numbness I had felt earlier in my legs was still there. I didn't think I could stand up. Jack stroked my hair with his left hand.
"How many of these storms have you been through?" I asked.
"A few, but this was a humdinger."
"I was born during a storm," I told him. "My mother told me about it and how my uncle Paul was there to help with the delivery."
"So that explains it," Jack said.
"Explains what?"
"Where you get your grit . . . from the hurricane. It left its mark in your heart. I bet you're a terror when you're angry."
"No . . . well, maybe," I said.
He laughed. "I don't intend to find out. So," he said sitting back, "what do you plan to do now?" "Nothing. I'm going to wait here," I said.
"You don't really think your mother's coming back, do you?"
"Yes," I said. "She knows I was here; she's got to come back."
Jack thought for a moment. "Okay," he said. "Let's go to my trailer and get some things, see how bad the storm was, and then we'll return."