3
I Wish We Were a Family
In the morning Grandmère Catherine and I put on our Sunday clothes. I brushed my hair and tied it up with a crimson ribbon and she and I set out for church, Grandmère carrying her gift for Father Rush, a box of her homemade biscuits. It was a bright morning with silky white clouds lazily making their way across the nearly turquoise sky. I took a deep breath, inhaling the warm air seasoned with the salt of the Gulf of Mexico. It was the kind of morning that made me feel bright and alive, and aware of every beautiful thing in the bayou.
The moment we walked down the steps of the galerie, I caught sight of the scarlet back of a cardinal as it flew to its safe, high nest. As we strolled down the road, I saw how the buttercups had blossomed in the ditches and how milk white were the small, delicate flowers of the Queen Anne's lace.
Even the sight of a butcher bird's stored food didn't upset me. From early spring, through the summer and early fall, his fresh kills, lizards and tiny snakes, dried upon the thorns of a thorn tree. Grandpère Jack told me the butcher bird ate the cured flesh only during the winter months.
"Butcher birds are the only birds in the bayou that have no visible mates," he told me. "No female naggin' them to death. Smart," he added before spitting out some tobacco juice and swigging a gulp of whiskey in his mouth. What made him so bitter? I wondered again. However, I didn't dwell on it long, for ahead of us the church loomed, its shingled spire lifting a cross high above the congregation. Every stone, every brick, and every beam of the old building had been brought and affectionately placed there by the Cajuns who worshipped in the bayou nearly one hundred and fifty years before. It filled me with a sense of history, a sense of heritage.
But as soon as we rounded the turn and headed toward the church, Grandmère Catherine stiffened and straightened her spine. A group of well-to-do people were gathered in a small circle chatting in front of the church. They all stopped their conversation and looked our way as soon as we came into sight, a distinct expression of disapproval painted on all their faces. That only made Grandmère Catherine hoist her head higher, like a flag of pride.
"I'm sure they're raking over what a fool your Grandpère made of himself last night," Grandmère Catherine muttered, "but I will not have my reputation blemished by that man's foolish behavior."
The way she stared back at the gathering told them as much. They looked happy to break up to go inside as the time to enter the church for services drew near. I saw Paul's parents, Octavious and Gladys Tate, standing on the perimeter of the throng. Gladys Tate threw a glance in our direction, her hard as stone eyes on me. Paul, who had been talking with some of his school buddies, spotted me and smiled, but his mother made him join her and his father and sisters as they entered the church.
The Tates, as well as some other wealthy Cajun families, sat up front so Paul and I didn't get a chance to talk to each other before the Mass began. Afterward, as the worshippers filed past Father Rush, Grandmère gave him her box of biscuits and he thanked her and smiled coyly.
"I hear you were at work again, Mrs. Landry," the tall, lean priest said with a gently underlying note of criticism in his voice. "Chasing spirits into the night."
"I do what I must do," Grandmère replied firmly, her lips tight and her eyes fixed on his.
"As long as we don't replace prayer and church with superstition," he warned. Then he smiled. "But I never refuse assistance in the battle against the devil when that assistance comes from the pure at heart."
"I'm glad of that, Father," Grandmère said, and Father Rush laughed. His attention was then quickly drawn to the Tates and some other well-to-do congregants who made sizeable contributions to the church. While they spoke, Paul joined Grandmère and me. I thought he looked so handsome and very mature in his dark blue suit with his hair brushed back neatly. Even Grandmère Catherine seemed impressed.
"What time is supper, Mrs. Landry?" Paul asked. Grandmère Catherine shifted her eyes toward Paul's parents before replying.
"Supper is at six," Grandmère told him, and then went to join her friends for a chat. Paul waited until she was out of earshot.
"Everyone was talking about your grandfather this morning," he told me.
"Grandmère and I sensed that when we arrived. Did your parents find out you helped me get him home?"
The look on his face gave me the answer.
"I'm sorry if I caused you trouble."
"It's all right," he said quickly. "1 explained everything." He grinned cheerfully. He was the perpetual cockeyed optimist, never gloomy, doubtful, or moody, as I often was.
"Paul," his mother called. With her face frozen in a look of disapproval, her mouth was like a crooked knife slash and her eyes were long and catlike. She held her body stiffly, looking as if she would suddenly shudder and march away.
"Coming," Paul said.
His mother leaned over to whisper something to his father and his father turned to look my way.
Paul got most of his good looks from his father, a tall, distinguished looking man who was always elegantly dressed and well-groomed. He had a strong mouth and jaw with a straight nose, not too long or too narrow.
"We're leaving right this minute," his mother emphasized.
"I've got to go. We have some relatives coming for lunch. See you later," Paul promised, and he darted off to join his parents.
I stepped beside Grandmère Catherine just as she invited Mrs. Livaudis and Mrs. Thibodeau to our house for coffee and blackberry pie. Knowing how slowly they would walk, I hurried ahead, promising to start the coffee. But when I got to our front yard, I saw my grandfather down at the dock, tying his pirogue to the back of the dingy.
"Good morning, Grandpère," I called. He looked up slowly as I approached.
His eyes were half-closed, the lids heavy. His hair was wild, the strands in the back flowing in every direction over his collar. I imagined that the tin drum Paul predicted was banging away in Grandpère's head. He looked grouchy and tired. He hadn't changed out of the clothes he had slept in and the stale odor of last night's rum whiskey lingered on him. Grandmère Catherine always said the best thing that could happen to him was for him to fall into the swamp. "That way, at least he'd get a bath."
"You bring me back to my shack in the swamp last night?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, Grandpère. Me and Paul."
"Paul? Who's Paul?"
"Paul Tate, Grandpère."
"Oh, a rich man's son, eh? Them cannery people ain't much better than the oil riggers, dredging the swamp to make it wider for their damn big boats. You got no business hanging around that sort. There's only one thing they want from the likes of you," he warned.
"Paul's very nice," I said sharply. He grunted and continued to tie his knot.
"Coming from church, are ya?" he asked without looking up.
"Yes."
He paused and looked back toward the road.
"Your Grandmère's still gabbin' with those other busybodies, I imagine. That's why they go to church," he claimed, "to nourish gossip."
"It was a very nice service, Grandpère. Why don't you ever go?"
"This here is my church," he declared, and waved his long fingers at the swamp. "I got no priest lookin' over my shoulder, spitting hell and damnation down my back." He stepped into the dingy.
"Would you like a cup of fresh coffee, Grandpère? I'm about to make some. Grandmère has some of her friends coming for blackberry pie and—"
"Hell no. I wouldn't be caught dead with those fishwives." He shifted his eyes to me and softened his gaze. "You look nice in that dress," he said. "Pretty as your mother was."
"Thank you, Grandpère."
"I guess you cleaned up my shack some, too, didn't you?" I nodded. "Well, thanks for that."
He reached for the cord to pull and start his motor.
"Grandpère," I said, approaching. "You were talking about someone who was in love and something about money, last night after we brought you home."