"She's not—"

"It's all right, Mama," I said. "I can get up." I never saw Daddy so full of fury. There was no telling what he would do if he didn't have his way.

"Well, what's he planning to do?" Mama cried. She looked at me. "My poor baby. Why didn't you tell me this all before?"

"It happened right before graduation, Mama. I didn't want to start anything then and . . . I wasn't sure whether or not it was partly my fault."

"Your fault? Why?"

"Because I . . . swim without my clothes," I said.

"That still don't give no man the right to do what he done," Mama said.

"Get her up and dressed!" Daddy screamed from the other room.

"I will not," Mama replied.

"No, Mama. I'll do what Daddy wants. I made this trouble worse by not telling you about it." I rose and began to dress, my hands trembling, my legs shaking, feeling as if I were sinking, drowning, going under in a pool of hopeless despair, and not even thinking for the moment that there was a baby growing inside me.

"Where you taking her, Jack?" Mama demanded. After I was dressed, Daddy took my hand and led me out and to his truck, practically dragging me along. Mama followed to the galerie steps.

"Get in the truck," he ordered, and then turned to her.

"You hush up now, woman," he said to Mama. "This here's a man's job to do."

"Jack Landry . . ."

"No. If you didn't let her wander about freely, this probably wouldn't have happened, hear?" he accused.

I felt terrible for Mama and buried my face in my hands. What had I done? It was all my fault. First, I shouldn't have been so unaware and trusting in the swamp, and afterward, I should never had kept it such a deep, dark secret from Mama. She looked so small and defeated on the galerie and so disappointed. I knew she blamed herself for bringing me up to believe I led a charmed life. It was true I always felt nothing in Nature would harm me, but I never counted on another human being invading the sanctity of my precious perfect world.

Daddy started the truck and slammed it into gear. He pressed down hard on the accelerator, tearing up some grass and gravel as we shot off. The truck bounced so hard my head nearly hit the roof. Daddy mumbled angrily to himself and slammed the steering wheel with the ball of his palm. I kept my eyes low. Suddenly he turned sharply to me.

"You didn't offer yourself to this man, didja, Gabrielle?"

"Oh no, Daddy."

"You was just swimming in your pond and he come on you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"And you tried to get away, but he wouldn't let you?"

"He took my clothes," I said.

"That low-down . . . rich . . ." Daddy's eyes got so small, I didn't think he could see the road. The tires squealed as we went around a turn.

"Where are we going, Daddy?"

"You just keep your head low and your mouth closed until I tell you to speak, understand, Gabrielle?"

"Yes, Daddy."

A short while later, we drove over the gravel in front of the Tate Cannery. Daddy brought the truck to a sharp stop, the wheels sliding and jerking.

"Come on," he said, opening the door.

I got out slowly. Daddy came around the truck and seized my left hand. He marched us up to the office door and pulled so hard on the knob, the door nearly came off the jamb. Mr. Tate's secretary, Margot Purcel, looked up from her desk sharply. She was typing an invoice, but when her eyes fell on Daddy, they widened and she looked terrified.

"Where is he?" Daddy demanded.

"Sir?"

"Don't you 'sir' me. Where's Tate?"

"Mr. Tate's on the telephone in his office," she said. "Can I tell him why you want to see him?"

She started to rise.

Daddy glared at her and just tugged me once toward the inner office door.

"Sir!"

Daddy opened the door and pushed me in ahead of him. Then he slammed the door behind us.

Octavious Tate sat behind a large, dark hickory desk. He wore a cream shirt and tie and had his suit jacket over the back of the chair. The fan in the corner hummed and created a nice breeze that circulated around the office. The shades on the-east side were drawn to block out the late morning sunlight, but the shades were up on the west side, so we could see the trucks loading up and men working.

Mr. Tate was on the phone, but he told whomever he was speaking to that he would call him back and quietly returned the black receiver to its cradle. Then he sat back.

"What is this?" he asked so calmly, I wondered for the moment if I had indeed dreamed everything.

"You know what this is," Daddy said.

Mr. Tate shifted his eyes to me, but I did what Daddy had told me to do and looked down.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Landry. I'm a busy man. You've got no right to come busting in my office. If you don't turn around and just march out that door,

Daddy walked up to his desk and slapped his hand down. Then he leaned over until his face wasn't a foot from Mr. Tate's.

"That's my daughter standing there and she's pregnant with your baby. You done raped her in the swamp, Tate."

"What? Now . . . see . . . see here," Mr. Tate stammered. "I did no such thing."

Daddy straightened up and gave him a crooked smile.

"Everyone knows my daughter ain't no liar." He stepped to the side. "This the man who jumped you, Gabrielle?" he asked.

I lifted my head slowly and looked at Mr. Tate. He curled his lips in and stared at me.

"Yes," I said softly.

"Well?" Daddy said.

"I don't care what she claims. It's ridiculous."

"You're going to pay, Tate. It's either going to be easy or hard, but you're going to pay."

Mr. Tate swallowed hard and then gathered his strength. He lifted the receiver again. "I'm going to call the police and have you arrested if you're not out of this office in ten seconds," he threatened.

"Okay then," Daddy said. "It will be hard."

He spun around, scooped my hand into his, and jerked the office door open. Without closing it behind us, he marched us out. Margot Purcel stood up and looked toward the inner office as we went past her and out the door.

"Get in the truck," Daddy said.

"Where we going now, Daddy?"

"Just get in. I know how to deal with the likes of him," he said.

Ten minutes later we turned up the long driveway to the Tate mansion, which was known as The Shadows because of the grand moss-draped oaks, willows, cypress, and magnolia trees that surrounded it and kept it in long, cool silhouettes most of the day. I had seen it only from the road before this. Our family was never invited to the famous parties that the Tates held there, nor was Mama ever called upon to treat Monsieur or Madame Tate.

As we continued up the long driveway, my heart throbbed in triple time and I shrank into a tighter ball, fearful of what Daddy had in mind to do next. Daddy's battered truck rattled over the gravel, kicking up dust clouds behind us. The grounds were so immaculate and neatly trimmed, I felt as if we were tracking mud over a new carpet.

All the oak trees had beds of azaleas and camellias under them. Queen Anne's lace bordered both sides of the driveway. To the right toward the canal, I saw the seemingly endless vegetable gardens and fruit trees. A short, stout black man with stark white hair and a tall, lean black woman with her ebony hair pinned up were harvesting crops. They looked our way for a moment and then went back to their labor.

I turned toward the house.

Before us the two-and-a-half-story structure rose with a majestic confidence that bespoke its grandeur and richness. It had classic columns rising from the ground to the entablature that supported the roof. There were upper and lower galleries and shutter-enclosed stairs. When we turned toward the front, I saw that the bayou side had a recessed galerie with brick arches below and turned Doric columns above. Ferns and palm leaves worked their way up and around the brick. There were three gabled dormers on the roof over the upper front galerie, each with four rows of paneled windows. The chimney rose from the rear of the building.

"What are we going to do here, Daddy?" I asked. Daddy turned off the truck engine and glared at the house for a moment.

"I know about the Tates," he said. "Octavious had nothing until he married Gladys White. She wears the britches in this family. Get out," he said.

I stepped down gingerly. This close, the house looked even more intimidating. Late morning shadows curved and then soaked the front in shade so thick, I felt as if we were stepping across one world and into another when we approached the tall, paneled door flush with fixed glass panes. Clumps of purple wisteria dangled from the scrolled iron railing above us. A half dozen silver bells on leather strings were hung over the door.

Daddy rattled them hard and then he let them fall against the door. A few moments later, a tall, spindly-looking, almond-complected, balding man with a long, thin nose and very thin lips opened the door. He wore a butler's uniform, but he had his tie loosened and apparently was just finishing chewing something. He swallowed quickly and raised his light brown eyebrows. They lifted at the middle as if there were an invisible hook hoisting them into his crinkled forehead.

"Yes?" he said, unable to hide his disapproval of the way Daddy was dressed, his hair wild, his shirt half in and half out, and his dungarees worn nearly clear through at the knees.

"I want to see Madame Tate," Daddy said.

"Really? And who wishes to see Madame?" the butler asked. He spoke with his head pulled back a bit so that the underside of his nose was clearly visible. There was a small but distinct dimple at the tip. He had a nasal tone and tucked his lips in at the corners after he spoke.