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"Aaaa," he said, pushing away from the dock. "What's the sense of talking? No one listens. That woman," he said, glaring at the house. I watched him pole the pirogue through the dusty shadows. Before I turned, I saw him reach into his back pocket and come up with a small bottle of whiskey. He emptied the bottle and then threw it over the water. It hit with a splash and glittered for a moment before it disappeared, just like Daddy as he went around a bend of flowering honeysuckle.
Mama was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, when I entered the house. I put my books down quickly and went to her.
"It'll be all right, Mama. I don't need that money just yet."
She looked up, her face so full of fatigue, she looked years older. I felt like I, too, could get a glimpse of the future, but I didn't like it. It was as if a cold hand had clutched my heart.
"It's gone," she moaned. "Just like everything else that man touches." She smiled and brushed back some loose strands of my hair. "I only want you to have better," she said.
"I'm fine, Mama. Really."
She laughed and shook her head.
"I do believe you think so," she said, and sighed so deeply, I thought she had drawn up the last pail of strength from the deep well of her soul. "Well, any real good man who falls in love with you and wants you for his wife won't care about no dowry money, I suppose. He'll see the dowry's in you, in your goodness and your beauty. It's more than any man deserves."
"I'm not any more beautiful than other girls, Mama."
"Sure you are, Gabriel. The wonder is you don't notice or parade with arrogance." She looked around, resembling someone who was lost for a moment, someone who forgot who she was and where she was. "I ain't even started the roux for tonight's dinner, that man got me so mad."
"That's all right, Mama. I'll do it," I said. Every woman in the bayou had her own touch when it came to preparing the sauce we used with our fish or fowl. Mama's specialty, the one she taught me, was gumbo made with file, a powder she said came from the Choctaw Indians, made from ground-up sassafras leaves. It was guaranteed to clear the sinuses.
"You go out to the gallery and sit awhile. Go on," I insisted.
"That man," she said, "stirs the thunder in me."
Finally she gave in and went out to sit on her rocker. With summer on our doorstep, the sun was still quite high in the late afternoon. Sometimes we would have a cool breeze come up from the Gulf and there was enough shade on the gallery this time of day to make it tolerable, but after I set the roux to simmering, I decided I would go for a swim.
"Smells good," Mama said when I came out. "That man don't deserve a good meal tonight and probably won't get one. Where'd he tell you he was going?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. She was worried about what he would do next. I didn't want to tell her he had taken my two dollars and headed for a card table at some zydeco bar where he could easily get into a fight. But instead of lying, I just left out information.
"He went poling downstream, Mama."
"Humf," she said, and rocked harder. "Come home drunk as a skunk, that's what he'll do. Probably fall on his face out here and sleep on the gallery floor all night. Won't be the first time."
"Don't worry, Mama. We'll be fine," I said, and squeezed her hand.
"Just a few days until you graduate," she said. "Imagine that. Something good to celebrate for a change," she added. She leaned over to kiss my cheek and then sat back, finally noticing the towel in my hand.
"What are you going to do, Gabriel?"
"I'm just going for a dip in the pond, Mama," I said. "Be careful, hear?"
"Yes, Mama."
I bounced down the stairs and went down to the dock where my pirogue was tied. Daddy had built it for me when I was only eight. At eight I was already a good swimmer and soon to become very good at poling through the canals. In the beginning Daddy thought it was amusing. He would brag about his nine-, ten-year-old daughter who could wind her way around the trickiest bends and through the narrowest canals better than most fishermen.
When I was younger, I kept pretty close to home, but as I grew older and stronger, I ventured farther and farther out in the swamps until I knew as much about them as Daddy did, and even found places he hadn't. My favorite was a small pond about a quarter mile east of our house. I found it by venturing through some overgrown cypress. All of a sudden it was there, quiet, peaceful, secluded, with a large rock in the middle upon which I would sun myself.
This time of the day the sun would seep through the thick moss, oak, and cypress leaves and cast a veil of soft sunshine over the tea-colored water, which this afternoon was remarkably clear. I could see small rocks and plants, turtles and bream. The frogs grew louder as the sun dipped behind the tall trees, serenading me with their croaking. Nutrias scurried in and out of their dome houses along the banks of the pond, and as usual a pair of egrets paraded on the big rock, even as I drew closer to it.
The mistress of the pond was a dark blue heron who had made her nest in a gnarled oak tree on the north side. She and I had gotten to know each other well and I had even succeeded in having her land on the rock while I was there. She kept her distance in the beginning, strutting carefully along the edges and watching me every moment. I spoke softly to her, but hardly moved, and in time she grew close enough for me to reach out and touch her if I wanted. I never did because I knew that would spook her. It was just an unwritten agreement between us. She would trust me as long as I didn't violate the trust. It was enough to see her so close and watch her swoop down from her nest, gliding gracefully over what had become our pond.
This afternoon when I poled my way to the pond, I saw her nestled comfortably in her nest. A school of bream were in a feeding frenzy among the cattails and lily pads. There was a gentle but constant breeze threading through the swamp and lifting the bed of moss on the dead cypress trees. The sun was at that point where its rays washed over the big rock. Here all my troubles and worries, my fears and dark thoughts, were chased from my heart. No one shouted, no one cried. There were no threats or complaints, except the complaints of egrets when marsh hawks came too close to their bed of eggs.
I fastened my pirogue to the branch that stuck up near the rock and then I stripped off my dress, unfastened my bra, and stepped out of my panties. Leaving my clothing in a neat pile in the canoe, I took my towel and stepped onto the rock to spread the towel and lie down. Everything in nature was unclothed; it seemed right for me to be so, too. Nudity gave me a sense of freedom and I loved feeling the sun everywhere on my body. I put my hands behind my head and smiled at the rays that kissed my cheeks and caressed my breasts. When I got too warm, I dove into the pond and swam in circles around the rock. Then, dripping, but cool and refreshed, I returned to lie a little longer before returning home to have what I expected would be a dinner attended only by Mama and myself. For now, I didn't want to think about it.
I had almost drifted into sleep when I heard the distinct sound of a splash and opened my eyes. At first I saw nothing, and then he was there, gazing up at me from his pirogue and smiling widely. I recognized him immediately as Monsieur Tate, the owner of the biggest cannery in Houma. He was a man in his late twenties, married without children as yet. Daddy had worked for him on two occasions. He was a handsome man, slim, tall, with chatlin hair, which was what we Cajuns called blond mixed with brown. I had never seen him in anything but a jacket and tie.
Mr. Tate had been fishing and wore only a Tshirt and dungarees right now.
