"Who was in love, Grandpère? What money?"
He moaned and turned over.
"What is it?" Paul said, returning with the water.
"He's talking in his sleep, but he doesn't make any sense," I said.
"That's easy to believe."
"I think . . . it had something to do with why he and my Grandmère Catherine are so angry at each other all the time."
"I don't think there's much of a mystery to that, Ruby. Look around; look at what he's become. Why should she want to have him in the house?" Paul said.
"No, Paul. It has to be something more. I wish he would tell me," I said, and knelt beside the cot. "Grandpère," I said, shaking his shoulder.
"Damn oil companies," he muttered. "Dredged the swamps and killed the three-cornered grass . . . killing the muskrats . . . nothin' for them to eat."
"Grandpère, who was in love? What money?" I demanded. He moaned and started to snore.
"No sense talking to him when he's like that, Ruby," Paul said.
I shook my head.
"It's the only time he might tell me the truth, Paul." I stood up, still looking down at him. "Neither he nor Grandmère Catherine will talk about it any other time."
Paul came to my side.
"I picked up a bit outside, but it will take a few days to get this place in shape," he commented.
"I know. We'd better start back. We'll dock his boat near my house. He'll pole the pirogue there tomorrow and find it."
"He'll find his head's got a tin drum inside it," Paul said. "That's what he'll find tomorrow."
We left the shack and got into the dingy. Neither of us spoke much on the way back. I sat beside Paul. He put his arm around me and I cradled my head against his shoulder. Owls hooted at us, snakes and gators slithered through the mud and water, frogs croaked, but my mind was fixed on Grandpère Jack's drunken words and I heard or saw nothing else until I felt Paul's lips on my forehead. He had shut off the motor and we were drifting toward the shore.
"Ruby," he whispered. "You feel so good in my arms. I wish I could hold you all the time, or at least have you in my arms whenever I wanted."
"You can, Paul," I replied softly, and turned my face to him so that he could bring his lips down to mine. Our kiss was soft, but long. We felt the boat hit the shore and stop, but neither of us made an attempt to rise. Instead, Paul wrapped his arms tighter around me and slipped down beside me, his lips now moving over my cheeks and gently caressing my closed eyes.
"I go to sleep every night with your kiss on my lips," Paul said.
"So do I, Paul."
His left arm pressed the side of my breast softly. I tingled and waited in excited anticipation. He brought his arm back slowly until his hand gently cupped my breast and his finger slipped over my throbbing, erected nipple beneath the thin cotton blouse and bra to undo the top buttons. I wanted him to touch me; I even longed for it, but the moment he did, my electric excitement was quickly followed by a stream of cold fear, for I felt how strongly I wanted him to do more, go further and kiss me in places so intimate, only I had touched or seen them. Despite his gentleness and his deep expressions of love, I could not get around Grandmère Catherine's dark eyes of warning looming in my memory.
"Wait, Paul," I said reluctantly. "We're going too fast."
"I'm sorry," Paul said quickly, and pulled himself back. "I didn't mean to. I just . . ."
"It's all right. If I don't stop you now, I won't stop you in a few minutes and I don't know what else we will do," I explained. Paul nodded and stood up. He helped me up and I straightened my skirt and blouse, rebuttoning the top two buttons. He helped me out of the boat and then pulled it up so it wouldn't be carried away when the tide from the Gulf raised the level of the water in the bayou. I took his hand and we made our way slowly back to the house. Grandmère Catherine was inside. We could hear her tinkering in the kitchen, finishing up the preparation of the biscuits she would bring to church in the morning.
"I'm sorry our celebration turned out this way," I said, and wondered how many more times I would apologize for Grandpère Jack.
"I wouldn't have missed a moment," Paul said. "As long as I was with you, Ruby."
"Is your family going to church in the morning?" He nodded. "Are you still coming to dinner tomorrow night?"
"Of course."
I smiled and we kissed once more before I turned and climbed the steps to the front galerie. Paul waited until I walked in and then he went to his scooter and drove away. The moment Grandmère Catherine turned to greet me, I knew she had heard about Grandpère Jack. One of her good friends couldn't wait to bring her the news first, I was sure.
"Why didn't you just let the police cart him off to jail? That's where he belongs, making a spectacle of himself in front of good folks with all those children in town, too," she said, wagging her head. "What did you and Paul do with him?"
"We took him back to his shack, Grandmère, and if you saw how it was . . ."
"I don't have to see it. I know what a pigsty looks like," she said, returning to her biscuits.
"He called me Gabrielle when he first set eyes on me," I said.
"Doesn't surprise me none. He probably forgot his own name, too."
"At the shack, he mumbled a lot."
"Oh?" She turned back to me.
"He said something about someone being in love and what was the difference about the money. What does all that mean, Grandmère?"
She turned away again. I didn't like the way her eyes skipped guiltily away when I tried to catch them. I knew in my heart she was hiding something.
"I wouldn't know how to begin to untangle the mess of words that drunken mind produces. It would be easier to unravel a spiderweb without tearing it," she said.
"Who was in love, Grandmère? Did he mean my mother?"
She was silent.
"Did he gamble away her money, your money?" I pursued.
"Stop trying to make sense out of something stupid, Ruby. It's late. You should go to bed. We're going to early Mass, and I must tell you, I'm not happy about you and Paul carting that man into the swamp. The swamp is no place for you. It's beautiful from a distance, but it's the devil's lair, too, and wrought with dangers you can't even begin to imagine. I'm disappointed in Paul for taking you there," she concluded.
"Oh, no, Grandmère. Paul didn't want me to go along. He wanted to do it himself, but I insisted."
"Still, he shouldn't have done it," she said, and turned to me, her eyes dark. "You shouldn't be spending all your time with one boy like this. You're too young."
"I'm fifteen, Grandmère. Some fifteen-year-old Cajun girls are already married, some with children."
"Well, that's not going to happen to you. You're going to do better, be better," she said angrily.
"Yes, Grandmère. I'm sorry. We didn't mean . . ."
"All right," she said. "It's over and done with. Let's not ruin an otherwise special day by talking about your Grandpère anymore. Go to sleep, Ruby. Go on," she ordered. "After church, you're going to help me prepare our Sunday dinner. We've got a guest, don't we?" she asked, her eyes full of skepticism.
"Yes, Grandmère. He's coming."
I left her, my mind in a spin. The day had been filled with so many good things and so many bad. Maybe Grandmère Catherine was right; maybe it was better not to try to fathom the dark things. They had a way of polluting the clear waters, spoiling the fresh and the wonderful bright things. It was better to dwell on the happy events.
It was better to think about my paintings hanging in a New Orleans gallery . . . to remember the touch of Paul's lips on mine and the way he made my body sing . . . to dream about a perfect future with me painting in my own art studio in our big house on the bayou. Surely the good things had a way of outweighing the bad, otherwise we would all be like Grandpère Jack, lost in a swamp of our own making, not only trying to forget the past, but trying to forget the future as well.