After the burial, Grandmère Catherine's friends returned to the house and only then began to ask some questions about my whereabouts since Grandmère 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 Grandmère 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 Grandmère 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 Grandmère wouldn't let you do such a thing, I assure you."
"I know she wouldn't," I said, smiling as I imagined Grandmère 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 Grandmère 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 abou
t 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 me 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.
Oh, I forgot. Before I left Greenwood, I had a visitor at the dorm. I bet you know who: Louis. He was very nice and very handsome. He was heart-broken to hear you had a baby coming and you had run off to live in the swamps with your Cajuns. He had a sheet of music he had hoped to send you, so I promised him if I ever find out where he should mail it, I would let him know.
But promises are made to be broken, aren't they?
Just joking. I don't know if I will ever hear from you again or if this letter will get to you. I hope it does and I hope you write back. It's sort of nice to have a notorious sister. I'm having loads of fun making up different stories about you.
Why didn't you just do what Daphne wanted and get rid of the baby? Look at what you gave up.
Your darling twin sister,
Gisselle
"Bad news?' Paul asked when I lay down the letter and sat back. Tears filled my eyes, but I smiled.
"You know how my sister is always trying to hurt me," I said through my tears.
"Ruby . . ."
"She makes things up; she just sits around and thinks, What would hurt Ruby the most? And then she writes it in the letter. That's all. That's what she's doing. That's all."
My tears flowed faster. Paul rushed to me and embraced me.
"Oh Ruby, my Ruby, don't cry. Please."
"It's all right," I said, catching my breath. "I'll be all right."
"She wrote something about him, didn't she?" Paul asked perceptively. I nodded. "It may not be a lie, Ruby."
"I know."
"I'm still here for you."
I looked up at him and saw that his face was full of love and sympathy for me. I probably wouldn't ever find anyone as devoted, but I couldn't agree to the arrangement he was proposing. It wouldn't be fair to him.
"I'll be fine. Thanks, Paul," I said, wiping away my tears. "A young woman like you, alone here and pregnant," he muttered. "It worries me."
"You know everything's been fine," I said. He had taken me to see the doctor twice, which only added to the rumor that my child was his. In our small community, it didn't take long for people to find out the news, but he didn't care, even after I had told him what Grandmère Catherine's friends believed.
During the last half of my seventh month and the first half of my eighth, Paul was at my house every day, sometimes appearing more than once. It wasn't really until the eighth month that I started to grow real big and carry low. I never complained to him, but a couple of mornings he came upon me without my realizing he was present and he caught me moaning and groaning, my hands on my lower back. By this time I felt like a- duck, because I waddled when I walked.
When the doctor told me he couldn't be exactly sure when I would give birth but that it would be sometime within the next week or so, Paul decided he would spend every night with me. I could always reach him or someone else during the day, but he was afraid of what could happen at night.
Early one afternoon at the beginning of my ninth month, Paul arrived, his face flushed with excitement.
"Everyone's saying we're going to be hit with a hurricane," he declared. "I want you to come to my house."
"Oh no, Paul. I can't do that."
"It's not safe here," he declared. "Look at the sky." He pointed to the dull red sunset caused by a thin haze of clouds. "You can practically smell it," he added. The air had become hot and sticky, and the little breeze we had had all day had all but died.
But I couldn't go to his house and be with his family. I was too ashamed and afraid of his father's and his mother's eyes.
Surely they resented me for returning and creating all these rumors.
"I'll be all right here," I said. "We've been here for storms before."
"You're as stubborn as your Grandpère," Paul said. He was angry with me, but I wouldn't budge. Instead, I went in and prepared some dinner for us. Paul went into his car to listen to the radio. The weathermen were making dire predictions. He came into the house and started to button down whatever he could. I set out two bowls of gumbo, but the moment we sat down, the wind began to howl something fierce. Paul looked out the rear of the house toward the canals and groaned. A dark storm cloud had appeared quickly, and the torrential rains could be seen approaching.
"Here she comes," he announced. After what seemed like only seconds later, the rain and the wind hit. Water poured down the roof and found every crack in the building. The wind lashed at the loose boards. We heard things lifted and thrown, some of them bashing against the house, slamming so hard i tto the walls we thought they would come clear through. I screamed and retreated to the living room, where I cowered on the sofa. Paul rushed about, closing up and tying down whatever openings he could, but the wind threaded itself right through the house, blowing things off shelves and counters and even turning over a chair. I thought the tin roof would lift away and in moments we would be exposed to the jaws of this raging storm.
"We should have left!" Paul cried. I was sobbing and holding myself. Paul gave up trying to tie anything down and came over to embrace me. We sat beside each other, holding each other and listening to the howling, thundering wind tear trees from their roots.
Suddenly, just as quickly as it had started, the storm stopped. A deadly calm fell over the bayou. The darkness lifted. I caught my breath and Paul got up to survey the damage. We both gazed out the window and shook our heads in shock at the sight of the trees that had been split. The world looked tops
y-turvy.
And then Paul's eyes widened when the little patch of blue above us started to disappear.
"It was the eye of the storm," he declared. "Back, back . . ."
The tail of the storm reached us, ripping and howling like an angry giant creature. This time the house shook, walls cracked, and windows came splintering out, their shards of glass flying everywhere.
"Ruby, we've got to get under the house!" Paul screamed. The thought of going out terrified me. I pulled out of his arms and retreated toward the kitchen. But I stepped into a puddle that had formed under a leak in the roof and slipped. I fell face forward, just catching myself in time to prevent the floor from smashing into my nose. However, I did fall sharply on my stomach. The pain was excruciating. I turned over on my back and screamed and screamed. Paul was beside me quickly, trying to get me up.
"I can't, Paul. I can't . . ." I protested. My legs felt like lead, too heavy to bend or lift. He tried to pick me up, but I was a deadweight, I was too much for him, and he too had begun to slip and .slide on the wet floor. And then I felt the sharpest pain of my life. It was as if someone had taken a knife and started to cut from my belly button down. I squeezed Paul's shoulder.
"Paul! The baby!"
His face was filled with abject terror. He turned toward the door as if he were considering going for help, realized how impossible that was, and turned back to me, just as my water broke.
"The baby's coming!"
The wind continued to twist the building. The tin roof groaned, and some of it loosened and slammed against the bracing.
"You've got to help me, Paul! It's too late!"
I was positive I would pass out and maybe even die on the floor of the shack. How could anyone endure such agony and live? I wondered. It came in waves of pain and tightness, the waves occurring closer and closer in time until I actually felt the baby moving. Paul knelt before me, his eyes so wide I thought they would burst. He shook his head in disbelief.
It got so I didn't even hear the storm or realize it was still around us. I seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, until finally I gave this great push and Paul exclaimed with delight. The baby was in his hands.
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