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The sight of such wild destruction put terror into my heart. I gazed up the stairway. Mommy couldn't have done this, I thought. Even in a mad
rage, she wouldn't have this kind of strength. But who would do this? And why?
Hesitant but curious, I started up the stairway. The steps creaked so loudly that I feared I would fall through. I gazed through the doorway of the first room I came upon and gasped. Someone had sliced up the mattress; the stuffing was strewn everywhere. There were deep gashes in the walls, too.
Suddenly I heard a thud, and for a moment my heart seemed to have fallen into my stomach. My first impulse was to turn and run down those stairs, but panic held me motionless. The thud was repeated. It seemed to becoming from below and behind the house. I took a deep breath, turned, and descended the steps slowly, quietly, listening.
There were no more thuds, but I was sure I hadn't imagined them. The silence was more frightening. My heart pounding, I walked out of the shack and looked around the grounds. Across the way, perched on a thick sycamore, a marsh hawk gazed at me with what looked like suspicion. It moved its wings nervously and turned on the branch. Then it flew off, soaring above me and away. I took another deep breath and went around the shack. I heard something slither through the grass and paused when I saw a long cottonmouth coiled on a rock, sunning itself. I couldn't swallow. I was afraid to make another sound.
Then I heard something splash in the canal, and I moved quickly to the corner of the house, reaching it just in time to see someone disappear around the bend, poling a pirogue. I turned slowly to look at the rear of the shack and saw that someone had thrown gobs of mud against the shack. But why? What did all this rage and destruction mean? Was it just vandalism?
Tiptoeing over the narrow pathway back to the front of the house, I hurried to the car. I sat in it for a while, thinking. Then I decided to go into town before returning to Cypress Woods. My throat was so parched that it felt like sandpaper. I needed a cool drink. I stopped at a small restaurant simply called Grandmere's Kitchen. It had a white Formica counter with ten stools and about a dozen folding card tables with wooden chairs. The aroma of crawfish, jambalaya, and gumbo stirred my stomach juices, and realized that this emotional roller coaster I had been riding had made me hungry.
A short, bald man stood behind the counter with a stout woman who had a pleasant smile, big brown eyes, and light brown hair pinned tightly in a bun behind her head. Both wore full white aprons labeled Grandmere's Kitchen, Houma, Louisiana. Three of the tables were occupied, one with a party of elderly women, all of whom gazed at me curiously.
"Hello dere," the stout woman said to me. "Comin' for lunch?"
A blackboard announced that today's special was stuffed crabs.
"Yes, thank you," I said and chose the closest table.
She came around the counter. "Well, we ain't got printed menus, but we always have crawfish pie, Po'boy sandwiches, and Billy's special jambalaya." The bald man nodded and smiled. "Everything's served with country dirty rice. Today we have stewed okra and tomatoes, too, if you like."
"I'll have a lemonade and the jambalaya, please," I said.
"You hear that, Billy?"
"Yep," he said and went to work.
"Just passing through?" she asked, still standing beside me.
"Yes," I said. She stared as if she sensed I had more to say. "My mother used to live here," I added. "She came back, and I'm . . . hoping to join her."
"I lived here all my life. What's your mother's name?"
"Ruby," I said.
"Ruby? Not Ruby Landry!" I nodded, and she got excited. "You're Ruby Landry's daughter?"
"Yes."
"Listen up here," she declared to the room at large. "This is Ruby Landry's daughter." Everyone stopped eating and looked at me. "I'm Ella
Thibodeau," she said. "My grandmere was your greatgrandmere's friend. Where is your mother? Boy, I'd like to see her. We went to school together. She coming in here soon?"
"I don't know," I said. "She doesn't know I've come after her."
"Oh." She smiled, but her eyes reflected her confusion. "Been along time since Ruby was here. I hear she's a famous artist in New Orleans now. She come here to do some painting?"
"Yes," I lied. I shifted my eyes away quickly. Daddy always said my face was a book without a cover. Anyone could read my thoughts.
"Ruby must've gone up to Cypress Woods. Sad how that beautiful place has been left to rot. I hope she gets it back," she whispered. "Crazy Gladys Tate won't let anyone near it, even to fix a broken shutter. And those beautiful grounds . ." She made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Sad. Tragedy. Poor Paul Tate. Every one of us girls had a crush on him, you know, but your mother was the only one he cared to look at, really. We knew Gladys Tate didn't like Ruby. Mrs. Tate always walked around with her nose in the clouds. No one was good enough for the Tates.
"Then, when Ruby and Paul ran off and got married, we was all so happy for them. You were like a little angel child. Your mother was some brave young woman livin' in that shack house by herself with you, struggling along. Took Paul long enough to own up to his responsibilities," she said, "but once he did, he built that palace for Ruby. Tragedy," she repeated. "Some old curse for sure. If your greatgrandmere had been alive, none of that would have happened," she assured me. "She was a miracle maker, especially when it came to healing folks.
"I remember . . ."
"You're talking too much, Ella," Billy shouted. "Come get the lady's lemonade."
