Landry 05 Tarnished Gold Read online

  "But whenever I stop and have regrets, I think how lucky I am to have you, honey," she added, her face beaming.

  "Oh, Mama," I wailed, "I just keep adding to your burden."

  "Now, now . . what I'm trying to tell you is I don't want you to apologize and feel bad about me. It says in the Bible that he without sin cast the first stone. I'm no one to cast stones, and your daddy, he couldn't cast a pebble at an ax murderer. Understand, honey?"

  "Oui, Mama," I said.

  "I mean it," she said firmly.

  I smiled. Mama's confession gave me the strength to offer my own.

  "Mama, I wanted Pierre's baby and I still do. Very much. I know it's wrong, especially because Pierre is married, but you know how terrible I feel about losing Paul."

  "Yes," she said with a deep sigh. It amazed me how she could bear so much weight on those small shoulders. "We'll make do, somehow. We always manage. Great strength comes from great burdens, I suppose.

  "But," she added, turning back to me with a very serious expression on her face, "we have to live here, and some of these people can be pretty mean and vicious when they want to, you know. I think it might be best to come up with some explanation down the road. I don't like lying to anyone, even to your father; but it may be necessary to stretch the truth a bit. We have so many other sins to be forgiven for, a little white lie don't seem like much to add, no?" she said with a smile.

  "No, Mama. But I'm sure Pierre will help us," I added confidently.

  Mama smiled. "We'll see," she said. She sat back, sighed deeply again, and then stood up. "I think I'll turn in. It seems like it's been a very long day."

  "I'll be right behind you in a moment, Mama," I told her.

  "Don't stay up late," she advised, and went inside.

  I sat on the gallery and stared into the darkness of the road that ran by our shack and off to the main highway that would take anyone to New Orleans.

  "He'll be back," I told the shadows that hovered around me. "And soon, too.

  "And everything . . . will be all right."

  Days passed into weeks and I heard nothing from Pierre. Every morning I would wake expecting something, a package, a letter, a messenger, and at night I would sit on the gallery after dinner and stare at the road in anticipation of something; but there was nothing but silence and darkness.

  I knew Mama felt bad for me. If I looked her way and caught her gazing with pity, she would shift her eyes quickly and pretend to be interested in something else.

  Daddy came and went, sometimes staying away for days. When he did come home, the first thing he would do was come to me to ask if Pierre had been back.

  "He come around here, Gabriel? You tell, hear?"

  "No, Daddy," I replied. He nodded, satisfied I wouldn't lie to him. I often caught him staring at me, though. He always looked like he was in deep thought. It made me nervous, but I didn't say anything about it to Mama or to him.

  Weeks after the fire, I finally gathered the strength to return to the ruins of Pierre's and my love nest. It had been reduced to rubble, a pile of charred wood and metal. Wandering through the ashes, I saw the small remnants of one of my dresses and sifted through the soot to find some pearls. I gathered them quickly and cleaned them off. Then I put them in my pocket and brought them home to keep them close to me.

  Even my nights alone, shut up in the Tates' attic room, weren't as lonely and as melancholy for me as the nights after the fire were. When I finally did go up to sleep, I would sit by the window and look out toward the canal, toward the places where I had seen Pierre waiting for me in the moonlight. I would hope and pray so much that my eyes would play tricks on me and I could swear he was there. Once, I even went out to see, and of course, found no one.

  When I did fall asleep, I tossed and turned a great deal, fretting in and out of nightmares. In one I saw myself drowning and calling for Pierre to help. He was just standing in the pirogue, watching, and when he finally decided to pole in my direction to help me, someone called him back. I couldn't see who it was. I woke as my head sunk into the dark, teacolored water of the canal. My heart was pounding, my face and neck were damp with sweat. After nightmares, I didn't fall back asleep until it was almost morning light, and when I heard Mama moving about, getting ready for the day, I groaned and got myself up to help.

  "I want you to rest more, Gabriel," she told me, and studied me a moment. "You look like you're swellin' up faster this time." She pinched my arm gently and watched the color in my skin, nodding to herself. "Every time a woman gives birth, it's different. Makes sense it should be, the baby's different. You mind and take care, hear?"

  I promised I would. These days I wasn't filled with too much energy and enthusiasm anyway. Even my walks were shorter, and I stopped my canoe trips through the canals. Occasionally I went along with Mama to town, but even that held no interest for me and I stopped. I spent hours at the loom or sitting on the gallery weaving palmetto baskets and hats. The mechanical work seemed to fit my empty thoughts. My- fingers moved as if they had minds of their own, and I was always surprised to discover I had finished something.

  Had Daddy really driven Pierre away forever? I wondered when my mind did work. What would become of our special love? Would it wilt and crumble like leaves?

  The rumble of thunder and rugs of dark clouds that were laid over the sky fit my mood. When the rains came, they seemed to wash away my memories as well as plants and flowers. Hurricane winds tore off branches and blew over tables and chairs. The shack strained and groaned. I hovered under my blankets waiting for it to end, pressing my face to the pillow, wondering how so much gloom could have come so quickly to my world of light and hope.

  And then one night after a particularly bad storm, after Mama and I had to clean up our gallery and the front of the shack, Daddy came barreling in with his truck, slamming the door and whistling as if he had won the biggest bourre pot of his life. Exhausted, Mama and I were sitting at the plank table in the kitchen, neither of us with much of an appetite. She looked up at him with disgust.

  "Now you come home, Jack," Mama began. "After the storm, after we done all the work, man's work?"

  "This house can blow itself down to hell, for all I care," he said. "It don't matter no more."

  "Is that right?" Mama began, her eyes blazing despite the film of fatigue that had settled over them. "My house don't matter no more, you say?"

  "Now, just hold on, Catherine," he said, raising his hands. "Sit yourself back in that chair, hear, and behave yourself. Otherwise," he said with a wide, silly grin, "I might just not tell you what I done and what's going to be."

  "I'm probably better off not hearing it if it's something you've done," Mama mumbled.

  "That so? See?" he said to me. "See how she's always smart-talking me all the time, putting me down, making me look bad to my friends and neighbors?"

  Mama started to laugh. "Me? No one has to work at making you look bad, Jack. You do that the best."

  Daddy's smile faded. He stared at her for a moment and then he took on the most self-satisfied leer I had seen on his face. He dug into his pants pocket and came up with a fistful of money, and planted it on the center of the table. As the bills unfolded, we saw they were fifties and hundreds. It was the first time I had ever seen a hundred-dollar bill.

  "What's that?" Mama asked suspiciously.

  "What's it look like, woman? That there's good old U.S. currency, and that pile there is for you to do with what you please, hear?"

  Mama glanced at me before looking up at Daddy again. "And where's it come from, a bourre pot filled with money folks can't afford to lose?"

  "Nope. It comes from here," Daddy said, poking his right temple with his right forefinger. "It comes from being smart."

  "Is that so? Well, this I gotta hear," Mama said, and sat back, her arms folded under her bosom.

  Daddy went over to the cupboard, found himself some cider, and poured himself a glass first. We watched him gulp it down, his Adam's app
le bobbing. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and glared at me.

  "She may know the swamp and the animals better than most around these parts," he said, nodding at me, "but she don't know nothin' when it comes to men."

  "Never mind Gabriel, Jack. We're talking about you now and what you done to get this money."

  "Right. I think to myself, Jack Landry, why is it you've been the one left holding the hot potato here, huh? Why is it you got to be the one to figure out what else to do to feed another mouth, make a home, bear the brunt of insults, huh? Why is it those rich people can come in here and use us the way they want, use us like a. . a towel and then throw us away, huh? Well, they can't, is what I say!" he exclaimed, pounding the sink top with his fist.

  "Most men in these here parts don't know their right from their left when it comes to going someplace other than the bayou. Once you take them out of the swamp, they're confused, stupid fools. But I ain't no swamp rat, hear? I'm Jack Landry. My greatgrandpere worked the riverboats, and my mere's greatgrandpere was one of the best gamblers this side of the Mississippi," he boasted. "It's true, he was hanged, but that was a mistake."

  "All right, Jack. I know how wonderful your ancestors were. Get on with it," Mama demanded.

  "Yeah. You know. You know everything, don'tcha, Catherine Landry? Anyways, I upped and took myself to New Orleans."

  "What?" I said with a gasp.

  "That's right," he said, his eyes blazing.

  "What were you doing in New Orleans, Jack?" Mama asked.

  "I found out where those Dumas men live and I paid 'em a little visit. Turns out the old man is not really unhappy with what I come to tell him either," Daddy said, nodding.

  Mama stared, astounded. She looked at me and then she leaned forward.

  "What did you tell him, Jack?"

  "I told him about Gabriel here and the condition his son put her into," he said, standing proud. "That's what I told him, and I didn't spare no words, neither. I told him about the shack and the way he done seduced my little girl."

  "He did not!" I cried.

  "Hush a moment," Mama said, her eyes brighter, her face flushed. "Go on, Jack. What else did you tell him?"

  "I told him I was about to bring Gabriel into New Orleans and take her to the newspaper people if I had to," he said, nodding and smiling. "I would let the whole city know what his fine, upstanding, well-to-do businessman son done to a poor, innocent girl in the bayou."

  "Where was Pierre?" I asked, my heart pounding.

  "Hiding himself someplace, I bet," Daddy said. "He didn't show his face the whole time I was there. They got a palace, not a house, Catherine. You can't even imagine the rich things in the house and the size of the rooms, and there's a tennis court and a swimming pool and--"

  "I don't care about any of that, Jack. Just tell us what you told Monsieur Dumas."

  "Well, I expected to get the money I needed to look after Gabriel here. You ain't gonna find yourself a good husband now, Gabriel," he said, turning to me and shaking his head. "A woman with a child and no marriage ain't got a chance and certainly ain't got the pickin's. Why, I couldn't even get you Nicolas Paxton now, and it's your own doin'."

  "Never mind all that, Jack. You haven't told us anything we don't know."

  "Right." He straightened up. "Well, Monsieur Dumas, he says his son already told him about what he had done. He knew the details, and what's more, he said his son's wife knew the details, so I couldn't threaten him none."

  "His wife?" I gasped.

  "That's right. That's what he says, and full of arrogance, too. I was about to protest and start ragin' at him when he puts up his hand, looks away for a moment, and then says he's willing . . . no, he wants to buy the child."

  "No!" I cried.

  "Not again, Jack?" Mama said. "You didn't go and make a bargain with the devil again?"

  "This is different, Catherine," Daddy protested. "We got no way to hide Gabriel's condition. We can't keep the community from knowing she's a fallen woman. I got to look after the future. These people are so rich, they make the Tates look like paupers. You see that pile of money there?" he said, pointing to the table. "Well, that's just payment for me to think on it. I'm going to get us enough to take care of us forever. We don't have to worry about Gabriel finding herself a good man, see? And you don't have to go running off at everyone's beck and call to tend to their insect bites and coughs."

  Mama was silent a moment. The tears were streaming down my cheeks. Where was Pierre? How could he have permitted his father to make such an offer? Mama rose to her full height, which wasn't much, but with her eyes wide, she looked taller, and Daddy stepped back, shaking his head.

  "You gotta admit I done good, Catherine. You gotta admit that."

  "You done good? You done good? How, Jack? By running off to sell your daughter's child? You think children are just like a bag of oysters? It's part of her, which makes the child part of us, too. It's our flesh and blood."

  "And it's our burden," Daddy said, his determination firmer than I had ever seen. He didn't flinch or retreat from Mama's anger as he usually did. "I know I done right." His courage mounted, his chest pumped. "I'm the man here, see? I make the decisions. You might be the best traiteur in these parts, Catherine, but you're still my wife and that's still my daughter, and what I decide is . . is what will be when it comes to this family, hear?"

  "Go to hell, Jack Landry," Mama said. Daddy's face turned so red, I thought the top of his head would explode. He looked at me. I was holding my breath, my eyes so wide, they hurt. It only added to his embarrassment. "Take your bargain back to the devil," Mama hissed.

  Daddy didn't retreat.

  Mama started toward him, and suddenly he swung his open right palm and caught her on the side of the face. The blow sent her flying against the table. I screamed. Daddy stood there, surprised at what he had done himself. He started to stutter and stammer an apology as Mama shook the dizziness out of her head and stood up to him again. This time she pointed her finger at the door. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper, her voice cold and throaty.

  "Get out of my house," she said. "And never set foot in here again or I'll put the blackest curse on your head. I swear by my ancestors."

  Daddy's mouth opened and closed. I felt so faint I thought I would collapse on the table myself. He looked at me a moment and then at Mama, but his eyes shifted from hers quickly. It was as if he were looking right into the heart of a blazing fire. He raised his hand as if to block a blow she might throw at him and retreated.

  "You'll be sorry you talked to me like that, Catherine. I might just not return," he threatened.

  "I'm telling you not to return, ever," she retorted. "Everything that's yours will be on that gallery in less than an hour. You come by and take it away, and with it, your dirty, filthy soul. Get out! Get out!" she shouted.

  Daddy turned and pounded over the

  floorboards. He slammed the door behind him and marched over the gallery. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and then . . . a deadly, deep silence until I heard his truck engine start.

  "I won't come back until you apologize!" he cried, and then the truck spun away.

  Mama pivoted and rushed toward the stairway to go upstairs and do what she said she would: gather Daddy's things and put them on the gallery. I heard her rip through the dresser drawers and pull out the clothing from the closet. She heaved it down the stairs and then followed, pounding the stairs with such anger, I was afraid to get in the way. I spoke to her, but she acted as if I weren't even there. It took her only ten minutes to gather everything that belonged to Daddy. She cast it all out the door, just as she had vowed. It was the worst fight ever between them.

  And all I could think was I was the cause of it all.

  Daddy didn't return for his things that night. I kept waking up, thinking I heard him, but when I listened hard, there was only silence, no footsteps, nothing. Mama had gone to sleep early. She seemed to age years in minutes, and
right before my eyes, too. I remained awake as long as I could, sitting by the front door, and then I went up to bed.

  Mama was up earlier than ever the next morning. I suspected she had gone downstairs before the sun had risen. I had woken so many times during the night, my eyelids felt like they were made of slate. It took gobs of cool rainwater to snap them open. When I walked past Daddy's things scattered over the gallery, I felt my heart sink like lead in my chest. Mama wouldn't talk about it. She rattled on about the things she had to do all day and described some of the chores she wanted me to complete.

  She moved in and out of the shack all day that day without as much as glancing at Daddy's things. I saw some of his socks had been cast over the railing, but I was afraid to touch anything. We had a few customers and Monsieur Tourdan brought his mother to get Mama to treat her warts. When anyone asked her about the clothing on the gallery, she looked at it as if she saw it for the first time herself and said, "That's Jack Landry's business, not mine."

  The way she spoke about Daddy, it was as if he were some stranger, someone she barely knew. She avoided saying "husband." In her mind her husband was dead and gone, and this man, Jack Landry, a boarder, had to get his stuff away from here. No one said anything or asked anything. Everyone just nodded, understanding. Most people had often wondered how Mama had put up with Daddy all these years anyway, ascribing it to her healing powers.

  It wasn't until dinner that I finally brought the topic up. "I just hate myself for causing all this, Mama," I told her.

  She laughed. "You? Believe me, honey, the forces that caused Jack Landry to be the man he is come from the Garden of Eden. Don't you blame yourself for your father, Gabriel."

  "Maybe Daddy was right," I said mournfully. "Maybe I'm wrong wanting to keep my baby. Maybe it is like hoisting a flag of sin in front of our house."

  "If there is such a flag, your pere wrapped himself in it years ago."

  I looked away and thought before turning back to her. "I don't understand why Pierre hasn't returned to see me, Mama." My chin quivered.