Smiling, Turner Browne turned and led his bunch of cronies away. I brought a wet napkin to Paul and dabbed his lip gently.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my temper."
"You shouldn't have. He's so much bigger."
"I don't care how big he is. I'm not going to allow him to say those things to you," Paul replied bravely. With his cheek scarlet and a little swollen, I could only cry for him. Everything had been going so well; we were having such a good time. Why was there always someone like Turner Browne to spoil things?
"Let's go," I said.
"We can still stay and dance some more."
"No. We'd better get something on your bruises. Grandmère Catherine will have something that will heal you quickly," I said.
"She'll be disappointed in me, angry that I got into a fight while I was with you," Paul moaned. "Damn that Turner Browne."
"No, she won't. She'll be proud of you, proud of the way you came to my defense," I said.
"You think so?"
"Yes," I said, although I wasn't sure how Grandmère would react. "Anyway, if she can fix it so your face doesn't look so bad, your parents won't be as angry, right?"
He nodded and then laughed.
"I look terrible, huh?"
"Not much better than someone who wrestled an alligator, I suppose."
We both laughed and then left the hall. "Turner Browne and his friends were already gone, off to guzzle beer and brag to each other, I imagined, so there was no more trouble. It was raining harder when we drove back to the house. Paul pulled as close as he could and then we hurried in under the umbrella. The moment we stepped through the door, Grandmère Catherine looked up from her needlework and nodded.
"It was that bully, Turner Browne, Grandmère. He—"
She lifted her hand, rose from her seat, and went to the counter where she had some of her poultices set out as if she had anticipated our dramatic arrival. It was eerie. Even Paul was speechless.
"Sit down," she told him, pointing to a chair. "After I treat him, you can tell me all about it."
Paul looked at me, his eyes wide, and then moved to the seat to let Grandmère Catherine work her miracles.
4
Learning to Be a Liar
"Here," Grandmère Catherine told Paul, "keep this pressed against your cheek with one hand and this pressed against your lip with the other." She handed him two warm cloths over which she had smeared one of her secret salves. When Paul took the cloths, I saw the knuckles on his right hand were all bruised and scraped as well.
"Look at his hand, too, Grandmère," I cried.
"It's nothing," Paul said. "When I was rolling around on the floor—"
"Rolling around on the floor? At the fais dodo?" Grandmère asked. He nodded and then started to speak. "We were having some gumbo and—"
"Hold those tight," she ordered. While he was holding the cloth against his lip, he couldn't talk, so I spoke for him, quickly.
"It was Turner Browne. He said one nasty thing after another just to show off in front of his friends," I told her.
"What sort of nasty things?" she demanded.
"You know, Grandmère. Bad things."
She stared at me a moment and then looked at Paul. It wasn't easy to keep anything from Grandmère Catherine.
For as long as I could remember, she had a way of seeing right into your heart and soul.
"He made nasty remarks about your mother?" Grandmère asked. I shifted my eyes away which was as good as saying yes. She took a deep breath, her hand against her heart and nodded. "They won't let it go. They cling to other people's hard times like moss clings to damp wood." She shook her head again and shuffled away, her hand still on her heart.
I looked at Paul. His sad eyes told me how sorry he was he had lost his temper. He started to take the cloth off his lip to say so, but I put my hand over his quickly. Paul smiled at me with his eyes, even though his lips had to be kept in a straight line.
"Just hold it there like Grandmère said," I told him. She looked back at us. I kept my hand over his and smiled. "He was very brave, Grandmère. You know how big Turner Browne is, but Paul didn't care."
"He looks it," she said, and shook her head. "Your Grandpère Jack wasn't much different and still isn't. I wish I had a pretty penny for every time I had to prepare a poultice to treat the injuries he suffered in one of his brawls. One time he came home with his right eye shut tight, and an-other time, he had a piece of his ear bitten off. You'd think that would make him think twice before getting into any more such conflicts, but not that man. He was at the end of the line when they passed out good sense," she concluded.
The rain that had been pounding on our tin roof subsided until we could hear only a slight tap, tap, tap, and the wind had died down considerably. Grandmère opened the batten plank shutters to let the breeze travel through our house again. She took a deep breath.
"I do love the way the bayou smells after a good rain. It makes everything fresh and clean. I wish it would do the same to people," she said, and sighed deeply, Her eyes were still dark and troubled. I never had heard her sound so sad and tired. A kind of paralyzing numbness gripped me and for a moment, I could only sit there and listen to my heart pound. Grandmère suddenly shuddered and embraced herself.
"Are you all right, Grandmère?"
"What? Yes, yes. Okay," she said, moving to Paul. "Let me look at you."
He took the cloths from his lips and cheek and she scrutinized his face. The swelling had subsided, but his cheek was still crimson and his lower lip dark where Turner Browne's fist had split the skin. Grandmère Catherine nodded and then went to the icebox and chipped out a small chunk to wrap in another washcloth.
"Here," she said, returning. "Put this on your cheek until it gets too cold and then put it on your lip. Keep alternating until the ice melts away, understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," Paul said. "Thank you. I'm sorry all this happened. I should have just ignored Turner Browne."
Grandmère Catherine held her eyes on him a moment and then relaxed her expression.
"Sometimes you can't ignore; sometimes the evil won't leave," she said, "But that doesn't mean I expect to see you in any more fights," she warned. He nodded obediently.
"You won't," he promised.
"Hmm," she said. "I wish I had another pretty penny for how many times my husband has made the same promise."
"I keep mine," Paul said proudly. Grandmère liked that and finally smiled.
"We'll see," she said.
"I better get going," Paul declared, standing. "Thanks again, Mrs. Landry."
Grandmère Catherine nodded.
"I'll walk you to the car, Paul," I said. When we stepped out on the galerie, we saw the rain had nearly stopped. The sky was still quite dark, but the glow from the galerie's dangling naked bulb threw a stream of pale white light to Paul's car. Still holding the ice pack against his cheek, he took my hand with his free hand and we walked over the pathway.
"I do feel terrible about ruining the evening," he said. "You didn't ruin it; Turner Browne ruined it. Besides, we got in plenty of dancing first," I added.
"It was fun, wasn't it?"
"You know," I said. "This was my first real date."
"Really? I used to think you had a stream of boyfriends knocking on your door, and you wouldn't give me the time of day," he confessed. "It took all the courage I could muster, more courage than it took to attack Turner Browne, for me to walk up to you that afternoon at school and ask to carry your books and walk you home."
"I know. I remember how your lips trembled, but I thought that was adorable."
"You did? Well, then I'll just continue to be the shyest young man you ever did see."