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"You know what this is," Daddy said.
Mr. Tate shifted his eyes to me, but I did what Daddy had told me to do and looked down.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Landry. I'm a busy man. You've got no right to come busting in my office. If you don't turn around and just march out that door,
Daddy walked up to his desk and slapped his hand down. Then he leaned over until his face wasn't a foot from Mr. Tate's.
"That's my daughter standing there and she's pregnant with your baby. You done raped her in the swamp, Tate."
"What? Now . . . see . . . see here," Mr. Tate stammered. "I did no such thing."
Daddy straightened up and gave him a crooked smile.
"Everyone knows my daughter ain't no liar." He stepped to the side. "This the man who jumped you, Gabriel?" he asked.
I lifted my head slowly and looked at Mr. Tate. He curled his lips in and stared at me.
"Yes," I said softly.
"Well?" Daddy said.
"I don't care what she claims. It's ridiculous."
"You're going to pay, Tate. It's either going to be easy or hard, but you're going to pay."
Mr. Tate swallowed hard and then gathered his strength. He lifted the receiver again. "I'm going to call the police and have you arrested if you're not out of this office in ten seconds," he threatened.
"Okay then," Daddy said. "It will be hard."
He spun around, scooped my hand into his, and jerked the office door open. Without closing it behind us, he marched us out. Margot Purcel stood up and looked toward the inner office as we went past her and out the door.
"Get in the truck," Daddy said.
"Where we going now, Daddy?"
"Just get in. I know how to deal with the likes of him," he said.
Ten minutes later we turned up the long driveway to the Tate mansion, which was known as The Shadows because of the grand moss-draped oaks, willows, cypress, and magnolia trees that surrounded it and kept it in long, cool silhouettes most of the day. I had seen it only from the road before this. Our family was never invited to the famous parties that the Tates held there, nor was Mama ever called upon to treat Monsieur or Madame Tate.
As we continued up the long driveway, my heart throbbed in triple time and I shrank into a tighter ball, fearful of what Daddy had in mind to do next. Daddy's battered truck rattled over the gravel, kicking up dust clouds behind us. The grounds were so immaculate and neatly trimmed, I felt as if we were tracking mud over a new carpet.
All the oak trees had beds of azaleas and camellias under them. Queen Anne's lace bordered both sides of the driveway. To the right toward the canal, I saw the seemingly endless vegetable gardens and fruit trees. A short, stout black man with stark white hair and a tall, lean black woman with her ebony hair pinned up were harvesting crops. They looked our way for a moment and then went back to their labor.
I turned toward the house.
Before us the two-and-a-half-story structure rose with a majestic confidence that bespoke its grandeur and richness. It had classic columns rising from the ground to the entablature that supported the roof. There were upper and lower galleries and shutter-enclosed stairs. When we turned toward the front, I saw that the bayou side had a recessed gallery with brick arches below and turned Doric columns above. Ferns and palm leaves worked their way up and around the brick. There were three gabled dormers on the roof over the upper front gallery, each with four rows of paneled windows. The chimney rose from the rear of the building.
"What are we going to do here, Daddy?" I asked. Daddy turned off the truck engine and glared at the house for a moment.
"I know about the Tates," he said. "Octavious had nothing until he married Gladys White. She wears the britches in this family. Get out," he said.
I stepped down gingerly. This close, the house looked even more intimidating. Late morning shadows curved and then soaked the front in shade so thick, I felt as if we were stepping across one world and into another when we approached the tall, paneled door flush with fixed glass panes. Clumps of purple wisteria dangled from the scrolled iron railing above us. A half dozen silver bells on leather strings were hung over the door.
Daddy rattled them hard and then he let them fall against the door. A few moments later, a tall, spindly-looking, almond-complected, balding man with a long, thin nose and very thin lips opened the door. He wore a butler's uniform, but he had his tie loosened and apparently was just finishing chewing something. He swallowed quickly and raised his light brown eyebrows. They lifted at the middle as if there were an invisible hook hoisting them into his crinkled forehead.
"Yes?" he said, unable to hide his disapproval of the way Daddy was dressed, his hair wild, his shirt half in and half out, and his dungarees worn nearly clear through at the knees.
"I want to see Madame Tate," Daddy said.
