"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."

I thanked her and paid my check. Then I left quickly to return to Cypress Woods.

As I drove there, I calmed down again. After speaking with Ella, I felt I had a better understanding of what life at Cypress Woods had been like. I wondered what Mommy had seen when she returned. Did it depress her even more, or did she look at her former home through rose-colored glasses? Did her memories take her back to the time when flowers were blooming and birds were singing, a time of music and beauty, comfort and safety? Considering all that had happened, it didn't surprise me now that she would flee to Cypress Woods and the world where she had once been protected by Paul's money and love and by Grandmère Catherine's magic.

Where was that magic now? I wondered. We need it so.


13

  The Past Comes A-courting

The thunderheads had been creeping along in our direction all day. By the time I returned to Cypress Woods, they were overhead, growling and heralding rain and wind. I drove directly to the house, but a cloud burst just as I stopped the car. I waited a moment. However, seeing it was only going to get worse before it got better, I pulled my jacket over my head, lunged from the car, and ran up the gallery steps. The wind whipped the heavy drops at me, soaking my face.

I stepped inside and closed the large door to keep the gusty air and the rain out, but I, found myself standing in a very dark, dank entryway filled with stale air. A chill passed through me and settled like the cold palm of a large hand on the back of my neck. I shuddered and looked up the dark stairway.

"Mommy!" I yelled. "Are you here?"

My voice reverberated, and the echo sounded like someone tormenting me, imitating my desperation: "Mommy, are you here?"

Dead silence was followed by the heavy creaking of the wood frame and floors. Shutters rattled. It began to rain harder. Was my mother wandering about out there? I wondered. The thought of her being caught in this storm terrified me. Tears streaked my face as much as the rain streaked the windowpane, mixing with the raindrops on my cheeks. Another chill shot through my chest, making my teeth chatter. I had to find a warmer place.

I hurried into the sitting room on my right and pulled the dustcover off the settee. Although it was dusty, I used it as a blanket and curled up against the arm of the settee, squeezing my legs up against my stomach and embracing them.

The wind seemed to be circling and embracing the house, seeking out every opening, no matter how small, and then threading itself through to whistle and whip about the rooms, making the long drapes move in a macabre dance and the chandeliers swing ominously above. The storm grew stronger. I had heard that summer storms in the bayou were often worse than they were in New Orleans. This one appeared to have the power to lift this enormous house from its foundation and carry it off into the swamp.

I groaned. "Mommy," I whispered, "where can you be in all this? Are you safe?" Maybe she was upstairs, cringing in a corner just as I was cringing on this settee. I looked up at the ceiling, wishing I could see through walls for just an instant.

A decorative plate shook loose from one of the shelves of the hutch on my left and shattered on the cypress-plank floor. The crash startled me and I cried out. The wind grew louder, angrier. The chandeliers were rattling like old bones. In another room down the corridor, another piece of glass or china fell, exploding like a gunshot. Raindrops pelted the windows, zigzagging like sharp fingernails scratching their way down the panes. The wind that passed freely through the house stirred up the dust. I coughed and buried my face in my hands as I began to alternate between feeling chilled and feeling feverish. The raging tem-pest blustered harder and harder. I thought it was never going to end. The very walls threatened to fall in, crushing me. It grew so dark I could barely see my hand, and then I heard the front door blow open.

But I heard it close, too.

"Pearl! Pearl, where are you?" Jack cried. Never was I so happy to hear another person's voice, especially his.

"In here, Jack!"

He came rushing in, dressed in a slick black raincoat and hat and knee-high boots. He carried a flashlight and had a bundle under his arm. "Are you all right?" he asked hurrying over. He put down the flashlight and swept his hat off. Then he brushed the rain off the back of his neck.

"This storm is so horrible and it came so fast," I complained through my chattering teeth.

"We had hurricane warnings coming in over the radio," he said. "The storm built up as it traveled inland." He took the bundle out from under his arm. It contained a blanket and a kerosene lamp, which he set on a table. "I saw you drive up and tried to get you to come to the trailer, but you didn't see me waving."

He took off his wet raincoat and put it on a chair just as a gust of wind slammed against the house. I released a small cry. Jack was at my side instantly. I welcomed his embrace and cuddled against the warm pocket between his arm and his chest.

"You poor thing. You're freezing," he said, rubbing my shoulders and arms vigorously.

My teeth stopped chattering. "Oh, Jack, what are we going to do?"

"We'll wait it out," he said. "But anything that's loose is going to fly away. Let me light the kerosene lamp." I lifted myself away so he could do so. Then he sat back and offered his arm again. I leaned into him. The illumination from the flickering lamp threw distorted shapes over the wall. They looked like the silhouettes of grotesque marionettes dangling on strings, moving to the rhythm of the wind.

"Warmer?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you. No one mentioned a hurricane," I said.

"Sometimes they creep up on us. Makes it exciting to live here," he added smiling.

"I think I can do without this sort of thrill."

He laughed. "Did your mother contact your aunt? She was obviously not there if you returned to Cypress Woods," he concluded.

"No. I'm sure she won't call or go there either. I met my aunt's mother," I said with a grimace.

"Gladys Tate?" I nodded. "I never saw her around here, but I heard she's a tough lady. Actually," he said after a moment, "the boys say she's the one who wears the pants in that family. Whenever Mr. Tate does come around here, he looks whipped. It's none of my business, so I don't pay much attention, as long as we all get what's coming to us when it's coming to us."

"I returned to my great-grandmère's old shack, and, Jack, someone has been there since Daddy and I were there. Whoever it was tore the place apart."

"Tore it apart? What do you mean?"

I described the furniture, the walls. "Why would someone do that to an old, deserted place?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said with a look of worry. "It's strange." He thought a moment and shrugged. "Did you have anything to eat, drink?"

"I went into town and had some lunch in a place called Grandmère's Kitchen."