Tarnished Gold l-5

by V. C. Andrews

  Despite the harsh line she took with him, I saw sadness in her eyes when it came time for him to get into his truck and join the others for the journey to Baton Rouge. She made him a thick po'boy sandwich filled with oysters, shrimp, sliced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and her sauce piquant.

  "You ain't made me a sandwich like this for a while, Catherine," he told her.

  "You ain't gone off to do decent work for a while, Jack Landry," she replied. He shook his head and shifted his guilty eyes away a moment. They were parting on the galerie. I was just inside behind the screen door. I hated it when they argued, and I hoped if I remained inconspicuous, they might be gentle with each other.

  "Sure you're going to be all right without me, woman?" he asked her.

  "Should be. I've had plenty of practice," she replied. Mama could be hard as stone when she felt the need to be.

  "You don't let up on me," he complained. "I'm going off, won't see you for weeks. Cut me some slack, woman. Give me a chance to gulp some air before you push my head back underwater, hear?"

  "I hear," she said, a tiny smile on her lips. Her eyes twinkled. His whining amused her. I don't know why he tried to put on false faces. Mama could read the truth through a mile-high pile of dead Spanish moss, but Daddy, especially, was a windowpane.

  "Well," he said, sliding his boot over the galerie floor, "well . . ." He looked at me and then he leaned forward and pecked Mama's cheek like a chicken. "You take care. And you, Gabrielle, you spend more time with your mama than with them animals, hear?"

  "Yes, Daddy."

  "Don't worry about me, Jack. Just don't drop the potato this time," she warned him.

  "Aaa, what am I standing around here for? I got to go." He hurried off and got into the truck, waving once as he turned out of our yard and onto the road. I stood at Mama's side and waved after him.

  "It seems unfair he has to go so far to find work, Mama."

  "He don't find it. He was just lucky it came looking for him. If he was an ambitious man, he'd make his work for himself here, like most others do. But whoever whipped up the gumbo called Jack Landry left that ingredient out," she complained. "Let's go see if we can find a cool spot in the house."

  The sun looked like a ball of rust behind the thin veil of a cloud. The cloud wasn't moving. I half expected to discover that the clock had stopped as well, the hands too exhausted with the effort to tell time in this heat.

  "That's a good idea, Mama," I said. She stared at me at moment, tilting her head slightly to the right the way she often did when she was a little suspicious about something someone said or did.

  "It's been nearly two weeks that you graduated and just about that long that summer came down with a wrath over us, yet you haven't gone off to your swimming hole, Gabrielle. How come?"

  "I don't know," I said quickly, too quickly. Mama screwed those scrutinizing eyes more tightly on me. "Something scare you out there, something you're not telling me, Gabrielle? One of your loving animals didn't try to feast on you, did it?"

  "No, Mama." I tried to laugh, but my face wouldn't crack a smile.

  "I know you, Gabrielle. I know when you've laughed and when you've cried. I know when you're so happy inside, your face becomes a second sun and when you're so sad, the clouds are in your eyes. I nursed and diapered you, fed you and cleaned your bottom. Don't keep no secret locked from me, honey. I got the keys and will find it one day anyway."

  "I'm fine, Mama. Please," I bel :ed. I hated not being honest. Mama shook her head.

  "It'll be only a matter of time," she predicted, but she relented and I was able to get her to talk about other things while we worked on items to sell at our roadside stand.

  We had far more than we needed for our tourist booth, but we worked on hats, baskets, and wove blankets to have for sale as soon as summer ended and the tourists started flocking back to the bayou. Days passed, one day indistinguishable from the other, mostly. Every day after a week, Mama looked for the check from Daddy, but none arrived. She mumbled about it under her breath and went on to do other things, but I knew it was eating away at her like termites in a dead tree. She didn't have to say it, but we were dipping deeply into her stash.

  And then one-afternoon, just about ten days after Daddy had left, a late-model automobile appeared in our yard and two tall, stout men, one with a thin scar across his chin and the other with what looked like a piece of his right ear missing, came stomping over our galerie to rap hard on the front door. I was in the living room thumbing through a copy of Life magazine Mrs. Dancer had given Mama when Mama went to treat her stomach cramps. Mama was in the kitchen and walked quickly to the door. I got up and followed.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "You Landry?"

  "Yes, we are," Mama said. Instinctively she stepped back and pushed me back too. "What do you want?"

  "We want to see your husband, Jack. He been here?"

  "No. Jack's in Baton Rouge, working on construction."

  "He ain't been here?" the man with the chipped ear demanded.

  "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!"

  "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.