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"Get in the truck," he ordered, and then turned to her.
"You hush up now, woman," he said to Mama. "This here's a man's job to do."
"Jack Landry . ."
"No. If you didn't let her wander about freely, this probably wouldn't have happened, hear?" he accused.
I felt terrible for Mama and buried my face in my hands. What had I done? It was all my fault. First, I shouldn't have been so unaware and trusting in the swamp, and afterward, I should never had kept it such a deep, dark secret from Mama. She looked so small and defeated on the gallery and so disappointed. I knew she blamed herself for bringing me up to believe I led a charmed life. It was true I always felt nothing in Nature would harm me, but I never counted on another human being invading the sanctity of my precious perfect world.
Daddy started the truck and slammed it into gear. He pressed down hard on the accelerator, tearing up some grass and gravel as we shot off. The truck bounced so hard my head nearly hit the roof. Daddy mumbled angrily to himself and slammed the steering wheel with the ball of his palm. I kept my eyes low. Suddenly he turned sharply to me.
"You didn't offer yourself to this man, didja, Gabriel?"
"Oh no, Daddy."
"You was just swimming in your pond and he come on you?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"And you tried to get away, but he wouldn't let you?" "He took my clothes," I said.
"That low-down . . . rich . ." Daddy's eyes got so small, I didn't think he could see the road. The tires squealed as we went around a turn.
"Where are we going, Daddy?"
"You just keep your head low and your mouth closed until I tell you to speak, understand, Gabriel?"
"Yes, Daddy."
A short while later, we drove over the gravel in front of the Tate Cannery. Daddy brought the truck to a sharp stop, the wheels sliding and jerking.
"Come on," he said, opening the door.
I got out slowly. Daddy came around the truck and seized my left hand. He marched us up to the office door and pulled so hard on the knob, the door nearly came off the jamb. Mr. Tate's secretary, Margot Purcel, looked up from her desk sharply. She was typing an invoice, but when her eyes fell on Daddy, they widened and she looked terrified.
"Where is he?" Daddy demanded.
"Sir?"
"Don't you 'sir' me. Where's Tate?"
"Mr. Tate's on the telephone in his office," she said. "Can I tell him why you want to see him?"
She started to rise.
Daddy glared at her and just tugged me once toward the inner office door.
"Sir!"
Daddy opened the door and pushed me in ahead of him. Then he slammed the door behind us.
Octavious Tate sat behind a large, dark hickory desk. He wore a cream shirt and tie and had his suit jacket over the back of the chair. The fan in the corner hummed and created a nice breeze that circulated around the office. The shades on the-east side were drawn to block out the late morning sunlight, but the shades were up on the west side, so we could see the trucks loading up and men working.
Mr. Tate was on the phone, but he told whomever he was speaking to that he would call him back and quietly returned the black receiver to its cradle. Then he sat back.
"What is this?" he asked so calmly, I wondered for the moment if I had indeed dreamed everything.
