Pearl in the Mist

by V. C. Andrews

"Grandpere!" I cried.

  We went to the rear and searched and then walked up the stairs. I think the effort it took for Grandpere to climb those steps saved the upper part of the house from the same abuse and deterioration the downstairs suffered. The loom room was not very changed, nor was my old bedroom and Grandmere Catherine's, save everything that could have been opened and searched had been. Grandpere had even pulled off some wallboards.

  "Where could he be?" I wondered.

  Paul shrugged. "Down at one of the zydeco bars, begging for a drink maybe," he said, but when we descended the stairs again, we heard Grandpere Jack's shrill screams coming from the rear of the house. We hurried around back and saw him, naked but caked with mud, swinging a burlap sack over his head and yelping like a hound dog after game.

  "Stay back," Paul advised. "Jack," he called. "Jack Landry!"

  Grandpere stopped swinging the sack and stared through the darkness. "Who's there? Robbers, thieves, git on wit' ya!"

  "No thieves. It's Paul Tate."

  "Tate? You stay away, hear? I ain't giving you nothin' back. Stay away. This is my fortune. I earned it. I found it. I dug and dug until I found it, hear? Back, back or I'll heave a rock at yer. Back!" he screamed again, but he backed up himself.

  "Grandpere!" I cried. "It's me, Ruby. I've come home."

  "Who? Who's that?"

  "It's Ruby," I said, stepping forward.

  "Ruby? No. I ain't takin' the blame for that. No. We needed the money. Don't blame me. Don't go blaming me. Catherine, don't you blame me!" he screamed. Then, clutching his burlap sack to his chest, he went running toward the canal.

  "Grandpere!"

  "Let him go, Ruby. He's gone mad from the rotgut whiskey."

  We heard him scream again, and then we heard the splash of water.

  "Paul, he'll drown."

  Paul thought a moment. "Give me the lantern," he said, then went after Grandpere. I heard more splashing, more screaming.

  "Jack!" Paul cried.

  "No, it's mine! Mine!" Grandpere replied. There was more splashing, and then it grew quiet.

  "Paul?" I waited and then charged, through the darkness, my feet sinking into the soft swamp grass. I ran toward the light and found Paul gazing over the water.

  "Where is he?" I asked in a loud whisper.

  "I don't know, I. . ." He squinted and then he pointed.

  "Grandpere!" I screamed.

  Grandpere Jack's body looked like a thick log floating along. It bounced against some rocks and then got caught in the current and continued on until it became entangled in some brush that stuck up out of the water.

  "We'd better get some help," Paul suggested. "Come on."

  Less than an hour later, the firemen hoisted Grandpere Jack's body out of the water. He was still clutching his burlap sack, only instead of buried treasure, it was filled with rusted old tin cans.

  How could I have a more horrible

  homecoming? Despite the terrible things Grandpere Jack had done and the pathetic creature he had become, I couldn't help but remember him when I was a little girl. He had his soft moments. I would go out to his swamp shack and he would talk about the bayou as if it were his dearest friend. At one time he was a legend. There wasn't a better trapper. He knew how to read the swamp, knew when the waters would be rising and falling, knew when the bream would be running, and knew where the 'gators slept and the snakes curled.

  He liked to talk about his ancestors then, about the scoundrels who raised hell on the Mississippi, the famous gamblers and flatboat polers. Grandmere Catherine said he spun most of it out of his own imagination, but it didn't matter to me whether it was wholly true or not. I just liked the way he told his tales, staring out at the Spanish moss and puffing on his corncob pipe as he rattled on and on, pausing only occasionally in those days to take a swig from his jug. He always had an excuse for it. He had to clear his throat of the grime that floats through the air in the swamp or he had to chase a cold away. Sometimes he just had to keep his gizzards warm.

  Despite the break between Grandmere Catherine and Grandpere Jack after he had contracted to sell Gisselle to the Dumas family, I sensed that once, a long time ago, they were true sweethearts. Even Grandmere, during one of her calmer moments, would admit that he had been a strikingly handsome, virile young man, dazzling her with his emerald-green eyes and his sun-darkened skin. He was quite a dancer too, who could cut up the floor better than anyone at a fais dodo.

  But time has a way of drawing the poisons in us to the surface. The evil that nestled under Grandpere Jack's heart seeped out and changed him--or, as Grandmere was fond of saying, "turned him into what he was: a no-account rogue who belongs with the things that slither and crawl."

  Perhaps he had turned to his rotgut whiskey as a way of denying what he was or what he saw reflecting back at him when he leaned over his pirogue and gazed into the water. Whatever it was, the demons inside him got their way, and finally they dragged him down into the waters he had once loved and cherished and even worshiped. The bayou out of which he'd made his life had claimed his life.

  I cried for the man he was when Grandmere Catherine first fell in love with him, just as I imagined she had cried for him when he had stopped being that man.

  Despite Paul's pleading, I insisted on staying in the shack. If I didn't force myself to do it the first night, I would find reason not to the next and the next after that, I thought. I made my old bed as

  comfortable as I could and, after everyone had gone and I had said good night to Paul and promised to be waiting for him in the morning, I went to sleep and passed out quickly from total exhaustion.

  It didn't take an hour or so after sunrise for all of Grandmere Catherine's old friends to learn of my return. They thought I had come back intending to look after Grandpere Jack. I rose early and began to clean the shack, working on the kitchen first. There was little to eat, but before an hour had passed, Grandmere's old friends began arriving, each bringing me something. Everyone was shocked at the condition of the shack, of course. None had been inside since Grandmere's death and my departure. Cajun women throw themselves at someone else's chores as if they are all of one family when that person is in need. By the time I turned around, they were all scrubbing down the floors and walls, shaking out the rugs, dusting the furniture, washing windows. It brought tears of joy to my eyes. No one had cross-examined me as to where I had been and what I had been doing. I was back, I needed their help, and that was all that mattered. Finally, I felt I really had come home.

  Paul came by with armloads of things his parents had sent over and thing. The knew I would need. He went around the shack with a hammer and nails and tacked down as many loose boards as he could find. Then he took a shovel and began to fill in the dozens and dozens of holes Grandpere had dug, searching for the treasure he imagined Grandmere Catherine had buried. I saw how the women watched him work and whispered to themselves, smiling and glancing my way. If they only knew the truth, I thought, if they only knew. But there were still secrets to be kept locked up in our own hearts; there were still people we loved and had to protect.

  Grandpere Jack's funeral was a quick and simple one. Father Rush advised me to have it conducted as soon as possible.

  "You don't want to attract Jack Landry's sort to your home, Ruby. You know that kind only looks for an excuse to imbibe and cause a ruckus. Best leave him at peace and pray for him on your own."

  "Will you say a mass for him, Father?" I asked.

  "That we will. The good Lord has compassion enough to forgive even a man as lowdown as Jack Landry, and it is not for us to judge anyway," he said.

  After the burial, Grandmere Catherine's friends returned to the house and only then began to ask some questions about my whereabouts since Grandmere Catherine's passing. I told them I had been with relatives in New Orleans but that I'd missed the bayou. It wasn't untrue, and it was enough to satisfy their curiosity.

  Paul went about the grounds and the shack, continuing
to do handyman's work, while the women sat and talked into the evening hours. He lingered until they all bid me good night, all still smiling and chattering about him.

  "You know what they think," he said when we were finally alone. "That you returned to be with me."

  "I know."

  "What are you going to do when you start to show?"

  "I don't know yet," I said.

  "The easiest thing to do is marry me," he said firmly, his blue eyes full of hope.

  "Oh Paul, you know why that can never be."

  "Why not? The only thing we can't do is have children of our own, but we don't have to now. You've got our baby in your oven," he said.

  "Paul, it wouldn't be right to even think of such a thing. And your father . . ."

  "My father wouldn't say a word," Paul snapped, and I couldn't remember when I last saw him so dark and angry. "If he did, he'd have to confess to the world what sins he committed. I'll make a good life for you, Ruby. Honest I will. I'm going to be a rich man, and I've got a prime piece of land on which to build my house. Maybe it won't be as fancy as the house you lived in in New Orleans, but . . ."

  "Oh, it's not fancy houses or riches that I want, Paul. I told you once before that you should look to find yourself a wife with whom you can build your own family. You deserve your own family."

  "You're my family, Ruby. You've always been my family."

  I looked away so he wouldn't see the tears in my eyes. I didn't want to hurt him.

  "Can't you love me without having children with me?" he asked. It sounded more like pleading.

  "Paul, it's not only that . ."

  "You do love me, don't you?"

  "I love you, Paul, but I haven't thought of you the way you want me to since . . . since we learned the truth about ourselves."

  "But you might start again if you think about us in a different way," he said hopefully. "You're back here and . . ."

  I shook my head.

  "It's more than that then, isn't it?"

  I nodded.

  "You still love that Beau Andreas, even though he's made you pregnant and left you, don't you? Don't you?" he demanded.

  "Yes, Paul, I guess I do."

  He stared a moment and then sighed. "Well, it doesn't change things. I'll still be here for you all the time," he said firmly.

  "Paul, don't make me feel sorry I came back."

  "Of course I won't," he said. "Weil, I'd better get home," he said and walked to the doorway. He paused and looked back at me. "You know what they're going to think anyway, don't you, Ruby?"

  "What?"

  "That the baby's mine," he said.

  "I'll tell the truth when I have to," I said.

  "They won't believe you," he insisted. "And as Rhett Butler said in Gone With the Wind, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.'

  He laughed and walked out, leaving me more confused than ever, and more frightened than ever of what the future had in store.

  I made myself at home again faster than I had thought possible. Within the week I was upstairs in the loom room, weaving cotton jaune into blankets to sell at the roadside stand. I wove palmetto leaves into palmetto hats and made split-oak baskets. I wasn't as good at cooking gumbo as Grandmere Catherine used to be, but I tried and made a passably good one to sell for lunches. I would work evenings and be out setting up the stand in the morning. Once in a while I thought about doing some painting, but for the time being I didn't have a spare moment. Paul was the first to point that out.

  "You're working so hard at making what you need to eat and get by that you have no time to develop your talent, Ruby, and that's a sin," he said.

  I didn't answer because I knew what he meant.

  "We could have a good life together, Ruby. You would be a woman of means again, able to do the things you want to do. We'll have a nanny for the baby and--"

  "Paul, don't," I begged. My lips trembled, and he changed the subject quickly, for if there was one thing Paul would never do it was make me cry, make me sad.

  The weeks turned into months, and soon it felt like I had never left. Nights I would sit on the galerie and watch the occasional passing vehicles or look up at the moon and stars until Paul arrived. Sometimes he brought his harmonica and played a tune or two. If something sounded too mournful, lie jumped up and played a lively number, dancing and making me laugh as he puffed out the notes.

  Often I took walks along the canal, just the way I used to when I was growing up here. On moonlit nights the swamp's Golden Lady spider webs would glisten, the owls would hoot, and the 'gators would slip gracefully through the silky waters. Occasionally I would come across one sleeping on the shore and go cautiously around him. I knew he sensed my presence but barely opened his eyes.

  It wasn't until the beginning of my fifth month that I began to show. No one said anything, but everyone's eyes lingered a long moment on my belly and I knew I had begun to be the topic of afternoon conversations everywhere. Finally I was visited by a delegation of women led by Grandmere Catherine's old friends Mrs. Thirbodeaux and Mrs. Livaudis. Mrs. Livaudis was apparently chosen to be their

  spokeswoman.

  "Now Ruby, we've come here because you haven't got anyone to speak for you anymore," she began.

  "I can speak for myself when I have to, Mrs. Livaudis."

  "Maybe you can. Being Catherine Landry's granddaughter, I'm sure you can, but it don't hurt to have some of us old biddies squawking alongside you," she continued, and she nodded at the others, who nodded back, all of one determined face.

  "Who are we to be speaking to, Mrs. Livaudis?"

  "We'll be speaking to the man who's

  responsible," she said, nodding at me, "that's who. We all think we know who that young man is, too, and he comes from a family of substantial means in these here parts."

  "I'm sorry, everyone," I said, "but the young man you're thinking about is not the father of my child."

  Mouths dropped, eyes widened.

  "Well, who is then?" Mrs. Livaudis asked. "Or can't you say?"

  "It's someone who doesn't live here, Mrs. Livaudis. It's someone from New Orleans."

  The women eyed each other, their faces now skeptical.

  "You're not doing yourself or your baby any good to protect the father from his responsibilities, Ruby," Mrs. Thirbodeaux said. "Your grandmere wouldn't let you do such a thing, I assure you."

  "I know she wouldn't," I said, smiling as I imagined Grandmere Catherine giving me a similar lecture.

  "Then let us go with you and help you make the young man bear his share," Mrs. Livaudis said quickly. "If there is an ounce of decency in him, he'll do the right thing."

  "I'm telling you the truth. He doesn't live here," I said as sincerely as I could, but they shook their heads and looked at me with pity in their eyes.

  "We just want you to know, Ruby, that when it comes time to do what's right, we'll be with you," Mrs. Thirbodeaux said. "Do you want a doctor or a traiteur? There is a traiteur living just outside Morgan City who will come to see you."

  The thought of going to some other traiteur besides Grandmere Catherine bothered me.

  "I'll see the doctor," I told them.

  "The bills should be paid by you know who," Mrs. Livaudis commented, shifting her eyes toward the others, who all nodded in firm agreement.

  "I'll be all right," I promised them.

  They left, convinced that what they believed was the truth. Paul had been right, of course. He knew our people better than I did. But this was my burden now, something I would have to live with and deal with on my own. Of course, I thought about Beau and wondered what, if anything, he had heard about me.

  As if she heard my thoughts, Gisselle sent me a letter through Paul.

  "This came this afternoon," he said, bringing the letter over. I was in the kitchen preparing a shrimp gumbo. I wiped my hands and sat down.

  "My sister wrote to me?" I smiled with surprise and opened the envelope. Paul stood in the doorway, watching m
e read.

  Dear Ruby,

  Bet you never dreamed you'd receive a letter from me. The longest thing I ever wrote was that dumb English report on the old English poets, and even that was half written for me by Vicki.

  Anyway, I found Paul's old letters in your closet when Daphne told me to go into your room and take anything I wanted before she gave the rest away to the needy. She had Martha Wood strip down your room and shut it up. She said as far as she was concerned, you never existed. Of course, she still has the problem of the will to face. I overheard her and Bruce talking about it one night and he told her to get you out of the will. It would take a lot of legal maneuvering and might upset their own apple cart, so for the time being, you're still a Dumas.

  I know you're probably wondering why I'm writing from New Orleans. Well, guess what? Daphne gave in and let me come home and return to school here. Know why? Word of your pregnancy spread around the school. I wonder how? Anyway, it became disgraceful and Daphne couldn't stand that, especially when I started calling her night and day to tell her what the girls were saying, how the teachers were looking at me, what Mrs. Ironwood thought. So she gave in and let me come home, where your secret is well kept.

  Daphne's told everyone you just ran off to the bayou to live with your Cajuns because you missed them so much. Of course, people wonder about Beau.

  "I bet you're wondering about him, huh?" she wrote at the bottom of the page, making it seem as if she wouldn't tell me anymore.

  Just like Gisselle, I thought, teasing me even in a letter. I turned the paper over and found the rest.

  Beau is still in France, where he is doing very well. Monsieur and Madame Andreas are telling everyone about his accomplishments and how he will be going to college there too. And it seems he is seeing a very wealthy French girl, someone whose family lineage goes back to Louis Napoleon.

  I got a letter from him last month in which he begged me to tell him anything at all about you. I just wrote today and told him I don't know where you are. I told him I'm trying to find you by writing to one of our Cajun relatives, but I heard you might have gotten married in one of those Cajun marriage ceremonies on a raft in the swamp with snakes and spiders at your feet.