Landry 02 Pearl in the Mist (36 page)

instruments soaking in a pan of water. The walls of the room were the same dull yellow as the corridor walls. There were no pictures, no plaques, not even a window. But there was another door, which opened, and a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows and thin coal-black hair flattened over the top of his head and cut short at the sides stepped in. He wore a light blue surgical gown.
He looked at me and nodded, but he didn't say hello. Instead he walked to the sink and began to scrub his hands.
"Just sit up on the table," he ordered with his back to me.
The heavy woman came in and began to organize the surgical tools. The doctor turned around to look at me. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
"The table," he said again, nodding at it.
"I thought . . . I would be brought to a hospital," I said.
"Hospital?" He looked at the nurse, who shook her head without speaking. She didn't look up, nor did she look at me. "This is your first time, right?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, my voice cracking. My heart was pounding, and I felt the beads of sweat forming on my neck and brow.
"Well, it won't take long," he said. His nurse picked up an instrument that looked like Grandpere Jack's hand drill. I felt my stomach do a flip-flop.
"This is a mistake," I said. "I'm supposed to go to a clinic."
I backed away, shaking my head. Neither the doctor nor the nurse had even introduced themselves.
"This can't be right," I said.
"Now look here, young lady. I'm doing your mother a favor. I left my house, rushed my dinner to come down here. There's no time for foolishness."
"Foolishness is what got you here," the heavy woman said, scowling. "You play, you pay," she added. "Get on the table."
I shook my head.
"No. This isn't right. No," I said again. I backed myself to the door and found the knob. "No."
"I have no time for this," the doctor warned.
"I don't care. This isn't right." I turned around to pull open the door. In an instant I was down the dingy corridor and out the rear entrance. My driver was still sitting in the car behind the wheel, his cap over his eyes, his head back, sleeping. I rapped on the window and he jumped.
"Take me home!" I screamed.
He got out quickly and opened the rear door.
"Madame told me it would be awhile," he said, confused.
"Just drive," I screamed. He shrugged but got back into the car and pulled away. Moments later we were back on the highway. I looked back at the dark, murky town. It was as if I had gone in and out of a nightmare.
But when I turned and looked ahead, the reality of what awaited me hit me like a gust of hurricane wind. Daphne would be furious; she would make my life even more miserable. We approached a fork in the road. The arrow on the sign pointed left to indicate the direction of New Orleans, but it also had an arrow pointing right, toward Houma.
"Stop!" I ordered.
"What?" The driver pressed his foot down on the brake and turned around. "What now,
mademoiselle?" he asked.
I hesitated. My whole life seemed to flash by me: Grandmere Catherine waiting for me when I returned from school, running up to her with my pigtails flying, embracing her and trying to tell her as fast as I could about all the things that I had learned and done at school. Paul in a pirogue coming out from a bend and waving to me, and me rushing down to the shore to join him, a picnic lunch under my arms. Grandmere Catherine's last words, my promises, walking off to get on the bus to New Orleans. Arriving at the mansion in the Garden District. Daddy's soft, loving eyes, the excitement in his face when he realized who I was.. All of it rushed by in moments.
I opened the car door.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Just go back to New Orleans, Charles," I told him.
"What?" he said in disbelief.
"Tell Madame Dumas . . . tell her she is finally rid of me," I said, and started walking toward Houma.
Charles waited, confused. But when I disappeared in the darkness, he pulled away and the sleek limousine went on without me, its rear lights growing smaller and smaller until it was completely gone, and I was alone on the highway.
A year before I had left Houma thinking I was going home.
The truth was that right now I was returning to the only home I had ever known.

18
Why Me?
.
The tears streamed down my face faster and

harder as I continued walking through the darkness. Cars and trucks rushed by me, some honking their horns, but I walked on and on until I came to a gas station. It was closed, but there was a telephone booth beside it. I dialed Beau's number and prayed with all my heart that Beau had talked his family into permitting him to stay in New Orleans. As the phone rang, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and caught my breath. Garton, the Andreas family butler, answered.

"May I speak with Beau, please, Garton?" I said quickly. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but Monsieur Beau is not here," he said.

"Do you know where he is or when he will return?" asked with desperation in my voice.
"He's on his way to the airport, mademoiselle." "Tonight? He's going away tonight?"
"Oui,
mademoiselle. I am sorry. Is there a message, mademoiselle?"
"No," I said weakly. "No message.
Merci beaucoup,
Garton."
I cradled the receiver slowly and let my head fall against the phone. Beau was leaving before we had even had a chance to say goodbye. Why didn't he just run away and come to me? I asked myself but then realized how unreasonable and foolish such an act would have been. What good would it have done for him to give up his family and his future?
I sighed deeply and sat back. The dark clouds that had covered the moon slipped off and the pale white light illuminated the road, making it look like a trail of bones that led into yet deeper darkness. I had made a decision back there, I thought. There was nothing to do now but carry it out. I started to walk again.
The sound of a truck horn blaring behind me spun me around just as the driver of a tractor-trailer slowed it down to a stop. He leaned out the passengerside window and gazed down at me.
"What in all tarnation are you doin' walking along this highway in the dead of night?" he demanded. "Don't you know how dangerous that is?"
"I'm going home," I said.
"And where's that?"
"Houma."
He roared. "You're planning on walking to Houma?"
"Yes sir," I said in a sorrowful voice. The realization of just how many miles I had to go set in when he laughed at me.
"Well, you're in luck. I'm passing through Houma," he said, and swung the door open. "Git yourself up and in here. Come on," he added, when I hesitated, "fore I change my mind."
I stepped up and into the truck and closed the door. "Now how is it a girl your age is walkin' all by herself on this highway?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the road. He looked like a man in his fifties and had some gray hair mixed in with his dark brown.
"I just decided to go home," I said,
He turned and looked at me, then nodded with understanding. "I got a daughter about your age. She run off once. Got about five miles away before she realized people want money for food and lodging, and strangers don't usually give a tinker's damn about you. She high-tailed it back as fast as she could when a skunk of a man made her a nasty offer. Git my meaning?"
"Yes sir."
"Same could have happened to you tonight, walking this lonely road all by yerself. Your parents are probably out of their mind with worry too. Now don't you feel foolish?"
"Yes sir, I do."
"Good. Well, fortunately, no harm come of it, but before you go runnin' off to what you think are greener pastures next time, you better sit yourself down and count the blessings you have," he advised.
I smiled. "I certainly will do that," I said.
"Well, no harm done," he said. "Truth is, when I was about your age. . . no," he added, looking at me again, "I guess younger. . . I done run off myself." He laughed at the memory and then began to tell me his story. I realized that driving a truck for long distances was a lonely life, and this kind man had picked me up for the company as much as to do a good deed.
By the time we'd pulled into Houma, I had learned how he and his family had left Texas, where he had gone to school, why he'd married his childhood sweetheart, how he'd built his own home, and how he'd become a truck driver. He wasn't aware of how much he had been talking until he brought the truck to a stop.
"Tarnation! We're here already and I didn't even ask you your name, did I?"
"It's Ruby," I said. And then, as if to
symbolically emphasize my return, I added, "Ruby Landry," for I was a Landry again as far as the people of Houma were concerned. "Thank you," I said.
"All right. You think twice 'fore you go running off to be a big-city girl, hear?"
"I will." I got out of the truck. After I had watched him pull away and disappear around a turn, I started to walk home. As I ambled down the familiar streets, I recalled the many times Grandmere Catherine and I came into town together or went visiting one of her friends together. I recalled the times she took me with her on one of her
traiteur
missions, and I remembered how much the people loved and respected her. Suddenly the thought of returning to that toothpick-legged shack of ours without her being there seemed terrifying, and then there was the prospect of confronting Grandpere Jack. Paul had told me so many sad stories about him.
I paused at another pay phone and dug some more change out of my purse, this time to call Paul. His sister Jeanne answered.
"Ruby?" she said. "My gosh! It's been so long since I've spoken to you. Are you calling from New Orleans?"
"No," I said.
"Where are you?"
"I'm . . . here," I said.
"Here? Oh, that's wonderful. Paul!" she screamed. "Come to the phone. It's Ruby, and she's here!"
A moment later I heard his warm and loving voice, a voice that I needed so desperately to give me comfort and hope.
"Ruby? You're here?"
"Yes, Paul. I've
^-
come home. It's too long a story to tell you on the phone, but I wanted you to know."
"You're returning to the shack?" he asked incredulously. "Yes." I explained where I was and he told me not to take another step.
"I'll be there before you can blink your eyes," he promised. It did seem like only a few minutes later that he pulled up in his car and hopped out excitedly. We embraced each other, me holding onto him as tightly as he held onto me.
"Something terrible has happened, hasn't it? What has Daphne done now? Or is it Gisselle? What could either of them do that would send you back here?" he asked, then noticed I had no luggage. "What did you do, run off?"
"Yes, Paul," I said, bursting into tears. He got me into his car and held me until I could speak. It must have sounded like crazy babble to him, for I burst forth with the whole story, inserting almost everything and anything that had been done to me, including Gisselle's planting a bottle of rum in my dorm room. But when I described my pregnancy and the butcher doctor in the dirty office, Paul's face turned pale white and then flashed red with anger.
"She would do that to you? You were right to run away. I'm glad you've returned."
"I don't know what I'm going to do yet," I said, wiping
away
my tears and taking a deep breath. "I just want to go back to the shack for now."
"Your grandpere ."
"What about him?"
"He's been on a real tear lately. Yesterday when I drove by, he was digging up the front and shouting into the wind, his arms waving. My father says he's run out of money for rotgut whiskey and he's got the DTs. He thinks it's almost the end for him. Most everyone is surprised he's gone on this long, Ruby. I don't know as I should take you back there."
"I've got to go back there, Paul, It's my only home now," I said, determined.
"I know, but . you're going to find it a terrible mess, I'm sure. It'll break your heart. My father says your grandmere must be spinning in her grave something terrible."
"Take me home, Paul. Please," I begged.
He nodded. "Okay, for now," he said. "But I'm going to look after you, Ruby. I swear I will."
"I know you will, Paul, but I don't want to be a burden to you, to anyone. get back to doing the work Grandmere Catherine and I did, so I can keep myself."
"Nonsense," he said. He started the engine. "I got way more than I'm ever going to need. I told you, I'm a manager now. I've already approved the plans for my own home. Ruby..."
"Don't talk about the future, Paul. Please. I don't believe in the future anymore."
"All right," he said. "But you're going to be fine as long as I'm around. That's a promise you can take to the bank," he bragged.
I smiled. He did look much older. He had always been more mature and responsible than other boys his age, and his father had not hesitated to give him important work. "Thank you, Paul."
I don't think there was a way I could have prepared myself for what the shack and the grounds around it would look like when I set eyes on it again. I was lucky I was arriving at night when so much of it wasn't visible, but I saw the deep holes dug in the front, and when I set eyes on the galerie and saw the way it leaned, the railings cracked and broken, the floorboards torn up in places, my heart sank. One of the front windows was broken wide open. Grandmere Catherine would have been in tears.
"You sure you want to go in there?" Paul asked when we came to a stop.
"Yes, Paul. I'm sure. No matter what it looks like now. It was once my home and my grandmere's home."
"Okay. I'll go in with you and see what he's up to.
He
might not even remember you, the way he is," Paul declared.
"Careful," Paul said when we stepped up to the galerie. The boards complained loudly; the front door squeaked on its rusted hinges and threatened to fall right off when we opened it, and 'the house itself smelled like every swamp creature had made some part of it its home.
There was only a single lantern lit on the old kitchen table. Its tiny flame flickered precariously as the breeze flowed unabated through the shack from the opened rear windows.
"All the bugs in the bayou have come in here, I'm sure," Paul said.
The kitchen was a filthy mess. There were empty whiskey bottles on the floor, under the tables and chairs, and on the counters. The sink was filled with dishes caked with old food and the floor had food drippings decomposing on it, some of it looking like it had been there for weeks, if not months< I took the lantern and walked through the downstairs.
The living room was in no better condition. The table was turned over, as well as the chair in which Grandmere used to sit and fall asleep every night. There were empty bottles in here too. The floor was plastered with mud, grime, and swamp grass. We heard something scurry along the wall,
"Probably rats," Paul said. "Or at least field mice. Maybe even a raccoon."
"Grandpere!" I cried.
We went to the rear and searched and then walked up the stairs. I think the effort it took for Grandpere to climb those steps saved the upper part of the house from the same abuse and deterioration the downstairs suffered. The loom room was not very changed, nor was my old bedroom and Grandmere Catherine's, save everything that could have been opened and searched had been. Grandpere had even pulled off some wallboards.
"Where could he be?" I wondered.
Paul shrugged. "Down at one of the zydeco bars, begging for a drink maybe," he said, but when we descended the stairs again, we heard Grandpere Jack's shrill screams coming from the rear of the house. We hurried around back and saw him, naked but caked with mud, swinging a burlap sack over his head and yelping like a hound dog after game.
"Stay back," Paul advised. "Jack," he called. "Jack Landry!"
Grandpere stopped swinging the sack and stared through the darkness. "Who's there? Robbers, thieves, git on wit' ya!"
"No thieves. It's Paul Tate."
"Tate? You stay away, hear? I ain't giving you nothin' back. Stay away. This is my fortune. I earned it. I found it. I dug and dug until I found it, hear? Back, back or I'll heave a rock at yer. Back!" he screamed again, but he backed up himself.
"Grandpere!" I cried. "It's me, Ruby. I've come home."
"Who? Who's that?"
"It's Ruby," I said, stepping forward.
"Ruby? No. I ain't takin' the blame for that. No. We needed the money. Don't blame me. Don't go blaming me. Catherine, don't you blame me!" he screamed. Then, clutching his burlap sack to his chest, he went running toward the canal.
"Grandpere!"
"Let him go, Ruby. He's gone mad from the rotgut whiskey."
We heard him scream again, and then we heard the splash of water.
"Paul, he'll drown."
Paul thought a moment. "Give me the lantern," he said, then went after Grandpere. I heard more splashing, more screaming.
"Jack!" Paul cried.
"No, it's mine! Mine!" Grandpere replied. There was more splashing, and then it grew quiet.
"Paul?" I waited and then charged, through the darkness, my feet sinking into the soft swamp grass. I ran toward the light and found Paul gazing over the water.
"Where is he?" I asked in a loud whisper.
"I don't know, I. . ." He squinted and then he pointed.
"Grandpere!" I screamed.
Grandpere Jack's body looked like a thick log floating along. It bounced against some rocks and then got caught in the current and continued on until it became entangled in some brush that stuck up out of the water.
"We'd better get some help," Paul suggested. "Come on."
Less than an hour later, the firemen hoisted Grandpere Jack's body out of the water. He was still clutching his burlap sack, only instead of buried treasure, it was filled with rusted old tin cans.
How could I have a more horrible
homecoming? Despite the terrible things Grandpere Jack had done and the pathetic creature he had become, I couldn't help but remember him when I was a little girl. He had his soft moments. I would go out to his swamp shack and he would talk about the bayou as if it were his dearest friend. At one time he was a legend. There wasn't a better trapper. He knew how to read the swamp, knew when the waters would be rising and falling, knew when the bream would be running, and knew where the 'gators slept and the snakes curled.
He liked to talk about his ancestors then, about the scoundrels who raised hell on the Mississippi, the famous gamblers and flatboat polers. Grandmere Catherine said he spun most of it out of his own imagination, but it didn't matter to me whether it was wholly true or not. I just liked the way he told his tales, staring out at the Spanish moss and puffing on his corncob pipe as he rattled on and on, pausing only occasionally in those days to take a swig from his jug. He always had an excuse for it. He had to clear his throat of the grime that floats through the air in the swamp or he had to chase a cold away. Sometimes he just had to keep his gizzards warm.
Despite the break between Grandmere Catherine and Grandpere Jack after he had contracted to sell Gisselle to the Dumas family, I sensed that once, a long time ago, they were true sweethearts. Even Grandmere, during one of her calmer moments, would admit that he had been a strikingly handsome, virile young man, dazzling her with his emerald-green eyes and his sun-darkened skin. He was quite a dancer too, who could cut up the floor better than anyone at a
fais dodo
.
But time has a way of drawing the poisons in us to the surface. The evil that nestled under Grandpere Jack's heart seeped out and changed him--or, as Grandmere was fond of saying, "turned him into what he was: a no-account rogue who belongs with the things that slither and crawl."