"Thank you," I said, and let him guide me to it. He sat beside me quickly and put a blade of marsh grass in his mouth.

"Sorry I didn't come yesterday, but I thought there would be so many people around you . . ." He smiled. "Not that there aren't today. Your grandmother was a very famous and beloved woman in the bayou."

"I know. I never fully appreciated how much until now," I said.

"That's usually the way it is. We don't realize how important someone is to us until he or she is gone," Paul replied, the underlying meaning of his words telegraphed through his soft eyes.

"Oh, Paul, she's gone. My Grandmère Catherine is gone," I cried, falling into his arms and really beginning to cry. He stroked my hair back and there were tears in his eyes when I looked, as if my pain were his.

"I wish I had been here when it happened," he said. "I wish I had been right beside you."

I had to swallow twice before I could speak again. "I never wanted to send you away from me, Paul. It broke my heart to say the things I said."

"Then why did you?" he asked softly. There was so much hurt in his eyes. I could feel what it must have been like for him and I could see the tears that had emerged. It wasn't fair. Why should the two of us suffer so horribly for the sins of our parents? I thought.

"Why did you, Ruby, why?" he asked again; he begged for the answer. I could understand his turmoil. My words, words spoken right near here, were so unexpected and so abrupt, they had to have made him question reality. Anger was the only way in which he could have dealt with such a surprise, such an unreasonable surprise.

I turned away from him and bit down on my lower lip. My mouth wanted to run away with the words and exonerate me from all blame.

"It's not that I didn't love you, Paul," I began slowly. Then I turned back to him. The memories of our short-lived kisses and words of promise flitted like doomed moths to the candle of my burning despair. "And not that I still don't," I added softly.

"Then what could it have been? What could it be?" he asked quickly.

My heart, so torn by sorrow and so tired of sadness, began to thump like an oil drum, heavy, ponderous, as slowly as the dreadful drums in a funeral procession. What was more important now, I questioned: that there be truth between Paul and me, truth between two people who care for each other with such a rare love, a love that demanded honesty, or that I maintain a lie that kept Paul from knowing the sins of his father and therefore kept peace in his family?

"What was it?" he asked again.

"Let me think a moment, Paul," I said and looked away. He waited impatiently beside me. I was sure his heart was beating as quickly as mine was now. I wanted to tell Paul the truth, but what if Grandmère Catherine had been right? What if, in the long run, Paul would hate me more for being the messenger of such devastating news?

Oh, Grandmère, I thought, isn't there a time when the truth must be revealed, when lies and deceptions must be exposed? I know that when we are little, we can be left to dwell in a world of fantasy and fabrication. Maybe, it's even necessary, for if we were told some of the ugly truths about life then, we would be destroyed before we had a chance to develop the had crusts we needed to shield us from the arrows of hardship, of sadness, of tragedy, and, alas, the arrows that carried the final dark truths: grandmothers and grandfathers, mommies and daddies die, and so do we. We have to understand that the world isn't filled only with sweet sounding bells, soft, wonderful things, delightful aromas, pretty music, and endless promises. It is also filled with storms and hard, painful realities, and promises that are never kept.

Surely, Paul and I were old enough now, I thought. Surely, we could face truth if we could face deception and live on. "Something happened here a long time ago," I began, "that forced me to say the words I said to you that day."

"Here?"

"In our bayou, our little Cajun world," I said, nodding. "The truth about it was quickly smothered because it would have brought great pain to many people, but sometimes, perhaps always, when the truth is buried this way, it has a way of coming out, of forcing itself upward into the sunlight again.

"You and I," I said, looking into his confused eyes, "are the truths that were once buried, we are in the sunlight."

"I don't understand, Ruby. What lies? What truths?"

"No one back then when the truth was buried ever dreamed you and I would come to love each other in a romantic sense," I said.

"I still don't understand, Ruby. How could anyone have known years ago about us anyway? And why would it matter then if they had?" he asked, his eyes squinting with confusion.

It was so hard to come right out and say it simply. Somehow, I felt that if Paul came to the understandings himself, if the words were formed in his mind and spoken by him instead of formed in my mind and coming from my lips, it would be less painful.

"The day I lost my mother, you lost yours, too," I finally said. The words felt like tiny, hot embers falling from my lips. The moment I uttered them, that feeling was followed by a chill so cold it was as if someone had poured ice water down the back of my neck.

Paul's eyes rushed over my face, searching for a clearer comprehension.

"My mother . . . died, too?"

His eyes lifted and he took on a far-off look as his mind raced from point A to point B. Then his face turned crimson and he gazed at me again, this time, his eyes more demanding, more frantic.

"What are you saying . . . that you and I . . . that we're . . . related? That we're brother and sister?" he asked, the corners of his mouth pulled up into his cheeks. I nodded.

"Grandmère Catherine decided to tell me only when she saw what was happening between us," I said. He shook his head, still skeptical. "It was very painful for her to do so. Now that I think back, it wasn't long afterward that age began to creep into her steps and into her voice and heart. Old pains that are revived sting sharper than when they first strike."

"This has got to be a mistake, an old Cajun folktale, some stupid rumor conjured up in a room filled with busybodies," Paul said, wagging his head and smiling.

"Grandmère Catherine never spread gossip, never fanned the flames of idle talk and rumors. You know she hated that sort of thing; she was someone who despised lies and more often than not made people face the truth. She made me do it even though she knew it would break my heart; it was something she had to do, even though it hurt her so much, too.

"But I can't stand your not liking me, your hating me and thinking I wanted to hurt you anymore, Paul. I die every time you look at me furiously at school. Still, almost every night, I go to sleep crying over you. Of course, we can't be in love, but I can't stand our being enemies."

"I never thought of you as an enemy. I just . . ."

"Hated me. Go on, you can say it now. It doesn't hurt for me to hear it now, now that I have suffered through it," I said and smiled through my tears.

"Ruby," Paul said, shaking his head, "I can't believe what you're telling me; I can't believe that my father . . . that your mother . . ."

"You're old enough now to know the truth, Paul. Maybe I'm being selfish by telling it to you. Grandmère Catherine warned me not to, warned me that you would eventually hate me for causing any rift in your family, but I can't stand the lies between us anymore, and especially now, on top of my losing her and my realization that I'm all alone."

Paul stared at me a moment and then he got up and walked down to the edge of the water. I watched him just stand there, kicking some stones into the water, thinking, realizing, coming to terms with what I had told him. I knew that the same sort of tumult that was going on in his heart had gone on in mine, and the same sort of confusion was whirling around in his head. He shook his head again, more vigorously this time, and turned back to me.

"We have all these photographs, pictures of my mother when she was pregnant with me, pictures of me right after I was born, and—"

"Lies," I said. "All pretend, deceptions to hide the sinful acts."

"No, you're wrong. It's all a terrible, stupid mistake, don't you see?" he said, folding his hands into fists. "And we're being made to suffer for it. I'm sure it can't be true." He nodded, convincing himself. "I'm sure," he said, walking back to me.

"Grandmère Catherine wouldn't lie to me, Paul."

"No, your Grandmère wouldn't lie to you, but maybe she thought by telling you this story, she could keep you from getting involved with me and that was good because my family would make such a stink and you and I would suffer. Sure, that's it," he said, comfortable with the theory. "I'll prove it to you. I don't know how I will right now, but I will and then . . . then we'll be together just as we dreamed we would."

"Oh, Paul, how I wish you were right," I said.

"I am," he said confidently. "You'll see. I'll get beat up over you at another fais dodo yet," he added, laughing. I smiled but turned away.

"What about Suzzette?" I asked.

"I don't love Suzzette. I never did. I just had to have someone to . . . to . . ."

"To make me jealous?" I asked, turning back quickly.

"Yes," he confessed.

"I don't blame you for doing that, only you did it very convincingly," I said, smiling.

"Well, I'm . . . good at it."

We laughed. Then I grew serious again and reached up for his hand. He helped me stand. We were inches apart, facing each other.

"I don't want you to be hurt, Paul. Don't put too much hope in your disproving the things Grandmère Catherine told me. Promise me that when you find out the truth . . ."