I rose quickly and tried the sink in the bathroom. To my happy surprise, after a flow of brown water, clean water appeared. I had no warm water, but I was able to wash my face and go to the bathroom. Afterward I dressed and went downstairs. Jack had cleaned everything up from our dinner, but I saw the results of the storm's invasion everywhere: shattered plates, broken windowpanes, soaked drapes and floors.
It was terrible of the Tates to let this beautiful mansion fall apart, I thought. Why was it that people who had everything could be so wasteful and vicious? What possible revenge did Gladys Tate enjoy from watching her son's pride and joy deteriorate? Did she just want to make sure no one else ever enjoyed the house? Even from the little I remembered about Uncle Paul and from what Mommy had told me, I knew he wouldn't have wanted this.
I started when I heard footsteps behind me.
"Jack? Is that you?" I called. There was no response, but a floorboard creaked in the corridor.
Slowly I turned. It's Mommy, I thought. She has finally returned. My heart pounding with expected joy, I hurried down the corridor toward the kitchen. I would surely find her sitting there, waiting for me.
"Mommy!" I cried as I burst through the doorway; but instead of Mommy, I found a tall giant of a man. His face was bloated so that his thick nose had nostrils big enough to inhale three times the air he needed. He had heavy jowls and a round chin with thick purple lips. He was unshaven, and his three- or four-day beard of gray and brown stubble was thicker under his lower lip. When he smiled, I saw he was missing a lower tooth and some back teeth. All the rest were nicotine-stained yellow.
He was dressed in knee-high boots and torn jeans with a T-shirt that had a tear in the shoulder and looked as if it had been washed in rusty water.
He smiled, the curve in his soft, thick lips cutting deep into those bloated cheeks and narrowing his dull brown eyes over which his thick, heavily wrinkled forehead protruded.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"It's true," he said. "You are Ruby's daughter, ain' tcha?"
"I am Ruby Dumas's daughter, yes. Who are you?" I demanded more fervently. He stopped smiling.
"Name's Trahaw, Buster Trahaw. I'm a friend of your mother's," he replied. "Friends of mine told me you was here lookin' for her, so I come to see for myself."
"Have you seen my mother?" I asked. I didn't remember her mentioning a Trahaw, and I couldn't imagine why she would ever be friends with someone who looked like this, but as Jack had said last night, there were people I never knew and Mommy could have gone to see them or stayed in their homes while she was here, especially if she had gotten caught in the storm.
"Sure, I seen her," he said. "Why do you think I'm here?"
"Where is she? How is she?" I asked quickly.
"She . . . She ain't well," he said. "She's sick as a dog. When they told me you was here, she said, 'Go fetch her quickly.' So I come."
"Where is she?"
"She's at my mother's house," he said. "My mother's a traiteur."
"Oh," I said. It made sense. "Will you take me to her please?"
"Sure," he said. "Only we got to go quick. I got work to do and I can't be wandering about long."
"Okay. Let's go," I said, turning. "My car's out front."
"We can't go in no car," he said, not moving. "My mother's house is in the swamp. I come here in a pirogue to fetch you. This way . . ." He headed toward the rear door.
"But . . ."
"You coming or what, missy? I told you, I got work."
I hesitated. I should tell Jack, I thought. I took out his note and turned it over to scribble my own on the back.
Dear Jack,
Went with Buster Trahaw, who said my mother was at his house. Be back soon.
Love, Pearl
I left the note on the counter and hurried after Buster Trahaw, who had already stepped out of the house.
He nodded toward the dock. "My pirogue's just down here."
I followed along, looking back only once and regretting that I couldn't have the time to see Jack. But maybe I would get to my mother and bring her back before Jack even found my note. Full of hope, I hurried along. Buster Trahaw didn't wait for me. He practically ran to the dock and got into his pirogue. I hesitated. I couldn't recall the last time I had been in one, or the last time I had gone into the canals.
He reached up finally to help me, and I stepped into the canoe.
"Good," he said. "Finally."
He smiled, dipped his pole into the water, and pushed us away from the dock and into the swamps. I sat down hard and watched him anxiously. He never took his eyes off me, and he never stopped smiling.
14
Great-Grandpère's Debt Must Be Paid
Buster Trahaw's pirogue was so old and rotten that I was afraid it would simply come apart and dump us into the swamp water, which became the color of dark tea as we left the dock. Buster groaned and grunted as he pushed down on his pole. Soon beads of sweat as big as small marbles were breaking out over his forehead and rolling over his rough skin to drip off his chin and jawbone.
"How far do we have to go?" I asked nervously. Pieces of sun-dried bait and worms littered the canoe floor, as did cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and crushed tin cans.
"Not far, not far," he said quickly.
Instinctively I looked back toward the dock. I had a strong urge to ask him to return me there, but I couldn't help being afraid he was telling the truth and Mommy really needed me. I would have felt so much safer and reassured if I had seen Jack before I left. Who knew how long it would be before he found my note, and what if he didn't find it? I shouldn't have run off like that, I told myself.
"Don't worry," Buster said, still smiling. "We gonna be there soon. No one poles a pirogue faster than Buster Trahaw in these here canals."
I sat back. I really couldn't recall being in a pirogue when I was just a little girl, but certain visual memories returned when I saw things that were once familiar. Off to my right, among the lily pads and cattails, bream were feeding on the insects that circled just above the water. It looked like bubbles popping. Sheets of Spanish moss draped over cypress branches rose and fell with the breeze. Dragonflies hovered inches above the canal until something triggered them to veer right or left and hover over another area. They moved like dots merging into one large fly.
Buster turned the pirogue a bit to the left, and we entered a narrower canal, passing first under a canopy of willow branches. When I looked back, it was as if a green door had been slammed closed behind us. As we continued into the canal, the overgrowth became thicker. At times the canopy of cypress over the water was so dense it nearly blocked out the sun. I saw an alligator sleeping under a fallen, rotting tree trunk and then another floated past us, its eyes glaring with suspicion or anticipation.
Buster laughed when I cringed. "Ain't nothin' to worry 'bout," he said. "I wrestle gators for fun." He followed that with a cackle that echoed in the bush. "You're a fancy lady now, ain'tcha? Betcha don't even remember livin' here, huh?"
"No. But I'm not a fancy lady," I replied. "Just where is this place?"
"Yonder, 'round the bend." He jerked his head to the left.
I shaded my eyes and gazed in that direction. Flowering honeysuckle covered the far bank. Two snowy egrets paraded on a rock while bullfrogs leaped around them, but I saw no shack and no other human beings.
The stillness got to me. Except for the sound of a dove or the cry of a marsh hawk, all I heard was Buster's grunt and the rhythmic dipping of his pole. Along a nearby bank, I saw a couple of nutrias dash into their dried domes of grass and then a white-tailed deer lifted its head, gazed our way, and turned to trot off. It was as if everything in nature knew to be wary of Buster Trahaw.
"What do you do?" I asked him. He had made little or no effort to start a conversation and had really volunteered nothing about himself.
"Whatcha mean, do?"
"Are you an oyster fisherman or a carpenter?"
"I a
in't a lawyer," he said and laughed. "I fish some. I hunt some. I sell Spanish moss to the furniture people to stuff them chairs and sofas, and I do odd jobs when I got to," he said. "My daddy left me a little money, too. 'Course, most of its gone down the gullet," he added and cackled again, his Adam's apple bouncing against his sandpaper skin.
As we made the turn around the bend, Buster poled as hard as someone being chased.
"How did my mother get out here?" I asked suspiciously.
"She come from the other end," he said quickly. "What other end?" I asked.
"Stop asking so many questions," he snapped. "I can't pole this pirogue and talk at the same time."
I felt my heart begin to thump. I spun around and gazed back. Cypress Woods was miles behind us. We entered another, even narrower canal. At times I could almost stretch out my arms and touch both sides. The mosquitoes looked bigger, and the clouds of them were thicker. The water was darker, too. Something slithered off a rock and slipped into the water just ahead of us. I cringed again.
"I don't like this," I said. "We're not getting anywhere. Take me back. I'll get someone to drive me to the other end," I said, but Buster didn't look at me, nor did he slow down. "Mr. Trahaw, I said . . ."
He turned and looked behind him.
"There it is," he announced as we broke out of the narrow canal and into a pond.
I saw a trapper's shack ahead. It sat about six feet off the marsh on pilings lined up in rows. The planks appeared to have been slapped together with chewing gum. Some dangled precariously over the windows. The railing of the gallery was cracked on the far end, and even from this distance I could see there were gaping holes in the floor. How could my mother ever go to such a place?
"My mother wouldn't be there," I declared.
"Why not? You know whose place that was?" he said with his lips in a tight smile. "That there was your great-grandpère's shack, missy. That's where the likes of you come from, so don't sit up so high and mighty, hear?"
"My great-grandpère's?"
"That's right. Jack Landry. He was a trapper and the best hunting guide in these parts. 'Course, now I am," he added. He poled faster, and I strained to see signs of Mommy.
"Where is she?"
"Lying on the cot inside, sick as a dog, I told ya. Happy you come now?"
I didn't reply. Cautiously I sat back and waited for him to reach the dock and tie up the pirogue. There was a very shaky stairway up to the gallery. He planted his foot against one step and reached for me.
"Come on. help you up," he said. I stood up slowly, but the pirogue rocked and I nearly fell overboard. I cried out, and he laughed. "Reach out," he demanded. Reluctantly, I did so, and the moment his hand found mine, he pulled me forward with such force that I lost my footing and fell into his huge arms. He laughed again, held me there a moment and then lifted me out of the pirogue as if I weighed no more than a baby. I found as firm a footing as I could on the stairway and walked up to the gallery. He followed close behind.
Scattered over the gallery in a disorganized fashion were nets for oyster fishing, piles of Spanish moss, empty beer bottles, dirty bowls crusted with dried gumbo, and the only piece of furniture, a rocking chair tipped over on its side, the right arm snapped off. I paused. The planks dipped. I was sure I would step through one.
"It's all right. Go on inside," he said, waving toward the door. I walked forward slowly and entered what he said was once my great-grandpère's shack.
It was only one room. There was a plank table directly in front of us, covered with old dishes and empty beer and whiskey bottles. To the right was a cot, the stained gray blanket dumped beside it, the sheet brown stained and torn. Skins and furs dangled of nails along the walls. On a long shelf near the table were jars of pickled frogs, snakes, and the ugliest water insects I had ever seen. Everywhere I looked, I saw strewn clothing and sacks. The two windows were both caked with grime so thick the light was practically kept out.
"Where's my mother?" I asked.
"Well, I'll be," Buster said. "Looks like she just up and left and didn't clean up after herself neither." He laughed, and I turned when I heard something rattle. He was standing in the doorway behind me, a long metal chain in his hand.
"I want to go back immediately," I demanded.
"Well, that ain't very friendly, now, is it? And after all I done for your mother?" He laughed again.
"Right now," I said and started toward the door. He laughed again and wrapped his arms around me, lifting me up and carrying me to the cot while I screamed. He slapped me down hard, wrapped the chain around my right ankle, and snapped a padlock before I had a chance to resist.
"And the key's right here," he said, showing it to me before putting it in his right pants pocket. When I sat up to protest, he lifted his enormous right palm and threatened to slap me down. I took one look at the callused dirty fingers and that thick wrist and recoiled.
"What are you doing?" I cried.
"Getting what's coming to me," he said and backed away holding the other end of the chain. He ran it to a big metal pin that looked like a railroad spike embedded in a floor beam and locked that end with a padlock, too.
"What's coming to you?" I asked, terrified.
"A wife, that's what. I paid for a Landry some years back, and she run off. Then, when she returned and I went to claim what was legally mine, she had me arrested. I spent some time in the clink 'cause of her, but Buster Trahaw never forgets a debt owed him. No, ma'am. Relatives of mine," he continued, reaching for a bottle that had an inch or so of beer left in it, "told me you was here, so I come lookin', and sure enough, there you was. Well, I ain't particular which Landry I get, long as I get one that's been owed." He brought the neck of the bottle to his thick lips and sucked out the remaining beer, his throat contorting like the body of a snake. Then he flung the bottle across the room. It didn't shatter, but it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor.
"I figured since I was cheated, I could claim this shack, but it ain't nothin' near the payment owed me." He smiled. "You make up the rest."
"What do you want from me?"
"Want?" He looked confused for a moment. "Why, I want a wife. You do what a wife supposed to do is what I want. First thing, you clean up this place. I give you enough lead on this chain so you can get around the shack. Right there," he said pointing to a rusty pot in the right corner, "is the diddly. You can use them old newspapers I got piled next to it."
"You can't do this," I cried. "This is kidnapping." "Course I can do it. It's what's owed, and out here in the swamps, a debt is a debt, hear?"
I started to cry. He stared at me a moment and then stepped toward me ominously. I cringed against the shack wall.
"I don't want to hear cryin'; I don't want to hear yellin'. I want a quiet, obedient woman, just like my daddy had twice. Now I got you somethin' to wear, somethin' that ain't fancy. You're a swamp woman now." He dug under the cot and came out with what looked like another sack. "Put this here on. Now!" he shouted, some spittle raining over me.
My body was shaking; I couldn't move. He reached down and grabbed my left arm just below the elbow, squeezing so hard, I screamed. Then his left hand cracked across my right cheek, snapping my head back. The shock of it was worse than the pain that followed. I couldn't speak or swallow down the throat lump. He dug his fingers into the top of my head and gathered a clump of my hair, pulling me to my feet. I was sobbing silently, my chest feeling as if it would burst.
"Get them fancy rags off now," he ordered. "Do it!"
My hands shaking, I began to unbutton my blouse. I was crying and shaking the whole time. When I slipped off my skirt, he smiled with satisfaction.
"You take all of that off," he ordered. "Even them store-bought underwear. Do it. I got to see what I got."
I thought I would faint first. The air in the shack was stifling. My skin was crimson from the heat of fear passing through my body. When I didn't move, he turned, found a wide, black leather belt in the pil
e of clothing, and wrapped one end of it around his wrist and hand. My eyes widened as he approached, lifting his arm. I raised my arms to protect myself, and he swung the belt and slapped me across the thigh. The blow took my breath away.
Instead of lifting me by my hair this time, he dug his fingers under my bra and pulled with such force that the hooks gave way and the bra was torn from my body. He tossed it over his shoulder. I fell back against the cot, screaming. He hit me again, this time on the other leg. I felt my eyes roll back, and then all was dark.
When I opened my eyes again, I was on my back on the cot, wearing the sack dress with nothing underneath. I didn't move. The pain along my thighs reminded me vividly of what had happened. I saw that my lucky dime was gone, too. At first I was afraid to turn to the right or the left, but when I did look, I saw he wasn't there. I took a deep breath and sat up to be sure he wasn't in a corner or below me on the floor. The shack was empty.
Encouraged and hopeful, I stood up, but realized I still had that chain locked around my ankle. I tried to slip it over my ankle bone, but it was too tight. Maybe I could get the other end loose, I thought. If I had to, I'd carry that chain for miles to escape.
As I started across the shack, I saw a large note pinned to the closed front door. It had apparently been written with a burned piece of wood: "I went to get some whiskey and food for you to cook. Clean up fore I get back. Your husband Buster."
Panicking, I hurried over to the railroad spike and tried to get that end of the chain loose, but it was just as tightly wrapped and locked.
I opened the front door and stepped out on the gallery. I realized Buster had taken my watch, but I knew I had been here for some time because the sun was down over the cypress trees, casting long, dark shadows over the canal. Buster wasn't in sight, but neither was anyone else. Even so, I yelled, "Anyone, please help me! Please, anyone!"
I waited. My voice echoed over the water and died in the swamp. An egret flew out of the trees, soared over the water, and disappeared down the canal. When I looked off the left side of the gallery, I saw that the sky was growing overcast. A thick bed of ash-gray clouds was sliding in over the turquoise background, and the wind had begun to blow through the swamp. Then I turned to the right side of the gallery and saw a cottonmouth snake that had woven its body through the slats. It tightened its coil when it saw me. I couldn't breathe. Slowly I made my way back to the shack doorway and then stepped in and slammed it shut.
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