Hidden Jewel

by V. C. Andrews

  “How did you learn to be such a good cook?” I asked, amazed.

  “What are you talking about? I’m a Cajun,” he replied as if that explained it. “Don’t you know people say Cajuns can eat anything they catch and make it taste good?”

  “I’ve heard that said, yes. What can I do to help?”

  “You can sit down and eat. Everything’s done,” he said. I got up, washed my face, and joined him at the table. He poured us some white wine, and then I ate ravenously again. Jack sat there watching me gobble down his delicious dinner, a small, tight smile on his lips.

  “Jack Clovis,” I said pausing between bites, “this is delicious. Did you really prepare all this?”

  “Well …”

  “I thought so,” I said. “Where did you get it?”

  “I picked it up at a restaurant,” he confessed, “and just warmed it up. But I had you convinced, didn’t I?”

  “That’s because I trusted you,” I said.

  He stopped smiling and reached for my hand. “If I ever tell you a lie, Pearl, I’ll tell you the truth in the next breath, and I’ll never tell you a lie that could hurt you,” he promised.

  “It’s all right, Jack. I’m not angry. I’m too hungry,” I said, and he laughed.

  He put on some zydeco music, and we finished our dinner with rich Cajun coffee and strawberry short-cake. I was so stuffed I couldn’t move, but I felt content and well rested.

  “Now are you going to listen to me and stay overnight?” he asked.

  The thought of the long ride back and in the dark was overwhelming. “I guess,” I said. “But I’ll have to leave right after I wake up.”

  “Deal,” Jack declared.

  “I’m helping with the dishes,” I insisted.

  “I’m not stopping you,” he replied. I poked him in the shoulder and he pretended to poke me back. We giggled and hugged. It felt so good to be light and carefree after what I had experienced. Just being with Jack put me at ease. While I was washing and rinsing the dishes, he came up behind me and kissed me softly on the back of my neck. I paused and felt his arms around my waist. I leaned back against him, closed my eyes, and invited more of his kisses on my cheeks, my neck, and finally, when I turned to him, my lips.

  “You can leave those dishes,” he whispered and once again lifted me into his arms. He carried me through the trailer to his bedroom and set me down gently. It was dark, but the clouds had broken and the rain was long gone. Shards of moonlight sliced through the darkness and through the trailer window to illuminate our silhouettes. Quietly, neither of us saying a word, we undressed. Naked, beneath the blanket, we kissed again, and I felt myself slip softly, comfortably, perfectly into his embrace.

  Jack was very gentle. His lips were as soft as feathers, trailing down to my stomach and then up to lift and caress my breasts again. My moans were small whimpers that accompanied my quickened breathing. Even after he entered me, our movements remained graceful and gentle, building slowly to each crescendo and then building on that crescendo to reach greater heights each time, taking my breath away. Soon I was spinning, but it was a pleasant vertigo, a light-headed feeling that made me giddy. I felt as if I were falling back, but I didn’t feel endangered. It was a wonderful free fall, a flight through ecstasy.

  Jack’s whispered words of love filled my ears along with the pounding of my own heart. I couldn’t stop myself from telling him how much I loved him, too. The flood of emotion that had been damned up behind my wall of skepticism and fear broke free, and the rush of passion that followed threatened to drown us both. I clung to him; I demanded more and returned his kisses with more intensity.

  Once I had feared I could never be a lover, but Jack’s surprised laughter and plea to let him catch his breath made me realize those fears were foolish. I was the lightning that needed the right marriage of elements to fire up the night sky, and the right elements were someone who really loved me and someone I really loved.

  Finally he turned over on his back and cried, “Mercy!”

  I laughed and we held hands and waited for our hearts to stop pounding and our breathing to slow down. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers. He put my hand over his heart.

  “Feel how content my heart is now,” he said. “Feel how it beats for you.”

  “And mine too, Jack,” I said bringing his hand to my breast. We lay beside each other quietly, astounded by how hard and how deeply we loved. I realized this was like the eye of the storm, the quiet that came in the midst of turmoil. Jack told me the hurricane was in me because I had been born in one. Maybe he was right. In the throes of all this disaster and tragedy, I had found him waiting to embrace me; I’d found his love, and with it I’d found the strength to battle the storm to follow.

  I closed my eyes and drifted into a soft, pleasing sleep, but sometime in the night, as if I had been nudged, I woke. My eyelids fluttered. For a moment I had forgotten where I was. Then I heard Jack’s soft breathing beside me, and I relaxed. Then I turned and gazed out the window that faced Cypress Woods. Immediately my heart began to pound, and I sprang up as if I had a coil in my spine.

  “Jack!”

  “Wha … what is it?”

  “Look.” I pointed at the house. Just barely visible in a corner window of my mother’s art studio was the glow of candlelight.

  Jack sat up and studied the great house looming against the purple night sky. His eyes narrowed and he turned to me slowly. In a whisper he said, “Someone’s up there all right.”

  Quickly we dressed. Jack grabbed a flashlight and a shotgun.

  “It could be burglars,” he explained when he saw my surprise.

  I was hoping beyond hope that it was my mother, but another possibility occurred to me. “Or Buster Trahaw’s cousins?” I asked.

  Jack grimaced, but he didn’t deny the possibility. Instead, he reached into the drawer and took out another handful of shotgun shells.

  We got into my car and drove up to the mansion. The night sky was an eerie purple with the cloud cover broken here and there to permit some stars to twinkle. The strong breeze made the willows and cypresses sway ominously. Shadows seemed to float and twist over the grounds. When we stepped out of the car, I heard the cry of a night heron and then saw it flap its wings and sail over the field and toward the marsh.

  I looked up at the mansion. The candlelight was still glowing in the window.

  Jack took my hand and walked quickly to the side stairway. He paused at the first step. “Let me lead the way,” he whispered. “And let’s go up as quietly as we can.”

  I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure that if it was a burglar, he would hear it. I was afraid to breathe. Slowly, cautiously, we mounted the steps that would take us to the studio. I thought they creaked enough to announce our approach. I tried to be as light-footed as possible. Once upstairs, Jack hesitated, checked his shotgun, and then, keeping me behind him, opened the door with a strong, quick thrust.

  At first neither of us saw anyone. A few white candles were burning around an easel upon which there was a blank canvas. Then she stepped out of the shadows, resembling a shadow herself. It was Mommy, finally.

  “Mommy!” I cried with joy. Jack lowered his shotgun as I hurried past him, but I stopped short midway.

  Mommy was behaving as if she didn’t hear us or see us. She wore a slight smile and moved as if she were sleepwalking. Her hair was disheveled, strands curling every which way. Her face was streaked with grime, a dark blotch on her chin, and her dress was creased and crinkled, spotted and stained, suggesting she had slept in it the whole time she had been away, and slept outside, too! In her hands she clutched some charcoal pens and a rag.

  “Mommy, it’s me, Pearl,” I said and waited. She turned her back to me and stared at the blank canvas, which was caked with dust. Jack stood beside me, gazing at her curiously, too. “Mommy? Don’t you hear me?” I asked. She didn’t turn. “Jack, what’s wrong with her?”


  “She’s in some sort of daze,” he said. “Careful.”

  We drew closer. I reached out and touched her shoulder. She put her hand over mine and patted it.

  “It’s all right,” she said in a loud whisper that sent chills along my spine. “All I have to do is draw his face the way I last remember it, the way it was in my heart. He’s trapped, you see, because of what he did.

  “But you shouldn’t blame him. No one should blame him, not even the church. He was very distraught. I should have realized he would be; I shouldn’t have accepted his sacrifice so readily. We were all he had, really.

  “Oh, he had this great house and all these grounds with their rich oil wells, but money had no meaning to him if he didn’t have the people he loved around him, people on whom to spend the money.

  “How he suffered,” she continued, “until he could stand the suffering no more. He went out to the swamps to remember us, to recall those youthful days when we were always together, innocent and loving, believing in the promise of tomorrow and never dreaming there were monsters looming all around us, even in our very hearts.

  “He went through great turmoil, drinking and crying and bemoaning his fate, and then he decided he could not survive with half a life, and he cast his measly existence to the wind. He dived into the water and swam in circles until he could swim no more. Then, choking, filling his lungs with the swamp water, he dragged his poor body to the shore and perished under the stars that had once looked so dazzling and promising to him.

  “And it was largely my fault. Selfishly I had accepted his love and his help, and then, when my true love was available to me once again, I deliberately closed my eyes to Paul’s suffering and accepted his generosity once more. I had a new existence; I was with the one I loved, beside him every night, while Paul was beside an empty space he could fill only with his dreams. It wasn’t enough.

  “I put him through such torment. I pretended to oppose his every offer. I put up an argument to dissuade him, but I gave in to his arguments. I let him fool himself. Worst of all, perhaps, I let him love Pearl as if she were his daughter. I let him pretend to be her father, I let him have that illusion, and then I swept it out of his hands and his heart.

  “He had lost everything that mattered, you see, and I had been a party to all that pain.”

  “Mommy …” Tears were streaming down my cheeks, tears that burned into my heart because I felt her suffering so strongly.

  She patted my hand again, but kept her eyes fixed on the blank canvas. “No, no, there’s no use pretending any more or denying. Grandmere Catherine told me: every time we incubate an evil thought or commit an evil act, another evil spirit is set loose in the world to do battle with the good. The evil spirits I set loose have finally come to roost. They found their way to my home. I must do what I must do,” she said softly.

  “What must you do, Mommy?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

  “Grandmere Catherine’s spirit told me. I slept on her grave last night and waited for her words of wisdom to seep into my brain. I must put the face of Paul that is in my heart on this canvas.”

  She took a rag and wiped away the dust. “And then I must bring it to his grave and set it afire so his troubled spirit can return to him and he can escape from limbo.”

  “Mommy, you’ve got to come home with me,” I said through my tears. “I’m here now, with you. It’s me, Pearl. Please. Look at me. Listen to me. We need you. Pierre needs you. Daddy needs you.”

  She didn’t turn around. She raised her charcoal pencil to the canvas and began to draw a face.

  “Mommy!”

  “Wait,” Jack said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Let her do this first.”

  “Do this? But she’s gone mad, Jack. I’ve got to make her snap out of it!” I cried.

  “You won’t succeed, and she won’t be any good to you or to your brother. I’ve seen people like this before,” he confessed. “At religious gatherings where a traiteur has conducted a ceremony to drive away a mental problem. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but you’ve got to let her do what she thinks she’s been told to do.”

  “This is like black magic, voodoo. Jack, it’s a waste of time.”

  “That’s not for you to decide, Pearl. The important thing is, she believes it. You don’t have to believe it. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I know the power of the mind when it comes to these things. You weren’t brought up in the bayou where religion and superstitions are married to form a different set of beliefs, but your mother was. Leave her alone for a while,” he insisted.

  I looked back at Mommy. She had already shaped the face and was working on the eyes and the nose. As she worked, she began to hum softly. I had never heard the tune, but I saw how it brought a gentle smile to her face, a smile that suggested she was enjoying some memory.

  The miracle in Mommy’s fingers was never as evident as it was now. In minutes she brought the face on the dirty old canvas to life. I saw a glint in the eyes, felt the twisted movement in the mouth, and easily imagined a breath. Her hands flew over the canvas as if they had a mind of their own, as if the picture were flowing out through her fingers. There was enough detail in it for me to recognize Uncle Paul, but the expression on his face was frightening. I had seen it a hundred times. It was the face of the man in the water.

  I gasped and backed into Jack’s arms. “She’s drawing him the way I’ve seen him in countless night-mares.”

  “It must be her nightmare too, then,” he said.

  Finally she lowered her arms and took a small step back. She looked at the picture and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  She then dropped the charcoal and started to lift the canvas.

  Jack stepped forward quickly. “Let me help you, Madame Andreas,” he said.

  She looked at him, smiled softly, and nodded. He lifted the canvas from the easel.

  “What are we going to do now, Jack?” I asked.

  “We’ll do what she wants,” he replied. “Go on. Help her along.”

  I took Mommy’s elbow and gently turned her toward the doorway.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said, but kept her eyes forward as we followed Jack out of the studio, down the stairs, and out of the house, moving with funereal slowness.

  “I know where Paul Tate is buried,” Jack told me. We continued around the side of the house. Jack held the flashlight so the beam parted the darkness and provided a path for us to the irongated cemetery that contained a single tomb. In the glow of Jack’s flashlight, it looked ghoulishly yellow instead of gray. Uncle Paul’s name and dates were engraved on the granite, as was his epitaph: “Tragically lost but not forgotten.”

  Mommy paused at the entrance and turned to Jack and me. “Thank you,” she said. “But I must be alone now.”

  “I understand, madame,” Jack said and handed her the canvas. I was deeply impressed with his understanding and sensitivity.

  My mother took the canvas and entered the small graveyard.

  Jack stepped back and reached for my hand. We waited and watched.

  Mommy knelt at the tomb and lowered her head. She said a silent prayer and then laid the canvas against the stone. She looked up at the stars. Her shoulders shook with her sobs, and then she seemed to gather new strength before producing a book of matches.

  Carefully she lit one and held it to the corner of the canvas. It took a while, but the flame finally leaped from the match to the dried material. The flame grew, consuming the canvas, traveling up toward the picture of Uncle Paul. Mommy remained there, staring into the flames. The smoke curled upward until it was caught by a breeze and carried into the night. Soon the canvas was burning fully, the flames so bright they illuminated the tomb and its surroundings. Mommy looked like part of the fire for a moment, and then, as quickly as it had exploded into a small conflagration, it began to dwindle. The canvas collapsed into ashes and sparks near the stone tomb. When it looked nearly burned out, Jack released my hand and stepped into the fenc
ed graveyard. I followed.

  He knelt down to take my mother’s arms and help her to her feet.

  “It’s time to go now, madame,” Jack said. “It’s over.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. It’s over.”

  “Mommy?”

  Slowly she turned and, like one emerging from a deep sleep, gazed at me and realized who I was. Her face softened into a happy smile. “Pearl, my darling, Pearl.”

  “Mommy,” I cried and embraced her. We held each other for a long moment. My body shook with sobs against her, and she stroked my hair gently, kissing my forehead. I straightened up and wiped the tears from my eyes and cheeks, smiling. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, dear. I’m all right.”

  “We’ve got to go home, Mommy. We’ve got to get back to Daddy and Pierre. Pierre needs you desperately. He thinks you blame him for what happened to Jean, and the doctors say that’s why he won’t come out of his catatonic state.”

  She nodded, thoughtful. And then she looked at Jack, really noticing him for the first time.

  “This is Jack Clovis, Mommy. He’s helped me, helped us.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said.

  Jack nodded. “Let me continue to help you, madame. Come to my trailer and freshen up for your journey home,” he suggested.

  “That’s very kind of you, monsieur.” She gazed back at the tomb where the sparks continued to die. She sighed deeply, took one step forward, a contented smile on her face, and then collapsed into Jack’s quick arms.

  I gasped. He lifted her as easily as he had lifted me. “She’s all right,” he said. “She’s just exhausted. Let’s get her to the trailer.”

  He carried her to the car and put her in the front seat. I sat beside her, keeping her head on my shoulder until we reached the trailer. She was already regaining consciousness when we brought her in and set her down on the sofa. I put a cold washcloth over her forehead, and Jack got her some cold water. Her eyes continued to flutter and close, flutter and close. Finally, they remained open, but she looked very confused.

  “You’re all right, Mommy. You’re safe now.”