"I said no," Mama replied. "I'm not in the habit of telling lies."

They both laughed in a way that chilled my blood.

"Married to Jack Landry and you don't tell lies?" the man with the scar said. His thin lips curled into a smile of mockery.

"That's right," Mama snapped. The back of her neck stiffened and she moved forward, all retreat out of her eyes. She fixed them on both men. "Now, what is it you want with my husband?"

"We want him to pay his debts," the other man said. "What debts?"

"Gambling debts. Tell him Spike and Longstreet been here and will be back. Make sure he gets the message. Here's our calling card," he added, and took out a switchblade knife to cut a seam in our screen door. I felt the blood drain from my face. I screamed and Mama gasped, putting her arm around me quickly. The way they stood there glaring in at us made ice water drip down my spine.

"Get off my galerie! Get off my land, hear! I'll call the police. Go on."

They laughed and took their time leaving. We watched them get into their car and drive away, both our hearts pounding.

"Now what trouble has that man brought on our heads?" Mama wailed.

"Maybe we should go to town and tell the police, Mama."

"They won't care. They know your father's reputation. I'll fetch a needle and thread and sew up that screen," she said, "before we get a flock of mosquitoes in here."

We both tried to not talk about the two 'men, but every time we heard a car engine, we looked up fearfully, expectantly, and then sighed and released our held breaths when the car went on past our shack. It was hard enough to fall asleep with the heat and humidity, but now with fear loitering at our door, too, we both tossed and turned and opened our eyes and listened hard whenever we heard any unusual sounds at night, and especially whenever we heard automobiles.

The two ugly men didn't return, but four days later, while Mama and I were having a salad for lunch, we heard a horn and looked out to see Daddy's truck bouncing over the front yard. He nearly drove it into the house. He took a swig of a jug he had beside him on the front seat and then heaved the jug out the window. He practically fell out of the truck getting out. He stumbled and made his way to the galerie where we stood, both wide-eyed.

"What' cha both standin' there lookin' like ya seen a ghost?" he demanded, stopping short so quickly, he nearly toppled over. It's only me, Jack Landry, home. Ain'tcha glad to death?" he said, and laughed.

"What are you doing back here, Jack, and tanked up with rotgut whiskey, too?" Mama asked, her hands on her hips.

"Work ended faster than I expected," he replied, unable to stop his swaying. He closed his eyes, a silly smile on his lips.

"In other words, you got canned again, right?" Mama asked, wagging her head with anger.

"Let's just say me and the foreman had a disagreement to a point beyond compromise."

"You came to work drunk as a skunk," Mama concluded. "That," Daddy said, waving his long finger in the air like the conductor -of an orchestra, "is a dirty, low-down lie."

"I bet you ain't got a penny in your pocket, neither,"

Mama continued.

"Well . . ."

"And you never sent home a dollar, Jack."

"You didn't get nothin' in the mail?" he said, his eyes wide.

Mama shook her head. "When you get to hell, the devil's gonna learn a trick or two."

"Catherine, I swear on a stack of—"

"Don't say it. It's blasphemy," she warned. He gulped and nodded.

"Well, I did put some money in an envelope. Them postal workers stole it, for sure. They open the envelopes with a candle, Gabrielle, and then they reseal them with the wax," he said.

"Oh, Daddy," I said, shaking my head.

"Don't you two look like a pair of owls." He started to laugh, but Mama stepped to the side and pointed to the screen door where she had sewn up the slash.

"See that, Jack? Your friends came a-calling and cut up our screen door when they didn't find you here." "Friends?"

"Mr. Spike and Mr. Longstreet."

"Here?" His face turned paper white and he spun around as if they were waiting for him behind a tree. "What'dja tell them?"

"That you were working in Baton Rouge. Of course, I didn't know I was telling a lie."

"When were they here?"

"A few days ago, Jack. What do you owe them?" "Just a little money. I'll straighten it out," he said. "How much is a little, Jack?" she pursued.

"I got no time to talk to you, woman," he said. "I gotta go upstairs and rest from the journey."

He climbed the stairs, pulling himself up and nearly pulling out a rafter at the same time. Then he went into the house and stumbled up the stairs, leaving a cloud of sour whiskey stench behind him.

"I bet his will be the first corpse the worms reject," Mama said, and plopped into her rocking chair. It made me sick to see her so defeated and depressed. I thought it was that and the heat and my own gloom that upset my stomach something awful that night. Mama thought I might be coming down with some sort of summer dysentery. She gave me one of her herbal drinks and told me to go to bed early.

But the next morning I woke up just as nauseous and had to vomit again. Mama was worried, but once I finished throwing up, I suddenly felt better. My headache was gone and my nausea passed.

"I guess your medicine worked, Mama," I told her. She nodded, but she looked thoughtful and unconvinced. I wasn't sick again for nearly a week, but I was continually tired and sluggish, once falling asleep in Mama's rocker.

"This heat," Mama said, thinking that was the cause. I tried to keep cool, wrapped a wet towel around my neck, drank lots of water, but I was still tired all the time.

One afternoon Mama noticed me returning from the outhouse.

"How many times you been to the bathroom today, Gabrielle?" she asked.

"A few. Just to piddle, Mama. My stomach's okay." She still stared at me suspiciously.

And then the next morning I woke and had the same nausea. I had to vomit again.

Mama came to me and put a wet towel on my forehead and then she sat on my bed and stared at me. Without speaking, she pulled the blanket back and looked at my breasts.

"Is it sore there?" she asked. I didn't reply. "It is, isn't it?"

"A little."

"You tell me the truth and mighty quickly, Gabrielle Landry. Did you miss your time?"

"It's come late before, Mama."

"How late is it, Gabrielle?" she probed.

"A few weeks," I admitted.

She was quiet. She looked away and took a deep breath and then she turned to me slowly, her eyes sad but firm. Her lips were pressed together so hard, the color drained from them, but there was a redness in her cheeks and in her neck. She sucked in some air slowly and looked up before she looked at me again. I couldn't remember Mama ever looking at me this sadly.

"How did this happen, Gabrielle?" she asked softly. "Who made you pregnant?"

I shook my head, the tears burning beneath my eyelids. "I'm not pregnant, Mama. I'm not."

"Yes, you are, honey. You're as pregnant as pregnant is. They're ain't no half-pregnant. When did this happen? I ain't seen you with no boy here and don't remember you going off except to go . . ." Her eyes widened. "Into the swamp. You been meeting someone, Gabrielle?"

"No, Mama."

"It's time for the whole truth, Gabrielle. No half sentences."

"Oh, Mama!" I cried and covered my face with my hands. "Mama!"

"What in tarnation's going on here?" Daddy complained. He came to my doorway in his tattered underpants. "A man's trying to get some rest."

"Oh, hush up, Jack. Can't you see something's happened to Gabrielle?"

"Huh? Whaaa ." He scrubbed his cheeks with his rough palms and ran his long fingers through his hair. "What happened?"

"Gabrielle's pregnant," she said.

"What? When . . . Who . . . How did this happen?" he demanded.

"I'm trying to find that out. If you'll just clamp down on that tongue . . ."

My shoulders shook with my sobs. Mama put her hand on my head and petted me.

"There, there, honey. I'll help you, don't worry. What happened?"

"He . . ."

"Go on, honey. Just spit it out," Mama said. "Best way to get something bitter and distasteful from your mouth is quick," she assured me.

I took a deep breath and sucked back my sobs. Then I raised my head and took my hands from my face.

"He had his way with me in the canoe, Mama. I couldn't stop him. I tried, but I couldn't."

"That's all right, Gabrielle. That's all right,"

"What?" Daddy said, stepping closer. "Who did this? Who had his way? I'll—"

"Hush, Jack. You'll frighten her."

"Well . . . no one's gonna . . ."

"Gabrielle, did this happen at your swimming hole?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Who was it, honey, did this to you? Someone we know?" I nodded. Mama took my hand into hers.

"These young bucks, these worthless, good-for-nothing . . ." Daddy rattled.

"It was Monsieur Tate," I blurted, and Daddy stopped ranting, his jaw falling open.

"Octavious Tate!"

"Mon Dieu," Mama said.

"Octavious Tate done this?" Daddy fumed. He stood there, his eyes widening, his face a magenta color from his rage. Then he frightened both Mama and me by slamming his fist into the wall so hard he bashed in a hole.

"Jack!"

"Gabrielle, you get up out of that bed, hear? You get yourself dressed and out of that bed right now," Daddy directed, jabbing his right forefinger at me.

"Jack," Mama cried. "What are you going to do?"

"Just get her dressed. I'm the man of this house. Get her dressed!"