"It was Turner Browne. He said one nasty thing after another just to show off in front of his friends," I told her.

"What sort of nasty things?" she demanded.

"You know, Grandmère. Bad things."

She stared at me a moment and then looked at Paul. It wasn't easy to keep anything from Grandmère Catherine.

For as long as I could remember, she had a way of seeing right into your heart and soul.

"He made nasty remarks about your mother?" Grandmère asked. I shifted my eyes away which was as good as saying yes. She took a deep breath, her hand against her heart and nodded. "They won't let it go. They cling to other people's hard times like moss clings to damp wood." She shook her head again and shuffled away, her hand still on her heart.

I looked at Paul. His sad eyes told me how sorry he was he had lost his temper. He started to take the cloth off his lip to say so, but I put my hand over his quickly. Paul smiled at me with his eyes, even though his lips had to be kept in a straight line.

"Just hold it there like Grandmère said," I told him. She looked back at us. I kept my hand over his and smiled. "He was very brave, Grandmère. You know how big Turner Browne is, but Paul didn't care."

"He looks it," she said, and shook her head. "Your Grandpère Jack wasn't much different and still isn't. I wish I had a pretty penny for every time I had to prepare a poultice to treat the injuries he suffered in one of his brawls. One time he came home with his right eye shut tight, and an-other time, he had a piece of his ear bitten off. You'd think that would make him think twice before getting into any more such conflicts, but not that man. He was at the end of the line when they passed out good sense," she concluded.

The rain that had been pounding on our tin roof subsided until we could hear only a slight tap, tap, tap, and the wind had died down considerably. Grandmère opened the batten plank shutters to let the breeze travel through our house again. She took a deep breath.

"I do love the way the bayou smells after a good rain. It makes everything fresh and clean. I wish it would do the same to people," she said, and sighed deeply, Her eyes were still dark and troubled. I never had heard her sound so sad and tired. A kind of paralyzing numbness gripped me and for a moment, I could only sit there and listen to my heart pound. Grandmère suddenly shuddered and embraced herself.

"Are you all right, Grandmère?"

"What? Yes, yes. Okay," she said, moving to Paul. "Let me look at you."

He took the cloths from his lips and cheek and she scrutinized his face. The swelling had subsided, but his cheek was still crimson and his lower lip dark where Turner Browne's fist had split the skin. Grandmère Catherine nodded and then went to the icebox and chipped out a small chunk to wrap in another washcloth.

"Here," she said, returning. "Put this on your cheek until it gets too cold and then put it on your lip. Keep alternating until the ice melts away, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Paul said. "Thank you. I'm sorry all this happened. I should have just ignored Turner Browne."

Grandmère Catherine held her eyes on him a moment and then relaxed her expression.

"Sometimes you can't ignore; sometimes the evil won't leave," she said, "But that doesn't mean I expect to see you in any more fights," she warned. He nodded obediently.

"You won't," he promised.

"Hmm," she said. "I wish I had another pretty penny for how many times my husband has made the same promise."

"I keep mine," Paul said proudly. Grandmère liked that and finally smiled.

"We'll see," she said.

"I better get going," Paul declared, standing. "Thanks again, Mrs. Landry."

Grandmère Catherine nodded.

"I'll walk you to the car, Paul," I said. When we stepped out on the galerie, we saw the rain had nearly stopped. The sky was still quite dark, but the glow from the galerie's dangling naked bulb threw a stream of pale white light to Paul's car. Still holding the ice pack against his cheek, he took my hand with his free hand and we walked over the pathway.

"I do feel terrible about ruining the evening," he said. "You didn't ruin it; Turner Browne ruined it. Besides, we got in plenty of dancing first," I added.

"It was fun, wasn't it?"

"You know," I said. "This was my first real date."

"Really? I used to think you had a stream of boyfriends knocking on your door, and you wouldn't give me the time of day," he confessed. "It took all the courage I could muster, more courage than it took to attack Turner Browne, for me to walk up to you that afternoon at school and ask to carry your books and walk you home."

"I know. I remember how your lips trembled, but I thought that was adorable."

"You did? Well, then I'll just continue to be the shyest young man you ever did see."

"As long as you're not too shy to kiss me now and then," I replied. He smiled and grimaced with the pain it caused to stretch his lip. "Poor Paul," I said, and leaned forward to kiss him ever so gently on that wounded mouth. His eyes were still closed when I pulled back. Then they popped open.

"That's the best poultice, even better than your grandmother's magical medicines. I'm going to have to come around every day and get another treatment," he said.

"It will cost you," I warned.

"How much?"

"Your undying devotion," I replied. His eyes riveted on me.

"You already have that, Ruby," he whispered, "and always will."

Then he leaned forward, disregarding the pain, and kissed me warmly on the lips.

"Funny," he said, opening his car door, "but even with this bruised cheek and split lip, I think this was one of the best nights of my life. Good night, Ruby."

"Good night. Don't forget to keep that ice on your lip like Grandmère told you to," I advised.

"I won't. Thank her again for me. See you tomorrow," he promised, and started his engine. I watched him back away. He waved and then drove into the night. I stood watching until the small red lights on the rear of his car were swallowed by the darkness. Then I turned, embracing myself, and saw Grandmère Catherine standing on the edge of the galerie looking out at me. How long had she been there? I wondered. Why was she waiting like that?

"Grandmère? Are you all right?" I asked when I approached. Her face was so gloomy. She looked pale, forlorn, and as if she had just seen one of the spirits she was employed to chase away. Her eyes stared at me bleakly. Something hard and heavy grew in my chest, making it ache in anticipation.

"Come on inside," she said. "I have something to tell you, something I should have told you long ago."

My legs felt as stiff as tree stumps as I went up the stairs and into the house. My heart, which had been beating with pleasure after Paul's last kiss, beat harder, deeper, thumped deep down into my very soul. I couldn't remember ever seeing such a look of melancholy and sadness on Grandmère Catherine's face. What great burden did she carry? What terrible thing was she about to tell me?

She sat down and stared ahead for a long time as though she'd forgotten I was there. I waited, my hands in my lap, my heart still pounding.

"There was always a wildness in your mother," she began. "Maybe it was the Landry blood, maybe it was the way she grew up, always close to wild things. Unlike most girls her age, she was never afraid of anything in the swamp. She would pick up a baby snake as quickly as she would pick a daisy.

"In the early days, Grandpère Jack took her everywhere he went in the bayou. She fished with him, hunted with him, poled the pirogue when she was just tall enough to stand and push the stick into the mud. I used to think she was going to be a tomboy. However," she said, focusing her eyes on me now, "she was to be anything but a tomboy. Maybe it would have been better if she had been less feminine.

"She grew quickly, blossomed into a flower of womanhood way before her time, and those dark eyes of hers, her long, flowing hair as rich and red as yours, enchanted men and boys alike. I even think she fascinated the birds and animals of the swamp. Often," she said, smiling at her memory, "I would see a marsh hawk peering down with yellow-circled eyes to follow her with his gaze as she walked along the shore of the canal.

"So innocent and so beautiful, she was eager to touch everything, see everything, experience everything. Alas, she was vulnerable to older, shrewder people, and thus, she was tempted to drink from the cup of sinful pleasure.

"By the time she was sixteen, she was very popular and asked to go everywhere by every boy in the bayou. They all pleaded with her for some attention. I saw the way she teased and tormented some who were absolutely in agony over her smile, her laugh, dying for her to say something promising to them whenever they came around.

"She had young boys doing all her chores, even lining up to help Grandpère Jack, who wasn't above taking advantage of the poor souls,I might add. He knew they hoped to court Gabrielle's favor by slaving for him and he had them doing more for him than they did for their own fathers. It was downright criminal of him, but he wouldn't listen to me.

"Anyway, one night, about seven months after her sixteenth birthday, Gabrielle came to me in this very room. She was sitting right where you're sitting now. When I looked up at her, I didn't need to hear what she was going to say. She was no more than a windowpane, easy to read. My heart did flip-flops; I held my breath.

"Mama,' she said, her voice cracking, 'I think I'm pregnant.' I closed my eyes and sat back. It was as though the inevitable had occurred, what I had feared and felt might happen, had happened.