Ruby l-1 Read online

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  "Your parents won't let you," I concluded.

  "I'll be there," he said. "My parents are just going to have to get used to the idea of you and me," he added, and smiled. Our eyes remained firmly on each other and then he leaned toward me and we kissed in the moonlight. The sound and sight of an automobile set us apart and made us walk faster toward the town and the soda shop.

  The street looked busier than usual this evening. Many of the local shrimp fishermen had brought their families in to enjoy the feast at the Cajun Queen, a restaurant that advertised an all-you-can-eat platter of crawfish and potatoes with pitchers of draft beer. In fact, there was a real festive atmosphere with the Cajun Swamp Trio playing their accordion, fiddle, and washboard on the comer near the Cajun Queen. Peddlers were out and folks sat on cypress log benches watching the parade of people go by. Some were eating beignets and drinking from mugs of coffee and some were feasting on sea bob, which was dried shrimp, some-times called Cajun Peanuts.

  Paul and I went to the soda fountain and confectionery store and sat at the counter to have our ice cream sodas. When Paul told the owner, Mr. Clements, why we were celebrating, he put gobs of whip cream and cherries on top of our sodas. I couldn't remember an ice cream soda that had ever tasted as good. We were having such a good time, we almost didn't hear the commotion outside, but other people in the store rushed to the door to see what was happening and we soon followed.

  My heart sunk when I saw what it was: Grandpère Jack being thrown out of the Cajun Queen. Even though he had been escorted out, he remained on the steps waving his fist and screaming about injustice.

  "I'd better see if I can persuade him to go home and calm down," I muttered, and hurried out. Paul followed. The crowd of onlookers had begun to break up, no longer much interested in a drunken man babbling to himself on the steps. I pulled on the sleeve of his jacket.

  "Grandpère, Grandpère ."

  "Wha . . .who . . ." He spun around, a trickle of whiskey running out of the corner of his mouth and down the grainy surface of his unshaven chin. For a moment he wobbled on his feet as he tried to focus on me. The strands of his dry, crusty looking hair stood out in every direction. His clothing was stained with mud and bits of food. He brought his eyes closer. "Gabrielle?" he said.

  "No, Grandpère. It's Ruby, Ruby. Come along, Grandpère. You have to go home. Come along," I said. It wasn't the first time I had found him in a drunken stupor and had to urge him to go home. And it wasn't the first time he had looked at me with his eyes hazy and called me by my mother's name.

  "Wha . . ." He looked from me to Paul and then back at me again. "Ruby?"

  "Yes, Grandpère. You must go home and sleep."

  "Sleep, sleep? Yeah," he said, turning back toward the Cajun Queen. "Those no good . . . they take your money and then when you voice your opinion about somethin' . . . things ain't what they was around here, that's for sure, that's for damn sure."

  "Come on, Grandpère." I tugged his hand and he came off' the steps, nearly tripping and falling on his face. Paul rushed to take hold of his other arm.

  "My boat," Grandpère muttered. "At the dock." Then he turned and ripped his hand from mine to wave his fist at the Cajun Queen one more time. "You don't know nothin’. None of you remember the swamp the way it was 'fore these damn oil people came. Hear?"

  "They heard you, Grandpère. Now it's time to go home."

  "Home. I can't go home," he muttered. "She won't let me go home."

  I swung my gaze to Paul who looked very upset for me. "Come along, Grandpère," I urged again, and he stumbled forward as we guided him to the dock.

  "He won't be able to navigate this boat himself," Paul declared. "Maybe I should just take him and you should go home, Ruby."

  "Oh, no. go along. I know my way through the canals better than you do, Paul," I insisted.

  We got Grandpère into his dingy and sat him down. Immediately, he fell over the bench. Paul helped him get comfortable and then he started the motor and we pulled away from the dock, some of the people still watching us and shaking their heads. Grandmère Catherine would hear about this quickly, I thought, and she would just nod and say she wasn't surprised.

  Minutes after we pulled away from the dock, Grandpère Jack was snoring. I tried to make him more comfortable by putting a rolled up sack under his head. He moaned and muttered something incoherently before falling asleep and snoring again. Then I joined Paul.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "For what?"

  "I'm sure your parents will find out about this tomorrow and be angry."

  "It doesn't matter," he assured me, but I remembered how dark Grandmère Catherine's eyes had become when she asked me what his parents thought of his seeing me. Surely they would use this incident to convince him to stay away from the Landrys. What if signs began to appear everywhere saying, "No Landrys Allowed," just like Grandmère Catherine described from the past? Perhaps I really would have to flee from the bayou to find someone to love me and make me his wife. Perhaps this was what Grandmère Catherine meant.

  The moon lit our way through the canals, but when we went deeper into the swamp, the sad veils of Spanish moss and the thick, intertwined leaves of the cypress blocked out the bright illumination making the waterway more difficult to navigate. We had to slow down to avoid the stumps. When the moonlight did break through an opening, it made the backs of the gators glitter. One whipped its tail, splash-ing water in our direction as if to say, you don't belong here. Farther along, we saw the eyes of a marsh deer lit up by the moonbeams. We saw his silhouetted body turn to disappear in the darker shadows.

  Finally, Grandpère's shack came into view. His galerie was crowded with nets for oyster fishing, a pile of Spanish moss he had gathered to sell to the furniture manufacturers who used it for stuffing, his rocking chair with the accordion on it, empty beer bottles and a whiskey bottle beside the chair and a crusted gumbo bowl. Some of his muskrat traps dangled from the roof of the galerie and some hides were draped over the railing. His pirogue with the pole he used to gather the Spanish moss was tied to his small dock. Paul gracefully navigated us up beside it and shut off the motor of the dingy. Then we began the difficult task of getting Grandpère out of the boat. He offered little assistance and came close to spilling all three of us into the swamp.

  Paul surprised me with his strength. He virtually carried Grandpère over the galerie and into the shack. When I turned on a butane lamp, I wished I hadn't. Clothing was strewn all about and everywhere there were empty and partially empty bottles of cheap whiskey. His cot was unmade, the blanket hanging down with most of it on the floor. His dinner table was covered with dirty dishes and crusted bowls and glasses, as well as stained silverware. From the expression on his face, I saw that Paul was overwhelmed by the filth and the mess.

  "He'd be better off sleeping right in the swamp," he muttered. I fixed the cot so he could lower Grandpère Jack onto it. Then we both started to undo his hip boots. "I can do this," Paul said. I nodded and went to the table first to clear it off and put the dishes and bowls into the sink, which I found to be full of other dirty dishes and bowls. While I washed and cleaned, Paul went around the shack and picked up the empty cans and bottles.

  "He's getting worse," I moaned, and wiped the tears from my eyes. Paul squeezed my arm gently.

  "I'll get some fresh water from the cistern," he said. While he was gone, Grandpère began to moan. I wiped my hands and went to him. His eyes were still closed, but he was muttering under his breath.

  "It ain't right to blame me . . . ain't right. She was in love, wasn't she? What's the difference then? Tell me that. Go on," he said.

  "Who was in love, Grandpère?" I asked.

  "Go on, tell me what's the difference. You got somethin' against money, do you? Huh? Go on."

  "Who was in love, Grandpère? What money?"

  He moaned and turned over.

  "What is it?" Paul said, returning w
ith the water.

  "He's talking in his sleep, but he doesn't make any sense," I said.

  "That's easy to believe."

  "I think . . . it had something to do with why he and my Grandmère Catherine are so angry at each other all the time."

  "I don't think there's much of a mystery to that, Ruby. Look around; look at what he's become. Why should she want to have him in the house?" Paul said.

  "No, Paul. It has to be something more. I wish he would tell me," I said, and knelt beside the cot. "Grandpère," I said, shaking his shoulder.

  "Damn oil companies," he muttered. "Dredged the swamps and killed the three-cornered grass . . . killing the muskrats . . . nothin' for them to eat."

  "Grandpère, who was in love? What money?" I demanded. He moaned and started to snore.

  "No sense talking to him when he's like that, Ruby," Paul said.

  I shook my head.

  "It's the only time he might tell me the truth, Paul." I stood up, still looking down at him. "Neither he nor Grandmère Catherine will talk about it any other time."

  Paul came to my side.

  "I picked up a bit outside, but it will take a few days to get this place in shape," he commented.

  "I know. We'd better start back. We'll dock his boat near my house. He'll pole the pirogue there tomorrow and find it."

  "He'll find his head's got a tin drum inside it," Paul said. "That's what he'll find tomorrow."

  We left the shack and got into the dingy. Neither of us spoke much on the way back. I sat beside Paul. He put his arm around me and I cradled my head against his shoulder. Owls hooted at us, snakes and gators slithered through the mud and water, frogs croaked, but my mind was fixed on Grandpère Jack's drunken words and I heard or saw nothing else until I felt Paul's lips on my forehead. He had shut off the motor and we were drifting toward the shore.

  "Ruby," he whispered. "You feel so good in my arms. I wish I could hold you all the time, or at least have you in my arms whenever I wanted."

  "You can, Paul," I replied softly, and turned my face to him so that he could bring his lips down to mine. Our kiss was soft, but long. We felt the boat hit the shore and stop, but neither of us made an attempt to rise. Instead, Paul wrapped his arms tighter around me and slipped down beside me, his lips now moving over my cheeks and gently caressing my closed eyes.

  "I go to sleep every night with your kiss on my lips," Paul said.

  "So do I, Paul."

  His left arm pressed the side of my breast softly. I tingled and waited in excited anticipation. He brought his arm back slowly until his hand gently cupped my breast and his finger slipped over my throbbing, erected nipple beneath the thin cotton blouse and bra to undo the top buttons. I wanted him to touch me; I even longed for it, but the moment he did, my electric excitement was quickly followed by a stream of cold fear, for I felt how strongly I wanted him to do more, go further and kiss me in places so intimate, only I had touched or seen them. Despite his gentleness and his deep expressions of love, I could not get around Grandmère Catherine's dark eyes of warning looming in my memory.

  "Wait, Paul," I said reluctantly. "We're going too fast."

  "I'm sorry," Paul said quickly, and pulled himself back. "I didn't mean to. I just . . ."

  "It's all right. If I don't stop you now, I won't stop you in a few minutes and I don't know what else we will do," I explained. Paul nodded and stood up. He helped me up and I straightened my skirt and blouse, rebuttoning the top two buttons. He helped me out of the boat and then pulled it up so it wouldn't be carried away when the tide from the Gulf raised the level of the water in the bayou. I took his hand and we made our way slowly back to the house. Grandmère Catherine was inside. We could hear her tinkering in the kitchen, finishing up the preparation of the biscuits she would bring to church in the morning.

  "I'm sorry our celebration turned out this way," I said, and wondered how many more times I would apologize for Grandpère Jack.

  "I wouldn't have missed a moment," Paul said. "As long as I was with you, Ruby."

  "Is your family going to church in the morning?" He nodded. "Are you still coming to dinner tomorrow night?"

  "Of course."

  I smiled and we kissed once more before I turned and climbed the steps to the front galerie. Paul waited until I walked in and then he went to his scooter and drove away. The moment Grandmère Catherine turned to greet me, I knew she had heard about Grandpère Jack. One of her good friends couldn't wait to bring her the news first, I was sure.

  "Why didn't you just let the police cart him off to jail? That's where he belongs, making a spectacle of himself in front of good folks with all those children in town, too," she said, wagging her head. "What did you and Paul do with him?"

  "We took him back to his shack, Grandmère, and if you saw how it was . . ."

  "I don't have to see it. I know what a pigsty looks like," she said, returning to her biscuits.

  "He called me Gabrielle when he first set eyes on me," I said.

  "Doesn't surprise me none. He probably forgot his own name, too."

  "At the shack, he mumbled a lot."

  "Oh?" She turned back to me.

  "He said something about someone being in love and what was the difference about the money. What does all that mean, Grandmère?"

  She turned away again. I didn't like the way her eyes skipped guiltily away when I tried to catch them. I knew in my heart she was hiding something.

  "I wouldn't know how to begin to untangle the mess of words that drunken mind produces. It would be easier to unravel a spiderweb without tearing it," she said.

  "Who was in love, Grandmère? Did he mean my mother?"

  She was silent.

  "Did he gamble away her money, your money?" I pursued.

  "Stop trying to make sense out of something stupid, Ruby. It's late. You should go to bed. We're going to early Mass, and I must tell you, I'm not happy about you and Paul carting that man into the swamp. The swamp is no place for you. It's beautiful from a distance, but it's the devil's lair, too, and wrought with dangers you can't even begin to imagine. I'm disappointed in Paul for taking you there," she concluded.

  "Oh, no, Grandmère. Paul didn't want me to go along. He wanted to do it himself, but I insisted."

  "Still, he shouldn't have done it," she said, and turned to me, her eyes dark. "You shouldn't be spending all your time with one boy like this. You're too young."

  "I'm fifteen, Grandmère. Some fifteen-year-old Cajun girls are already married, some with children."

  "Well, that's not going to happen to you. You're going to do better, be better," she said angrily.

  "Yes, Grandmère. I'm sorry. We didn't mean . . ."

  "All right," she said. "It's over and done with. Let's not ruin an otherwise special day by talking about your Grandpère anymore. Go to sleep, Ruby. Go on," she ordered. "After church, you're going to help me prepare our Sunday dinner. We've got a guest, don't we?" she asked, her eyes full of skepticism.

  "Yes, Grandmère. He's coming."

  I left her, my mind in a spin. The day had been filled with so many good things and so many bad. Maybe Grandmère Catherine was right; maybe it was better not to try to fathom the dark things. They had a way of polluting the clear waters, spoiling the fresh and the wonderful bright things. It was better to dwell on the happy events.

  It was better to think about my paintings hanging in a New Orleans gallery . . . to remember the touch of Paul's lips on mine and the way he made my body sing . . . to dream about a perfect future with me painting in my own art studio in our big house on the bayou. Surely the good things had a way of outweighing the bad, otherwise we would all be like Grandpère Jack, lost in a swamp of our own making, not only trying to forget the past, but trying to forget the future as well.

  3

  I Wish We Were a Family

  In the morning Grandmère Catherine and I put on our Sunday clothes. I brushed my hair and tied it up with a crimson ribbon and she and
I set out for church, Grandmère carrying her gift for Father Rush, a box of her homemade biscuits. It was a bright morning with silky white clouds lazily making their way across the nearly turquoise sky. I took a deep breath, inhaling the warm air seasoned with the salt of the Gulf of Mexico. It was the kind of morning that made me feel bright and alive, and aware of every beautiful thing in the bayou.

  The moment we walked down the steps of the galerie, I caught sight of the scarlet back of a cardinal as it flew to its safe, high nest. As we strolled down the road, I saw how the buttercups had blossomed in the ditches and how milk white were the small, delicate flowers of the Queen Anne's lace.

  Even the sight of a butcher bird's stored food didn't upset me. From early spring, through the summer and early fall, his fresh kills, lizards and tiny snakes, dried upon the thorns of a thorn tree. Grandpère Jack told me the butcher bird ate the cured flesh only during the winter months.

  "Butcher birds are the only birds in the bayou that have no visible mates," he told me. "No female naggin' them to death. Smart," he added before spitting out some tobacco juice and swigging a gulp of whiskey in his mouth. What made him so bitter? I wondered again. However, I didn't dwell on it long, for ahead of us the church loomed, its shingled spire lifting a cross high above the congregation. Every stone, every brick, and every beam of the old building had been brought and affectionately placed there by the Cajuns who worshipped in the bayou nearly one hundred and fifty years before. It filled me with a sense of history, a sense of heritage.

  But as soon as we rounded the turn and headed toward the church, Grandmère Catherine stiffened and straightened her spine. A group of well-to-do people were gathered in a small circle chatting in front of the church. They all stopped their conversation and looked our way as soon as we came into sight, a distinct expression of disapproval painted on all their faces. That only made Grandmère Catherine hoist her head higher, like a flag of pride.

  "I'm sure they're raking over what a fool your Grandpère made of himself last night," Grandmère Catherine muttered, "but I will not have my reputation blemished by that man's foolish behavior."