"Thank her for us again," Raul said. "My wife will send something over in the morning and we'll stop by to see how she is."
I nodded and they left. I took off Grandmère's shoes and helped her off with her dress. She was like someone drugged, barely opening her eyes, barely moving her arms and legs. I don't think she realized I had put her to bed.
All that night I sat at her side, waiting for her to awaken. She moaned and groaned a few times, but she never woke up until morning when I felt her nudge my leg. I was asleep in the chair beside the bed.
"Grandmère," I cried. "How are you?"
"I'm all right, Ruby. Just weak and tired. How did I get home and in bed? I don't remember."
"Mr. Balzac and his son Jean brought you in their truck and carried you in."
"And you sat up all night watching over me?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You poor dear." She struggled to smile. "I missed your jambalaya. Was it good?"
"Yes, Grandmère, although I was too worried about you to eat much. What happened to you?"
"The strain of what I had to do, I suppose. That poor little boy was bitten by a cottonmouth, but on the bottom of his foot where it was hard to see. He was running barefoot through the marsh grass and must have disturbed one," she said.
"Grandmère, you've never been this exhausted after a traiteur mission before."
"I'll be all right, Ruby. Please, just get me some cold water," she said.
I did so. She drank it slowly and then closed her eyes again.
"I'll just rest some more and then get up, dear," she said. "You go on and have something for breakfast. Don't worry. Go on," she said. Reluctantly, I did so. When I returned to look in on her, she was fast asleep again.
Before lunch, she woke up, but her complexion was waxen, her lips blue. She was too weak to sit up by herself. I had to help her and then she asked me to help her get dressed.
"I want to sit on the galerie," she said.
"I must get you something to eat."
"No, no. I just want to sit on the galerie."
She leaned fully on me to stand and walk. I was never so frightened about her. When she sat back in the rocker, she looked as though she had collapsed again, but a moment later, she opened her eyes and gave me a weak smile.
"I'll just have a little warm water and honey, dear."
I got it for her quickly and she sipped it and rocked herself gently.
"I guess I'm more tired than I thought," she said, and then she turned and gazed at me with such a far-off look in her eyes, a small flutter of panic stirred in my chest. "Ruby, I don't want you to be afraid, but I wish you would do something for me now. It would make me feel less . . . less anxious about myself," she said, taking my hand in hers. Her palms felt cold, clammy.
"What is it, Grandmère?" I could feel the tears aching to emerge from my eyes. They stung behind my lids. My throat felt like closing up for good and my heart shrunk until it was barely beating. My blood ran cold, my legs had turned to lead bars.
"I want you to go to the church and fetch Father Rush," she said.
"Father Rush?" The blood drained from my face. "Oh, why, Grandmère? Why?"
"Just in case, dear. I need to make my peace. Please, dear. Be strong," she begged. I nodded and swallowed back my tears quickly. I would not cry in front of her, I thought, and then I kissed her quickly.
Before I turned to leave, she seized my hand again and held me close.
"Ruby, remember your promises to me. Should something happen to me, you won't stay here. Remember."
"Nothing's happening to you, Grandmère."
"I know, honey, but just in case. Promise again. Promise."
"I promise, Grandmère."
"You'll go to him, go to your real father?"
"Yes, Grandmère."
"Good," she said, closing her eyes. "Good." I gazed at her a moment and then ran down the galerie steps and hurried to town. On the way my tears gushed. I cried so hard, my chest began to ache. I arrived at the church so quickly, I didn't remember. the journey.
Father Rush's housekeeper answered the doorbell. Her name was Addie Cochran and she had been with him so long, it was impossible to remember when she wasn't.
"My Grandmère Catherine needs Father Rush," I said quickly, an edge of panic in my voice.
"What's wrong?"
"She's . . . she's very . . . she's . . ."
"Oh, dear. He's just at the barber's. I’ll go tell him and send him up."
"Thank you," I said, and I turned and ran all the way home, my chest wanting to burst open, the needles in my side poking and sticking me fiercely when I arrived. Grandmère was still on the galerie in her rocker. I didn't realize she wasn't rocking until I reached the steps. She was just sitting still with her eyes half-closed and on her thin white lips was a faint smile. It scared me, that funny, happy smile.
"Grandmère," I whispered fearfully. "Are you all right?" She didn't reply, nor did she turn my way. I touched her face and realized she was already cold.
Then I fell to my knees on the galerie floor in front of her and embraced her legs. I was still holding on to her and crying when Father Rush finally arrived.
7
The Truth Will Out
Anyone would have thought that the news of Grandmère Catherine's passing must have been caught up in the wind that whipped through the bayou for so many people to have heard about it so quickly; but the loss of a spiritual healer, especially a spiritual healer with Grandmère's reputation, was something special and very important to the Cajun community. Before late morning some of Grandmère Catherine's friends and our neighbors already were arriving. By early afternoon, there were dozens of cars and trucks in front of our house as more and more people stopped by to pay their respects, the women bringing gumbos and jambalaya in big cast iron pots, plus dishes and pans of cake and beignets. Mrs. Thibodeau and Mrs. Livaudis took charge of the wake and Father Rush made the funeral arrangements for me.
Layer after layer of long gray clouds streamed in from the southwest, making for a hazy, peekaboo sun. The heavy air, dark shadows, and the subdued swamp life all seemed appropriate for a day as sad as this one was. The birds barely flitted about; the marsh hawks and herons remained curious but statuelike in their stillness as they watched the gathering that had commenced and continued throughout the day.
No one had seen Grandpère Jack for some time so Thaddeus Bute poled a pirogue out to his shack to give him the dreadful news. He returned without him and mumbled something to the mourners that made people shake their heads and gaze my way with pity. Toward supper Grandpère Jack finally arrived, as usual, resembling someone who had been wallowing in mud. He wore what must have been his best pair of trousers and shirt, but the trousers had holes in the knees and his shirt looked like he had to beat it on a rock in order to soften it enough to slip his arms through the sleeves and button it, wherever there were buttons, that is. Of course, his boots were caked with grime and blades of marsh grass.
He had taken no time to brush down his wild white hair or trim his beard even though he must have known there would be loads of people here. Thick little puffs of hair grew out of his ears and nose. His bushy eyebrows curved up and to the side on his leather tan face, the deeper wrinkles looking like they had a bed of dirt glued there for months. The acrid odors of stale whiskey, swamp earth, fish, and tobacco seemed to arrive at the house long moments before he did. I smiled to myself thinking how Grandmère Catherine would be screaming at him to keep his distance.
But she wasn't going to be screaming at him anymore. She was laid out in the sitting room, her face never so peaceful and still. I sat off to the right of the coffin, my hands folded in my lap, still quite dazed by the reality of what was happening, still disbelieving, hoping it was all a terrible nightmare that would soon end.