Hidden Jewel (23 page)

"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.
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."