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"What time is supper, Mrs. Landry?" Paul asked. Grandmere Catherine shifted her eyes toward Paul's parents before replying.
"Supper is at six," Grandmere told him, and then went to join her friends for a chat. Paul waited until she was out of earshot.
"Everyone was talking about your grandfather this morning," he told me.
"Grandmere and I sensed that when we arrived. Did your parents find out you helped me get him home?"
The look on his face gave me the answer.
"I'm sorry if I caused you trouble."
"It's all right," he said quickly. "1 explained everything." He grinned cheerfully. He was the perpetual cockeyed optimist, never gloomy, doubtful, or moody, as I often was.
"Paul," his mother called. With her face frozen in a look of disapproval, her mouth was like a crooked knife slash and her eyes were long and catlike. She held her body stiffly, looking as if she would suddenly shudder and march away.
"Coming," Paul said.
His mother leaned over to whisper something to his father and his father turned to look my way.
Paul got most of his good looks from his father, a tall, distinguished looking man who was always elegantly dressed and well-groomed. He had a strong mouth and jaw with a straight nose, not too long or too narrow.
"We're leaving right this minute," his mother emphasized.
"I've got to go. We have some relatives coming for lunch. See you later," Paul promised, and he darted off to join his parents.
I stepped beside Grandmere Catherine just as she invited Mrs. Livaudis and Mrs. Thibodeau to our house for coffee and blackberry pie. Knowing how slowly they would walk, I hurried ahead, promising to start the coffee. But when I got to our front yard, I saw my grandfather down at the dock, tying his pirogue to the back of the dingy.
Good morning, Grandpere," I called. He looked up slowly as I approached.
His eyes were half-closed, the lids heavy. His hair was wild, the strands in the back flowing in every direction over his collar. I imagined that the tin drum Paul predicted was banging away in Grandpere's head. He looked grouchy and tired. He hadn't changed out of the clothes he had slept in and the stale odor of last night's rum whiskey lingered on him. Grandmere Catherine always said the best thing that could happen to him was for him to fall into the swamp. "That way, at least he'd get a bath."
"You bring me back to my shack in the swamp last night?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, Grandpere. Me and Paul."
Paul? Who's Paul?"
"Paul Tate, Grandpere."
"Oh, a rich man's son, eh? Them cannery people ain't much better than the oil riggers, dredging the swamp to make it wider for their damn big boats. You got no business hanging around that sort. There's only one thing they want from the likes of you," he warned.
"Paul's very nice," I said sharply. He grunted and continued to tie his knot.
"Coming from church, are ya?" he asked without looking up.
Yes."
He paused and looked back toward the road.
"Your grandmere's still gabbin' with those other busybodies, I imagine. That's why they go to church," he claimed, "to nourish gossip."
"It was a very nice service, Grandpere. Why don't you ever go?"
"This here is my church," he declared, and waved his long fingers at the swamp. "I got no priest lookin' over my shoulder, spitting hell and damnation down my back." He stepped into the dingy.
"Would you like a cup of fresh coffee, Grandpere? I'm about to make some. Grandmere has some of her friends coming for blackberry pie and--"
"Hell no. I wouldn't be caught dead with those fishwives." He shifted his eyes to me and softened his gaze. "You look nice in that dress," he said. "Pretty as your mother was."
