"Thank you, monsieur. Thank you."

He smiled at me and shook his head. "Women drivers," he muttered and got out. I waited. The rain didn't ease a bit. I saw him working, seemingly oblivious to the downpour. I was sure he was soaked to the skin. Finally he tapped on my window.

"Just hold the steering wheel steady. If she comes up and out, turn to the right so you straighten up, okay? Got it?"

"Yes, monsieur. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he said. He ran back to his truck. I waited, and then I heard the chain tighten and I felt the car move back a few inches at a time. As it lifted, I did what he told me to do, and moments later I was free. My heart beat with joy instead of fear.

"Okay," he said, returning to the window. "You're out. If you're going to continue driving in this storm, you had better keep it slow, understand?"

"Yes, monsieur. How can I repay you?"

"Send me a thank-you card," he said and rushed away.

"But, monsieur . . ."

I waited. He got into his truck and drove off, beeping his horn as he went by. I never even got to know his name.

Minutes later I was back on the highway, driving with exaggerated care until the rain eased. It slowed to a drizzle, and then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. I chanced accelerating, feeling more confident as I put more miles behind me and the road looked drier and drier. Even so, traveling along highways with trucks and cars whizzing by and so few lighted houses made me nervous. If something happened to me, Mommy would never know and Pierre would never get well, I thought. Daddy would be left alone and would surely die, too. Just the thought of all this tragedy brought stinging tears to my eyes.

A half hour or so later I saw the clouds had broken up. Stars were visible, blinking their promises. It warmed my heart, and I felt even more self-assured. The horrible accident that had begun my journey became just a memory. When I drew closer to Houma, however, I realized I had forgotten the exact side road Daddy had taken to bring us to Cypress Woods. I slowed down and studied the roads, but they all looked the same now. Desperate, I decided to stop at the first shack with lights on inside. This journey that was supposed to take me about two hours had already taken nearly three. A house appeared on my right, so I slowed down and turned into the driveway.

As soon as I got out of the car, two gray squirrels scampered up a nearby cypress tree, their sudden movement making me gasp. They peered down at me curiously from the branch over my head. I laughed at them and walked up a gravel path to the galerie of the shack.

It was a paintless wood-frame building with orange stained screens on the windows. Some windows had shutters, some didn't. The yard was cluttered with used automobiles, washing machines, and damaged pirogues. The galerie had square columns that were barely holding up the tin roof, and the first step on the short stairway was broken. I hadn't picked the best place to stop for directions, but I wasn't sure how far away the next one was and I didn't want to get any more lost than I was. So I drew closer.

Zydeco music was coming from inside, and through the opening in the batten plank shutter, I saw a man playing a harmonica, another playing a washboard, and a third playing a fiddle. There was the sound of a woman's laughter and then someone shouted, "Laissez les bon temps rouler"—let the good times roll. More shouting was followed by more laughter and the sound of someone dancing on the plank floor. This close I could smell the heavy aroma of a seafood gumbo.

I hesitated to interrupt the festivities, but when I turned around and looked at the dark surroundings, the trees with the Spanish moss draped like ghosts, the fireflies like sparks in the night, and the absence of any traffic or people, I felt I had no choice. I stepped up to the door and knocked, too softly at first and then hard enough for the people within to hear.

Someone shouted. The music stopped. I knocked again. Moments later a man in just a pair of pants and suspenders came to the door. He had a heavy thin line of hair running down the center of his chest, which was spotted with pale yellow freckles. He was barefoot with toes that looked as thick and as long as fingers. His black hair was disheveled, some strands so long they reached the tip of his nose. He looked as if he hadn't shaved for days and never shaved the hair on his neck that curled over his collarbone. He just stared out at me.

"Anyone there, Thomas?" A woman demanded.

"Yes," he said.

Suddenly there were two little girls behind him, both in sack dresses and both with hair that looked as if it had never been cut. It reached below their shoulders. They gazed at me with large, curious dark eyes. Another, shorter man appeared, smiling widely, and then a tall woman, stout with rolling pin arms, pushed in between them. She had a chubby face with a double chin and large dark eyes.

"Well, whaddaya lookin' at, you two? It's just a girl. Whatcha want, missy?"

"I'm lost and I was hoping I could get some directions, ma'am."

"Lost, huh? Lookie what we got here, Jimbo," she said, pushing the shorter man back so that an older man with bushy white hair could come to join the curious group. He was the one playing the washboard. "She says she's lost."

"Where you goin'?" he asked. There was gray stubble on his chin and a light gray mustache.

"I'm looking for a place called Cypress Woods," I said.

"Cypress Woods!" The first man smiled, revealing gaping holes where teeth should have been.

"You related to the Tates?" Jimbo asked.

"No, monsieur."

"Well, Cypress Woods is the Tates' place," he said with narrow, suspicious eyes. The woman nodded. The group was joined by two more men, another woman, three older girls about sixteen, and a boy a little younger.

"You lookin' for one of them oil riggers?" the woman asked in a disapproving tone. She folded her arms over her bosom and straightened her shoulders.

"Not exactly," I said.

"Not exactly? What's that supposed to mean? Not exactly?"

"I'm not coming here to meet a man," I added. "But someone who works with the oil riggers has information I need."

"That so?" She looked like she didn't believe me. Why was it so important for them to know every detail before they would give me directions?

"Tates don't live there, if you're looking for them," Jimbo said.

"I'm not looking for the Tates. Listen," I said with a deep, impatient sigh, "I lived there once." I realized if I didn't give them more information, I might not get any out of them. "But I'm not related to the Tates."

"Lived there?" He looked at the woman. "Don't say?"

She narrowed her eyes, too.

"You related to the old traiteur lady?" she asked. "She's too young to be Catherine Landry's granddaughter," Jimbo said shaking his head.

"You her great-granddaughter?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," I said.

"Well, I’ll be. Yeah, she looks somethin' like a Landry would, don't you think, Jimbo?"

"That she does. They was good-looking people. Buster be happy to hear about this. He's been bulling around about it for years now."

"Do you know how I can get to Cypress Woods?" I asked, not hiding my impatience now.

"Sure. You go down here about hundred yards, see, and then you make a left turn, hear? Then you follow the road to the first fork. Turn left and follow that. It will take you to Cypress Woods, hear?"

"Yes, monsieur. Thank you."

"Buster ain't gonna believe this," the woman said. "She looks like her mother, don't she?"

"Buster ain't gonna believe this," Jimbo agreed, nodding. They all just stared at me with big eyes, making me feel like a ghost.

"Thank you," I said and hurried back to the car. When I looked back, I saw they were all still standing there gaping out at me. I hoped their directions were accurate. I drove slowly. These side roads were even darker than the road that took me close to Houma. The cypress trees loomed tall and thick, their branches twisted and turned above me. The reflected illumination of my car headlights made some of them look like skeletons. Something furry ran across the road, and when I made the last turn, an owl swooped in front of me, its wingspan so large it took my breath away. With my heart pounding, I finally turned up the driveway toward Cypress Woods and the oil wells. It had been more than three and a half hours since I had spoken to Jack Clovis. I wondered if he was still here.

The great house rose out of the night as I drew closer and closer. Its windows were dark, but some of them were like mirrors reflecting the movement of trees and bushes. The building radiated its emptiness in the silence that surrounded it. Only the wind stirred the loose shutters and brushed the tops of the weeds and tall grasses that grew unchecked along the sides. It looked much more abandoned and forsaken without the sunlight glittering around it. Now it was a house occupied only by shadows. As the clouds passed over the stars, those shadows shifted and twisted behind the windows and over the gallery.

I had an empty feeling in my chest as I gazed at the great mansion that had once been filled with song and laughter, good food and good friends, a place of joy and life in which my mother had created wonderful works of art. Now it was a grand tomb without a body, all the voices long gone, their echoes absorbed by the vast space.

And all of my childhood fears suddenly swept over me. I was afraid to turn my head and look at the oil rigs. My heart skipped a beat and then raced. Something luminous in the darkness radiated in waves over the field between the house and the swamps, going in and out of focus. Maybe it was just a reflection, but to me, for the moment, it looked like the face in my nightmares. I gasped as it seemed to draw closer and closer, floating toward me. A flutter of panic made my heart skip.