"I won't find out the lie," he insisted.

"Promise me," I pursued, "promise that if you find out that what Grandmère told me is true, you will accept it as I have and go on to love someone else as much. Promise me."

"I can't," he said. "I can't love anyone else as much as I love you, Ruby. It's not possible."

He embraced me and I buried my face in his shoulder for a moment. He drew me closer. Beneath his shirt, I could feel his steady heartbeat. Then I felt his lips on my hair and I closed my eyes and dreamed we were far away, living in a world where there were no lies and deceit, where it was always spring and where the sunshine touched your heart as well as your face and made you forever young.

The screech of a marsh hawk made me lift my head quickly. I saw it seize a smaller bird, one that might have just learned how to fly, and then go off with its prize, unconcerned that it left some mother bird destroyed, too.

"Sometimes I hate it here," I said quickly. "Sometimes, I feel like I don't belong."

Paul looked at me with surprise.

"Of course you belong here," he said. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the rest of it, to tell him about my twin sister and my real father who lived in a big house somewhere in New Orleans, but I shut the lid on the truth. Enough had been revealed for one day.

"I'd better get back inside and continue to greet the people," I said, starting toward the house.

"I'll come with you and stay with you as long as I can," he said. "My parents sent over some food. I gave it to Mrs. Livaudis. They send their regards. They would have come themselves but . . ."

He stopped in the middle of his explanation and smirked. "I'm not making any excuses for them. My father doesn't like your Grandpère," he said.

I wanted to tell him why; I wanted to go on and on and give him all the details Grandmère Catherine had given me, but I thought enough was enough. Let him discover as much of the truth as he was able to himself, as much of it as he was able to face. For truth was a bright light and just like any bright light, it was hard to look into it.

I nodded. He hurried to join me, to thread his arm through mine, and return to the wake to sit beside me where he didn't fully realize or yet believe he belonged. After all, it was his grandmother, too, who had died.


8

  It's Hard to Change

Grandmère Catherine's funeral was one of the biggest ever held in Terrebone Parish, for practically all of the mourners who had come to the wake and then some came to the services in church and at the cemetery. Grandpère Jack was on his best behavior and wearing the best clothes he could get. With his hair brushed, his beard trimmed, and his boots cleaned and polished, he looked more like a responsible member of the community. He told me he hadn't been in church since his mother's funeral, but he sat beside me and sang the hymns and recited the prayers. He stood at my side at the cemetery, too. It seemed like as long as he didn't have any whiskey flowing through his veins, he was quiet and respectful.

Paul's parents came to the church, but not to the cemetery. Paul came to the graveside by himself and stood on the other side of me. We didn't hold hands, but he made his close presence known with a touch or a word.

Father Rush began his prayers and then delivered his last blessing. And then the coffin was lowered. Just when I had thought my sorrow had gone as deeply as it could into my very soul; just when I had thought my heart could be torn no more, I felt the sorrow go deeper and tear more. Somehow, even though she was dead, with her body still in the house, with her face in quiet repose, I had not fully understood how final her death was, but now, with the sight of her coffin going down, I could not remain strong. I could not accept that she would not be there to greet me in the morning and to comfort me before bed. I could not accept that we wouldn't be working side by side, struggling to provide for ourselves; I could not accept that she wouldn't be singing over the stove or marching down the steps to go on one of her treater missions. I didn't have the strength. My legs became sticks of butter and collapsed beneath me. Neither Paul nor Grandpère could get to me before my body hit the earth and my eyes shut out the reality.

I awoke on the front seat of the car that brought us to the cemetery. Someone had gone to a nearby brook and dipped a handkerchief into the water. Now, the cool, refreshing liquid helped me regain consciousness. I saw Mrs. Livaudis leaning over me, stroking my hair, and I saw Paul standing right behind her, a look of deep concern on his face.

"What happened?"

"You just fainted, dear, and we carried you to the car. How are you now?" she asked.

"I'm all right," I said. "Where's Grandpère Jack?" I asked. I tried sitting up, but my head began to spin and I had to fall back against the seat.

"He went off already," Mrs. Livaudis said, smirking, "with his usual swamp bums. You just rest there, dear. We're taking you home now. Just rest," she advised.

"I'll be right behind you," Paul said, leaning in. I tried to smile and then closed my eyes. By the time we reached the house, I felt strong enough to get up and walk to the galerie steps. There were dozens of people waiting to help. Mrs. Thibodeau directed I be taken up to my room. They helped me off with my shoes and I lay back, now feeling more embarrassed than exhausted.

"I'm fine," I insisted. "I'll be all right. I should go downstairs and—"

"You just lie here awhile, dear," Mrs. Livaudis said. "We'll bring you something cool to drink."

"But I should go downstairs . . . the people . . ."

"Everything's taken care of. Just rest a bit more," Mrs. Thibodeau said. I did as they ordered. Mrs. Livaudis returned with some cold lemonade. I felt a lot better after I had drunk it and said so.

"If you're up to it then, the Tate boy wants to see how you are. He's chomping at the bit and pacing up and down at the foot of the stairs like an expectant father," Mrs. Livaudis said, smiling.

"Yes, please, send him in," I said, and Paul was permitted to come upstairs.

"How are you doing?" he asked quickly.

"I'm all right. I'm sorry I was so much trouble," I moaned. "I wanted everything to go smooth and proper for Grandmere."

"Oh, it did. It was the most . . . most impressive funeral I've ever seen. No one could remember more people attending one, and you did fine. Everyone understands."

"Where's Grandpère Jack?" I asked. "Where did he go to so quickly?"

"I don't know, but he just arrived a little while ago. He's downstairs, greeting people on the galerie."

"Was he drinking?"

"A little," Paul lied.

"Paul Tate, you'd better practice more if you're going to try to deceive me," I said. "You're no harder to see through than a clean windowpane."

He laughed.

"He'll be all right. Too many people around him," Paul assured me, but no sooner had he uttered the words than we heard the shouting from below.

"Don't you tell me what to do and what not to do in my own house!" Grandpère raved. "You may run the pants off your men at your homes, but you ain't running off mine. Now just get your butts on outta here and make it quick. Go on, get!"

That was followed by a chorus of uproars and more shouting.

"Help me go down, Paul. I've got to see what he's doing," I said. I got out of bed, slipped into my shoes, and went down to the kitchen where Grandpère had a jug of whiskey in his hands and was already swaying as he glared at the small crowd of mourners in the doorway.

"Whatcha all gapin' at, huh? You never seen a man in mourning? You never seen a man who just buried his wife? Quit your gapin' and go about your business," he cried, took another swig, swayed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were blazing. "Go on!" he shouted again, when no one moved.

"Grandpère!" I cried. He gazed at me with those bleary eyes. Then he swung the jug against the sink, smashing it and its contents all over the kitchen. The women shrieked and he howled. He was terrible in his anger, frightening as he whumped around with an energy too great to confine in such a small space.

Paul embraced me and pulled me back up the stairs.

"Wait until he calms down," he said. We heard Grandpère scream again and then we heard the mourners flee the house, the women who had brought their families, grabbing up their children and getting into their trucks and cars with their husbands to hightail it away.

Grandpère ranted and raved awhile longer. Paul sat beside me on my bed and held my hand. We listened until it grew very quiet downstairs.

"He's settled down," I said. "I'd better go down and start cleaning up."

"I'll help," Paul said.

We found Grandpère collapsed in a rocker on the galerie, snoring. I mopped up the kitchen and cleared away the pieces of broken jug while Paul wiped down our table and straightened up the furniture.

"You'd better go home now, Paul," I said as soon as we were finished. "Your parents are probably wondering where you are so long."

"I hate to leave you here with that . . . that drunk. They ought to lock him up and throw the key away for doing what he did this time. It's not right that Grandmère Catherine's gone and he's still around, and it's not safe for you."

"I'll be all right. You know how he gets after he has his tantrum. He'll just sleep it off and then wake up hungry and sorry for what he did."

Paul smiled, shook his head, and then reached to caress my cheek, his eyes soft and warm.

"My Ruby, always optimistic."