I thought I would faint first. The air in the shack was stifling. My skin was crimson from the heat of fear passing through my body. When I didn't move, he turned, found a wide, black leather belt in the pile of clothing, and wrapped one end of it around his wrist and hand. My eyes widened as he approached, lifting his arm. I raised my arms to protect myself, and he swung the belt and slapped me across the thigh. The blow took my breath away.

Instead of lifting me by my hair this time, he dug his fingers under my bra and pulled with such force that the hooks gave way and the bra was torn from my body. He tossed it over his shoulder. I fell back against the cot, screaming. He hit me again, this time on the other leg. I felt my eyes roll back, and then all was dark.

When I opened my eyes again, I was on my back on the cot, wearing the sack dress with nothing underneath. I didn't move. The pain along my thighs reminded me vividly of what had happened. I saw that my lucky dime was gone, too. At first I was afraid to turn to the right or the left, but when I did look, I saw he wasn't there. I took a deep breath and sat up to be sure he wasn't in a corner or below me on the floor. The shack was empty.

Encouraged and hopeful, I stood up, but realized I still had that chain locked around my ankle. I tried to slip it over my ankle bone, but it was too tight. Maybe I could get the other end loose, I thought. If I had to, I'd carry that chain for miles to escape.

As I started across the shack, I saw a large note pinned to the closed front door. It had apparently been written with a burned piece of wood: "I went to get some whiskey and food for you to cook. Clean up fore I get back. Your husband Buster."

Panicking, I hurried over to the railroad spike and tried to get that end of the chain loose, but it was just as tightly wrapped and locked.

I opened the front door and stepped out on the gallery. I realized Buster had taken my watch, but I knew I had been here for some time because the sun was down over the cypress trees, casting long, dark shadows over the canal. Buster wasn't in sight, but neither was anyone else. Even so, I yelled, "Anyone, please help me! Please, anyone!"

I waited. My voice echoed over the water and died in the swamp. An egret flew out of the trees, soared over the water, and disappeared down the canal. When I looked off the left side of the gallery, I saw that the sky was growing overcast. A thick bed of ash-gray clouds was sliding in over the turquoise background, and the wind had begun to blow through the swamp. Then I turned to the right side of the gallery and saw a cottonmouth snake that had woven its body through the slats. It tightened its coil when it saw me. I couldn't breathe. Slowly I made my way back to the shack doorway and then stepped in and slammed it shut.

Buster Trahaw could leave at will without worrying about my escaping. I was chained inside and guarded by every creature that lived in the swamp, I thought. What was I going to do? Afraid of what Buster would do if he returned and I hadn't cleaned, I started to straighten up the shack. I picked up and folded all the clothing, most of it filthy. I gathered the dishes and pans and put them in the sink. The water was rust brown, but I washed the dishes as best I could. When that was done, I scrubbed the plank table, straightened up what little furniture there was, and made the cot bed. I found a broom in the corner. Half of it was gone, but there was enough for me to sweep the plank floor. I took a wet rag and cleaned the windows. I looked everywhere for my clothes, but I couldn't find them. I guessed he had thrown them into the swamp along with my watch and bracelet.

There was a small wooden box in the far right corner. I was hoping there was something in it, perhaps a tool that I could use to tear off this lock and chain, even though I didn't know what I would do once I was free of it. There was no other canoe outside, and I certainly couldn't swim in the canal with alligators and snakes just waiting. I had no shoes either, so even if I made it to the marsh, I would be terrified stepping through the tall grass.

There were no tools in the box, just a pretty linen tablecloth with hand-embroidered birds; but under the tablecloth I found some old sepia-tinted photographs. They were pictures of a pretty young woman standing barefoot on the grass in front of my great-grandmère Catherine's shack. When I studied the face, I realized the woman resembled Mommy. Buster had claimed this was my great-grandpère Jack's trapper shack. I guess it was and this was my grandmère, Gabrielle.

If only her spirit were here now, I thought, hoping for the only thing that could help me . . . a miracle. There were pictures of an older couple who I imagined were my great-grandmère Catherine and my great-grandpère Jack. In one of them, Great-Grandmère Catherine was holding a baby, who I imagined had to be Mommy. Seeing their faces and realizing who they were gave me some comfort and for the moment I felt a warmth and a sense of hope. Somehow, some way, I would get out of this horrible situation.

I put the pictures back and closed the wooden box. Then I stood up and gazed about the shack. Where could I hide? What could I use to defend myself? A trapper's long knife hung on the wall. I seized it. I had never imagined myself stabbing anyone, even the likes of Buster Trahaw, but when someone was desperate, even someone like me, she could reach down into places she never thought existed within herself and find the strength. I was sure of it.

Suddenly I heard his thin laugh. Then Buster shouted for his wife to come to the door. I put the knife back, intending to use it when I had the best opportunity, and then I tiptoed to the door and opened it just enough to peer out. I saw him poling up the swamp toward the shack, pausing every few moments to take a swig from his jug.

"Wife! Get out on the gallery and greet your husband!" he screamed. "Get your rump out there or I'll beat it till the skin comes off! Hear? Get out!"

Terrified to disobey, I stepped out on the galerie. Even the cottonmouth must have heard him and fled, for it wasn't there.

"Now, that’s more like it," he cried. "Wave. Go on. Wave."

I lifted my hand and limply did so. He laughed again and poled harder until he reached the dock. The whole shack seemed to shake when he stepped up. He staggered for a moment and then smiled and handed me a bag of groceries.

"Got us our wedding dinner," he said. "And lots to drink. Buster's finally going to celebrate his marriage. Take it." I moved quickly and did so. Then I turned and went into the shack. He came in and stood gaping.

"Well, now, this is a wife. I knew it. I knew a Landry wouldn't let me down. Good woman. We gonna have a good life together."

"What is this?" I asked timidly when I took out what was in the bag and unwrapped some of it. "Pig's feet and gizzards and all the fixin's for a gumbo. Don't you know how to make a roux?" I shook my head. "What! Sure you do, woman. You just stand there and work until you get it right, hear? I'll just sit back here, drink a little rotgut, and watch my good woman work. Go on. Do it! And if it ain't good, I'll take it out on your hide. You got one nice hide, too." He put his large hand on my back and slid it down over my buttocks and squeezed until I cried out, which only made him laugh harder.

"First we eat; then we consummate the marriage," he said in a hoarse whisper. His lips were beside my ear, and his breath smelled like a dead rat. My stomach churned, and my legs felt as if' they would crumble, but I closed my eyes and held myself up, fearing that if I did faint, it would only be worse.

Fumbling with the ingredients, I tried desperately to remember what our cook did. I had watched her work a few times. A roux was only a brown sauce, but every Cajun cook did something different to make it special. My hope was that Buster would be too drunk to know what anything really tasted like. For the time being, I had to pretend I knew what I was doing. And so I started to prepare the meal, which to Buster Trahaw was a celebration but to me was more like a last supper.

Buster sprawled on the cot as I worked, and after a while, when I turned to look at him, I saw he was asleep. I gazed up at the knife. I could get it off the wall quietly, tiptoe over to him and . . . Could I do it? Of course. I had dissected frogs and worms. I knew where the blade should go, but I had never deliberately killed anything. I cried if I accidentally stepped on a grasshopper. I knew, however, that if I didn't do something, Buster would have his way with me.

Maybe I could just frighten him into giving me the key to the lock, I thought. I could put the knife to his throat and tell him to get the key out of his pocket, or maybe I should just hit him hard over the head with the cast-iron frying pan. My body was shaking with all these choices.

I heard him grunt and then snore. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned to the wall. This was my chance to get the knife. I put down the mixing spoon gently and just as gently started toward the knife, holding the chain as I moved so it wouldn't rattle over the floor.

Buster grunted again and I paused, holding my breath. He blew air through his thick lips, snorted, and then began to snore again. I tiptoed closer to the knife, reached for it, nearly dropped it, and then clutched it to my bosom. I turned slowly and just as carefully made my way back. When I was only a foot or so from him, I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength.

Mammy could do this if she had to, I told myself. My father and poor Pierre were waiting for me to find Mommy and bring her home. I couldn't remain a prisoner in this shack much longer, and all that was standing between me and my freedom was this cruel man who didn't deserve an ounce of mercy. I stood there, hardening my heart against him until I was convinced I had the courage to do what had to be done. Then I stepped forward, raised the knife, and pressed the blade against his ugly Adam's apple, which resembled a small rodent under his skin.