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Mama was up earlier than ever the next morning. I suspected she had gone downstairs before the sun had risen. I had woken so many times during the night, my eyelids felt like they were made of slate. It took gobs of cool rainwater to snap them open. When I walked past Daddy's things scattered over the gallery, I felt my heart sink like lead in my chest. Mama wouldn't talk about it. She rattled on about the things she had to do all day and described some of the chores she wanted me to complete.
She moved in and out of the shack all day that day without as much as glancing at Daddy's things. I saw some of his socks had been cast over the railing, but I was afraid to touch anything. We had a few customers and Monsieur Tourdan brought his mother to get Mama to treat her warts. When anyone asked her about the clothing on the gallery, she looked at it as if she saw it for the first time herself and said, "That's Jack Landry's business, not mine."
The way she spoke about Daddy, it was as if he were some stranger, someone she barely knew. She avoided saying "husband." In her mind her husband was dead and gone, and this man, Jack Landry, a boarder, had to get his stuff away from here. No one said anything or asked anything. Everyone just nodded, understanding. Most people had often wondered how Mama had put up with Daddy all these years anyway, ascribing it to her healing powers.
It wasn't until dinner that I finally brought the topic up. "I just hate myself for causing all this, Mama," I told her.
She laughed. "You? Believe me, honey, the forces that caused Jack Landry to be the man he is come from the Garden of Eden. Don't you blame yourself for your father, Gabriel."
"Maybe Daddy was right," I said mournfully. "Maybe I'm wrong wanting to keep my baby. Maybe it is like hoisting a flag of sin in front of our house."
"If there is such a flag, your pere wrapped himself in it years ago."
I looked away and thought before turning back to her. "I don't understand why Pierre hasn't returned to see me, Mama." My chin quivered.
"He got himself into a pot of gumbo, too, honey. I'm sure about now he'd like to be able to make it all disappear."
I shook my head, my hot tears streaking my cheeks. "But he loves me; he really does."
"Maybe so, but it's something he can't do. I'm sorry, Gabriel, but it looks like he's come to that realization. Don't expect him anymore. You're only adding to the pain you got, honey," she advised wisely. "Take a deep breath and turn the corner."
I nodded. It looked to me like she was right, just as she usually was.
Another day passed and Daddy didn't return for his things. But sometime during the night, he did. I heard his truck and I heard the truck door slam. I waited, expecting to hear the sound of the screen door, but all I heard were his footsteps on the gallery. After a few moments, he shouted.
"You'll all be sorry! Hear! I ain't coming begging to live in my own home, no! You'll beg me to come back. You'll see!"
His voice reverberated. It sent shivers through me. Mama didn't get up or say anything. I heard the truck door slam shut and then I heard him drive away.
The darkness seemed thicker, the silence deeper. I took a deep breath and waited.
My eyes were still open when the first rays of sunlight peeked through the moss-draped trees, but Daddy was gone. It had a sense of finality to it. Mama sensed it, too. There was a funereal air about our home. More than once that day, both of us gazed at where Daddy's clothes had been, but neither of us mentioned his coming and going. Mama finally picked up one of his socks he had missed. She crushed it in her hand and dropped it in the garbage.
Her eyes were frosted with tears when she looked at me this time.
"Mama?"
She shook her head. "I've really been a widow for a long time, Gabriel. It's just that now, I'm mourning."
I cried a lot that day. I cried for the daddy I never really had as much as the daddy who had left. I cried over the memories of the good times. I cried thinking about Mama's smile and the sound of her laughter. I cried for the sunshine and the warm breeze, the fiddle music and the steaming hot gumbos we once all shared. I remembered holding Daddy's hand when I was a little girl and looking up at him and thinking he was so big and so strong, nothing in the world could ever hurt me. I trusted his embrace when he carried me over the swamp and I had faith in everything he told me about the water and the animals.
He was a different man then. That which was good in him had its day, and maybe, because I was more like a boy than a little girl sometimes, he saw himself again and it made him feel good to reach back and be younger.
It's the death of a precious childhood faith when you become old enough to understand that the man you call Daddy isn't perfect after all. Then, desperate and afraid, you look elsewhere for your prince, for the magic.
He had come to me, just like in the Cajun fairy tale. One day he was there in the canoe, smiling, handsome, full of promises and hope, turning cloudy days to sunny ones and making every breeze warm and gentle. The world was once again filled with kisses and hugs, and once again I felt safe.
But now that was gone too.
Darkness came thundering over the swamp, rolling, seeping, thick and deep. We were drowning in it. I clawed out a little space for myself and curled up in bed, wondering what sort of a world awaited the child of love inside me. Being born was probably our greatest act of trust, our greatest faith. As we let go of the precious, safe world inside our mothers, we entered this one hopeful.
It's not really the mother who's expecting; it's the child, I thought.
I began to wish I could keep him or her forever inside me. That way there would be no
disappointments.
I started to turn the corner, just as Mama had told me to do.
