We started walking back.

"Is your father still working, too?" I asked him.

"No. He retired, but he still lives in the bayou. He spends all his time in his pirogue, fishing. I've only been to New Orleans twice," he said. "Once when I was just twelve and then again on my twenty-first birthday five years ago. My whole family went—me, my parents, and my two sisters. City life is sure different. All that racket and straining your neck to see the sun and stars."

I laughed. "It's not that bad where we live."

"You live in a house as big as that?" he said nodding toward the mansion.

"No, but it's big," I admitted.

"My father says people who live in the city probably want big houses because they want to be inside most of the time rather than in the dirty streets."

I laughed again. "We have beautiful grounds. The area is called the Garden District, and it's not really city life."

"That's good, but I'd still miss the open skies, the animals, and all this nature," he said.

"It is beautiful here," I admitted. "I know my mother missed it."

Jack paused and put his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sunlight. "Looks like your father's waving for you," he said, pointing, and I looked toward the trailer where Daddy was standing. He appeared disturbed. Maybe he learned something about Mommy, I thought and hurried along.

"Jeanne hasn't seen or heard from her," he said. "We can't stay and look any longer. I called the house."

"And . . . ?"

"Pierre's gotten worse. The doctor wants him back in the hospital immediately."

"Oh, Daddy."

We hugged. I saw Jack standing to the side, his helmet in his hand, watching. "I'm sorry for your trouble," he said when I went to say good-bye.

"My other brother took the loss of his twin very hard. He's in a catatonic state and won't eat or drink."

"On top of all that, you have this problem with your mother. I wish I could do more."

"Keep an eye out for her," I whispered.

"I promise I will," he said. "Bye."

I joined Daddy at the car. He sat there for a moment looking at the mansion.

"Jeanne is right. It looks like a gigantic tomb," he muttered. "They should either fix it up or knock it down," he declared angrily. Then he started the car and backed up. As we drove down the long driveway, I gazed back and saw Jack Clovis still standing there watching us leave.

Off to the left, my well pumped on as if it had a heart and a life of its own. For the first time, I thought of the wells as something other than monsters. Maybe now the nightmare would end.

Was there another waiting to take its place?


10

  A Candle in the Wind

Daddy muttered to himself all the way back to New Orleans. He chanted his hope. Sometimes it sounded more like a prayer.

"Maybe she's back. Maybe she came up here just to put that picture in the shack for some reason—one of her rituals, right? I mean, for all we know, we could have passed her on her way back when we were coming into Houma. That's possible. And if she got home before us, she found out about Pierre and went with him to the hospital. She would, and that would help the little guy snap out of it, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said when he paused for a breath. He was driving so fast now, it made my heart thunder like a train. I was worried because he seemed to be gazing at his thoughts and not at the road ahead of us.

"No one saw her up here, so she didn't go anywhere but the shack as far as we know. And she wasn't at the shack when we arrived. Right? Where would she go? Certainly not to see the Tates. She would only go home. Yes, that's it. She's home. She's snapped out of this insanity just in time. We'll be able to help Pierre now, won't we, Pearl?"

"Of course we will, Daddy. Don't you think you're driving too fast?"

"What?" He looked at me and then at the speedometer. "Oh. I didn't realize." He checked his rearview mirror. "Lucky we didn't get a ticket."

"Do you want me to drive, Daddy?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll watch what I'm doing." He lowered his shoulders and relaxed. "Terrible how they're letting that beautiful mansion rot in the swamps, isn't it? Terrible. Did you remember much?"

"No," I said. Mommy had once told me that Daddy would like to forget I had ever lived there. She kept very few pictures of us taken at Cypress Woods, and the ones she had were buried deep in drawers.

"Well, the oil wells are still going, making the Tates millionaires over and over. They were wealthy people before the wells. Money doesn't discriminate, unfortunately," he added bitterly. "I can't imagine what it's like working for Gladys Tate. But those oil riggers are something else, aren't they? A breed unto themselves, I hear."

"He seemed very nice," I said.

"Who? Oh. Oh, yes." Daddy smiled. "How did you like seeing your well? It must eat Gladys Tate's heart out that she can't stop you from collecting the income."

"It didn't look any different from the others, but Jack explained a lot about it to me."

Daddy smiled. "He was buttering up the boss, eh? Can't blame him. Especially when the boss is as pretty as you."

"He wasn't buttering me up, Daddy. He was just being polite and informative," I said. I turned away quickly so Daddy wouldn't see me blushing.

Jack's beautiful dark eyes flashed before me, and so did his soft smile. I couldn't recall meeting a young man who radiated so firm a sense of strength and yet appeared so gentle and compassionate. I had felt comfortable and safe when I was beside him. He worked with his hands and his muscles, but there was something poetic about his love for his work.

"You've got to be careful about who you meet, Pearl," Daddy said, turning serious. "Once a young man learns how wealthy you are, his interest in you will grow; only that might not be the sort of interest you need. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? I'm not as good at this as your mother is, I know."

"I understand, Daddy."

"I bet you do; I bet you do. I'm not worried about you. No, sir, not you."

He was quiet again, and then he started to repeat the mumbling. "She has to be at home. Has to. She must have come to her senses by now. She loves her family too much to stay away."

As we drew closer to New Orleans, the clouds closed up the holes of-blue between them until there was an ominous gray layer above us. The first drops hit the windshield as we went over the bridge and onto the city streets. The wind had kicked up as well. People were losing their umbrellas and rushing about to get to shelter. The downpour started before we reached the Garden District. It got so heavy that the windshield wipers couldn't clear a view.

"Damn this," Daddy moaned. He had to pull to the side for a few moments. The rain swept over us in sheets, pounding the roof and pounding at the windows.

But it was one of those quick summer storms. It slowed, and the wind calmed down. Daddy started for home again. By the time we reached our driveway, the sun had pierced the thin veil of trailing clouds and dropped rays of hope down over our camellias and magnolia trees. The cobblestone sidewalks glittered. It was as if Mother Nature had washed away the sadness staining our walls and grounds.

Daddy almost leaped out of the car before he brought it to a stop. I couldn't keep up with him. He rushed up the steps two at a time and to the front door. Aubrey was in the corridor speaking with one of our maids and turned with surprise as Daddy thrust the door open. I hurried behind him.

"Monsieur Andreas," Aubrey said, approaching. "My wife. Has she returned?" Daddy demanded quickly.

"No, monsieur." He shook his head and with troubled eyes gazed at me and then back at the maid, who turned to busy herself.

"Has she phoned? Did someone tell her about Pierre?" Daddy asked and nodded, hoping for a yes. But Aubrey could only disappoint him.

"Not that I know, Monsieur."

"Where's Mrs. Hockingheimer?" Daddy glanced up the stairway.

"She went to the hospital with Pierre, monsieur. The ambulance took them both."

"Ambulance?" Daddy released a small moan. Then he turned to me. I shrank into a tighter ball when I looked at those pathetic, sad eyes that showed his suffering.

"Where is she? Where could she have gone?" he cried, turning back to the butler. Aubrey stared, not sure what else to say or do.

"Daddy?" I tugged on his sleeve. "Daddy."

"What? Oh. Yes. We had better go directly to the hospital. Call me if you hear from Madame Andreas, Aubrey, Call the hospital immediately."

"Yes, monsieur."

We charged out the front door and down the steps. "Maybe she called the doctor first and went directly to the hospital," he said, wishing aloud. My silence brought him back to reality.

In no time we were driving into the hospital parking lot. The elderly volunteer at the front desk moved too slowly for Daddy when he asked where Pierre Dumas had been taken. He slapped the counter as she fumbled with the patient register. "Hurry, madame, please."

"Yes, yes," she said when she finally found Pierre's name. "He was just admitted. He's in ICU."

"Intensive care?" Daddy grimaced.

"Probably just a precaution, Daddy," I said. It was more like a prayer, too.

He took a deep breath and we hurried to the

elevator. When we got to the ICU visitors' lounge, Mrs. Hockingheimer came out quickly to greet us.

"Oh, monsieur," she said, "thank God you're here."

Daddy held his breath, the words cluttering on his tongue.

"What's wrong? What's happened to Pierre, Mrs. Hockingheimer?" I asked breathlessly.