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Nearly a week followed before Daddy returned looking meek and repentant. He had a small hunting party to take out, but he got into an argument with one of them before they began and the whole group marched off and drove away, leaving him cursing and spitting on the dock. It was more money lost, and because of his temper too. Mama bawled him out for that and he left in a huff, claiming his woman never took his side.
"If I had something decent to take, I'd take it!" she shouted after him. He muttered curses and drove away.
Things between them had never been worse. It saddened me deeply. I was very happy to see Pierre's cravat on the dock post the next day and couldn't wait to get myself up to the Daisy shack.
Now that we met more often at our love nest, Pierre brought food often and I would make us a romantic dinner. We had wine and bread he had brought from the fancy bakeries in New Orleans. We would eat by candlelight. We didn't have electricity, of course, but Pierre bought a wind-up phonograph and played records. We held each other closely and danced in the shadows and flickering light, his lips against my forehead, my ear against his chest, listening contentedly to the beating of his heart and knowing that it beat with love for me.
This time when I arrived, Pierre had gifts for me. He had bought me a fancy dress that had a billowing full skirt and he bought me a necklace with matching earrings. He had even bought me matching shoes. I put everything on and felt like I was going to a real ball.
"It's the latest fashion," he said. "A Dior. Daphne keeps up on those things," he added without thinking. I saw him press his lips together like the farmer who realized too late he had let the horse out of the barn.
"Does she have a dress like this too, then?" He stared at me. "Does she?"
"Yes," he admitted, "but despite her expensive hairdressers and makeup, she doesn't look more attractive than you."
"I doubt that," I said, the magic seeping out of my precious, special moment. "I never wore anything but a little lipstick. Mama says most of it is bad for your skin."
"And she's right."
"Why? Does Daphne have bad skin?" I snapped back quickly.
"She will," he said.
"The only perfume I've ever owned is the scents Mama concocts with her herbs and plants."
"And they're ten times better than what Daphne imports from France."
I shook my head, "I may look like a swamp rat, but I'm not that dumb."
"You don't look like a swamp rat. I'd match you against the most elegantly dressed debutante in New Orleans," he declared. "And you shouldn't dismiss your simple life out here. To me it looks like an idyllic world when I think of the turmoil, the phoniness, and the deceit I contend with day after day in the supposedly sophisticated city."
"Some idyllic world," I said, flopping on a chair. "My mother spends all her life helping people fight diseases and pains, bites and poisons, and then comes home to do battle with my drunken father."
"Why so sad, cherie?" Pierre asked, moving quickly to my side so he could take my hand. "This is not like you, especially when you talk about the bayou."
"It's Daddy again," I said, and described what he had done to our home and what had happened between him and Mama. "Money has made him worse, not better."
"I'm sorry. I wish there was a way to take you away and build you a castle someplace where you will always be safe and happy," he told me. He thought a moment. "Maybe I will."
"Don't be a dreamer, too, Pierre," I warned him. Thanks to Daddy, I knew too well what misery false promises could bring.
Pierre smiled. "My little old wise woman." He kissed me. "Come. Let's refuse to be sad. Remember our pledge? When we are here, we shut the rest of the world away and live only for ourselves." He put the music on again and held out his arms. "Come to me, Gabriel. Let these arms comfort and protect you forever and ever."
I softened. "Am I really as pretty as a rich and elegant New Orleans debutante?"
"They can't touch you. You are fresh and beautiful in ways they couldn't even begin to understand,"
he said. My heart felt full again. He was right, I thought, we must live up to our pledge and think only of ourselves and our own happiness. I rushed into his arms and we danced, had wine and coffee, and then made love as passionately as ever. It seemed we would never grow accustomed to each other, never stop discovering something new and exciting about each other.
I felt so complete, so full and satisfied, when I went home that night. Mama was already asleep, or at least in bed, and Daddy was nowhere in sight. I moved through the shack as quietly as I could, but the stairs creaked and the floor groaned. When I lay back on my pillow, I thought I heard the sound of Mama weeping. I listened hard and didn't hear it again, but even the thought of such a thing put a sword of ice through me. I felt terribly guilty for being so happy at a time when Mama was so terribly sad.
In the days that followed, Daddy returned to eking out a small living harvesting oysters and Spanish moss, which was used by furniture
manufacturers for stuffing chairs and sofas. He trapped muskrats and did some fishing. He seemed angry all the time, and Mama and he said very little to each other. Pierre offered to give me some money for him, but I thought that would only make Mama angrier, and Daddy would only spend it on jugs of whiskey. There was nothing to do but plod on and hope for the best. Mama must have felt the same way. She seemed busier than ever with her traiteur missions.
One afternoon Pierre arrived earlier than usual and had a basket of food. He thought it would be nice to try a picnic. He asked me if I knew any place in the swamp that was interesting, quiet, secluded. Of course, I thought of my special place, my pond, but that was where Octavious Tate had raped me, and I hadn't been able to go there and swim or sun myself since.
"There is one place," I said, "but I don't think I can show it to you."
