"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, Gabriel?" 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 gallery 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 gallery, 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.
"Jack Landry and his daughter, Gabriel," Daddy said.
"And I don't mean to be turned away," he added.
"Really? What is the nature of your visit, monsieur?"
"That's private."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really, really. You going to get her or am I going to get her?" Daddy asked.
The butler's eyes widened and those eyebrows were jerked even higher.
"One moment, please," he said, and closed the door.
"Snobby, rich. . . dirty . . ." Daddy mumbled. He looked around and nodded. "They think they own everything and everybody and can do whatever they please. Well, they ain't met Jack Landry head-on yet," he said.
"I think we should go home, Daddy," I said softly.
"Home? We ain't going nowhere till I get some satisfaction," he remarked. He shook the bells again. A moment later the butler opened the door, but this time standing beside him was Gladys Tate.
She looked formidable, towering, her shoulders back, her spine a steel rod. Her eyes were burning with indignation.
She looked like she had been interrupted doing something very important or was about to leave the house for an important appointment. She wore a polka-dot dark blue dress with a thin scarf. There was a matching polka-dot belt with a large bow at her waist.
This close up, confronting her, I realized how stunningly beautiful she was, but also how hard those slate-cold brown eyes could be. Steely faced, she stepped forward.
"How dare you have me summoned like this? What is it you want?" She threw me a glance, her mean look so sharp, I thought it could cut glass.
"I have business with you," Daddy said, undaunted.
"My husband handles the business."
"Not this business. This business is private," Dad
dy insisted.
"Really, monsieur, I don't think--"
"You're gonna hafta talk to me, madame, sooner or later. It be better sooner," Daddy said.
She shifted her eyes to me again. I could feel the curiosity twirling around in her brain, and her face softened.
"All right, Summers," she said to the butler. "I'll speak with these people." She said "people" as if we were lower than grasshoppers. "First room on the right," she ordered, and we entered the mansion.
I had never been inside a house this large and couldn't help but gape at everything: the mauve marble entryway, the great tapestries depicting grand plantation houses and grounds and Civil War scenes. Before us to the left was a square, polished mahogany stairway, and above us, from the high ceilings, dangled teardrop chandeliers with glittering brass necks. Beyond the entryway, the house seemed to go on forever. I saw pedestals with sculptures, and beside the tapestries, there was artwork covering every available space. It didn't look like a home so much as it looked like a government building or a museum.
We entered the room on the right. The first thing that caught my eye was the parasol roof. We stepped onto a rich beige carpet. The room had honey beige straw-cloth walls, blond beige woods, rosy beige leather on the French chairs.
Everything looked so clean and neat and new, I was afraid to touch anything. Gladys Tate stopped in the middle of the room and turned to Daddy. She ran her eyes from his head to his feet. He wore his old boots stained with mud. She looked like she was trying to decide where he could do the least damage. Finally she nodded at a small chair to the right.
"I'll give you five minutes," she said.
Daddy grunted and sat. He looked like he would bust the chair into pieces merely by leaning back. Gladys Tate sat on the settee, her back squarely against the cushion. She looked at me and then at Daddy.
"Well?"
"Your husband raped my daughter and made her pregnant," he said without hesitation.
I held my breath and didn't swallow. Gladys Tate did not change expression, but it was as if the shadows that carpeted the front of the great house had somehow penetrated the walls and darkened her face.
"I assume," she said after the heavy pause, "you have some proof to support this astounding
accusation."
"My daughter's the proof. She'll tell you how it was exactly. She don't lie."
"I see." She fixed her stone eyes on me. "Where did this alleged incident occur?"
"In the swamp, madame," I said softly.
"The swamp?"
"In the canals. He was fishing when he come upon her in her pond, a place she goes swimming," Daddy said.
Gladys Tate stared at him as if it took a few moments for Daddy's words to be translated, and then she turned back to me.
"You know who my husband is?"
"Yes, madame."
"You say he came upon you while you were swimming?"
"I was actually sunning myself on the rock at the time.
When I opened my eyes, he was there. I was . ."
"Nude?"
"Yes, madame."
She nodded. Then she smiled at Daddy.
"Do you know what it means to make false accusations, especially accusations of such a serious nature?"
"It ain't false," Daddy said.
"I see. And you have brought your daughter here for what purpose?"
"What purpose? He made her pregnant. That's gonna be a costly thing."
"Oh, so it's not justice you seek so much as it is money, is that it?" she asked with a wry smile painted across her lips. "That's justice, ain't it?" Daddy retorted.
"Have you spoken with my husband?"
"Yeah, and he don't want to own up to it. But he will," Daddy threatened. "Look at her," Daddy said, pumping his hand toward me. "Look at what he done to my little girl. How's she supposed to find a decent husband when her stomach's two feet ahead of her, huh? And all because your husband had his way with her!"
Gladys Tate stared at me again. "You're the girl who ran off the stage at graduation, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes, madame."
"And you," she said, turning to Daddy, "are the man who made that ridiculous scene."
"That ain't got nothing to do with this."
She stared again. These silent pauses sent chills up my spine, but Daddy didn't seem to notice or care. Finally she sighed, shook her head.
"I wish to speak with your daughter alone," she said.
"What? Why?"
"If you want me to give you any more of my attention or time, you will do as I ask," she said firmly. Daddy thought a moment. It was easy to see she was determined and he would do best if he listened to her.
"I'll be right outside," he said, standing. "And only for a few minutes. Don't you try nothing sneaky on her neither," he added. He gazed at me, his face full of fury. "Call me if she does," he said, and walked out.
"Close the door," Gladys Tate ordered. I did so. "Sit where your father sat," she said. Then she sat forward. "Have you ever seen my husband before this incident in the swamp?"
"Just here and there, madame, but we never spoke."
"I see. Now, in your own words, tell me what you say happened."
I began slowly, explaining how I went swimming often in the pond and how this particular afternoon I had fallen asleep sunning myself. I described how he had taken off his clothing and climbed onto the rock. She didn't change expression until I told her what he had said about his marriage. Her eyes became smaller and a white lined etched about her tightened lips.
"Go on," she said. I described the way he teased me, how we fell out of the pirogue and then what followed. I felt the tears streaming down my face, but I did not wipe them off. They dripped from my chin.
She sat back when I was finished. Then she stood up abruptly and went to the door. Daddy was obviously eavesdropping and nearly fell into the room when she opened it.
"Well?" he said.
"I want you to wait right here," she told him. "Why?"
"Do what I tell you to do," she ordered without hesitation. Even Daddy, fired up the way he was, was taken aback with her strength and firmness. He entered the room and sat on the settee. "I'll see that Summers brings you something cool to drink," she said, and left.
"What's that woman doing?" Daddy asked me. "You tell her something I didn't hear?"
"I told her exactly what happened, Daddy."
"I don't trust these rich people," he said, eyeing the door. A few moments later, the butler appeared.
"Would you like some lemonade?" he asked.
"Ain't ya got nothing stronger?"
"We have whatever you want, monsieur," he said, grimacing.
"Get me a cold beer. No glass."
"Very good, monsieur. Mademoiselle?"
"I'll have the lemonade."
He nodded and left.
"Maybe they'll poison us," Daddy said. "That's why I ordered it in the bottle." He winked. "Don't drink the lemonade."
"Oh, Daddy, she wouldn't do that."
He sat back and drummed the arm of the chair with his long fingers.
"Look at this place. I could live a year off what this room costs. Maybe longer."
The butler brought us the drinks. Daddy sipped his beer cautiously. He shook his head when I drank my lemonade, but it tasted good and refreshing.
A short while later, we heard the front door open, and after that, Octavious Tate appeared.
"I'm calling the police," he said, but when he turned, Gladys Tate was right behind him, standing as solidly as a statue.
"Just go inside and sit, Octavious," she commanded. "Gladys, you're not going to give these thieves a moment of our time. You're--"
"Go inside, Octavious."
He shook his head and came into the room, sitting across from Daddy. He glanced at me once and then looked at his wife. She closed the door and remained standing.
"Well?" he -said.
"Look at this girl, Octavious. Go on."
"I'm looking at her."
"Are you going to deny her story to her face?" she challenged.
He swallowed hard. "Gladys . ."
"I want to know the truth and I want you to admit to it. She told me things you said about us, Octavious, intimate things she would not know otherwise."
"I . .
"You were in that swamp fishing, weren't you, Octavious?" she said, beginning her relentless interrogation.
"Yes, but . . ."
"And you poled to that pond, didn't you? You saw her there?"
"That doesn't mean I did what she claims I did."
"But you did do it, didn't you?" she pursued.
"Took off your clothes and climbed up on the rock to sit beside her? Well?"
"Look, she invited me to . ."
"Octavious, you made love to this girl, didn't you?" she demanded, stepping toward him, her eyes wide and furious. He looked down. "Answer me and tell the truth! You're only prolonging this horrible moment and driving the knife deeper into my heart."
He nodded slowly, biting down on his lower lip. Then he looked up sharply.
"Ha!" Daddy said, slapping his hands on his knees.
"There's no way she can prove that her baby is my baby," Octavious said quickly. "This sort of girl-- "
"Doesn't lie," Gladys said, nodding. She looked at me and then at him before she took a deep breath and looked away for a moment. When she turned back to us, I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes, but she sucked in her breath and blinked away those tears.
"How much does he want?" Octavious asked, glaring at Daddy.
"It's not only what he wants," Gladys replied. We all looked at her, Daddy the most surprised. "It's what I want," she said, and regained her composure to make the most astounding demands of all.
4
Bought and Sold
.
"What is it you want?" Daddy asked Gladys
Tate before Octavious could. Octavious sat there seemingly hypnotized by his wife's movements. Mania once told me there's no hate such ai that born out of a love betrayed. Like Octavious, I wondered what sort of revenge Gladys was concocting.
She walked to the window, hesitated a moment, and then jerked the curtains closed as if she thought someone might be spying on us. It darkened the room and her face when she turned slowly back to us. Octavious squirmed in his seat. The dark cherry grandfather clock in the corner bonged the noon hour. While it did, Gladys fixed her eyes on me like a marsh hawk sighting in its prey.
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