could get at him.
The days passed and I began to try to do what
Mama wanted--fill my mind with other thoughts. I
did work harder, but I always had time to go into my
swamp, and whenever I poled in my small canoe, I
couldn't help but think of Pierre. After another week
went by, I concluded Daddy was right--rich people
tell grander lies. Their wealth gives them more
credibility and makes us more vulnerable to their
fabrications. Maybe Daddy was right about all of it;
maybe we were victims and should take advantage of
them every chance we could get.
I hated thinking like Daddy, but it was my way
of overcoming the deep feeling of sadness that filled
my stomach like sand. I began to wonder if this wasn't
why Daddy was so negative and down on everything.
Perhaps it was his way of battling his own sadness,
his own defeat, his own disappointments. Ironically, I
became more tolerant of him than Mama. I stopped
complaining about his hunting trips and was even
there at the end of the day to bring him a steaming cup
of Cajun coffee or help him put away his gear. Between the money he was making and the
good season Mama and I were having selling our
wares at the roadside, we were doing better than ever.
Daddy repeated his promise to take us all on a holiday
to New Orleans real soon. The prospect excited me,
especially when I thought about the possibility of
walking through the Garden District and perhaps
seeing the Dumas estate. I even imagined seeing
Pierre without permitting him to see me.
Mama said I shouldn't count on any of Daddy's
promises.
"One day he'll dig into his pocket, see how
much money he's got buried under his cigarette paper,
and go off on a bender to gamble and drink away his
hard-earned profits. I try to take as much from him as
I can, claiming we need more for this and more for
that, and I hide it because I know that rainy day is
coming, Gabriel. Storm clouds are looming just on the
other side of those trees," she predicted.
Maybe she was right, I thought, and tried not to
dwell on New Orleans. And then, one afternoon, I
took my usual walk along the bank of the canal. It was
a beautiful day with the clouds small and puffy
instead of long and wispy. The breeze from the Gulf gently lifted the palmetto leaves and made little ripples in the water, now the color of dark tea. There seemed to be more egrets than ever. I saw two great snapping turtles sunning themselves on a rock, not far from a coiled-up water moccasin. White-tailed deer grazed without fear in the brush, and my heron glided from tree to tree, following me as I ambled along, really not thinking of anything in particular, but just pleased by how well everything in Nature seemed to coexist and enjoying this relatively untouched world
of mine.
Suddenly I heard my name. At first I thought I
had imagined it; I thought it was just the low whistle
of the breeze through the cypress and Spanish moss,
but then it came again, louder, clearer, and I turned.
At first I thought I was really looking at an apparition.
When he had left, Pierre told me to watch for him
where I would least expect to see him. Well, there he
was poling a pirogue my way, something I would
never have anticipated.
Shocked, I stood with my mouth agape. He
wore dark pants and a dark shirt with a palmetto hat.
He poled very well in my direction and then let the
canoe glide to the bank.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said, scooping off his hat to make a sweeping bow with laughter around his eyes. "Isn't it a fine day we're having in the
swamp?"
"Pierre! Where did you come from? How did
you . . . Where did you get this pirogue?"
"I bought it and put it in just a little ways up the
canal," he said. "As you can see, I've been practicing,
too."
"But what are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here? Poling a canoe in the
canal," he said as casually as he would if he had been
doing it all his life. "I just happened to see you
strolling along the bank."
I could only laugh. His face turned serious,
those green eyes locking tightly on mine.
"Gabriel," he said. "I've been saying your name
music, a chant. I heard it everywhere I went in the
city; in the traffic, the tires of cars were singing it;
from the streetcar, in the rattle of its wheels; in the
clatter of voices in our fine restaurants; and of course,
at night in my dreams.
"I've seen your face a hundred times on every
pretty girl who's crossed my path. You haunt me," he
said.
His words took me on wings. I saw myself
gliding alongside my heron, and when he stepped up
to me and took me in his arms, I could offer no
resistance. Our kiss was long, our bodies turned
gracefully in to each other. When we parted lips, his
lips continued over my eyes and cheeks. It was as if
he wanted to feast on my face.
"Pierre," I pleaded weakly.
"No, Gabriel. You feel toward me exactly how
I feel toward you. I know it; I've known it all these
weeks during which I suffered being away from you. I
thought I would try to stay away, but that was a
foolish lie to tell myself. There was no hope of that. I
could no more stop the sun from rising and falling
than I could stop myself from seeing you, Gabriel," "But, Pierre, how can we . . ."
"I've thought of everything," he said proudly.
"And I've gotten it all accomplished before I came
poling down this canal searching, hoping to see you
along this bank. I must confess," he added, "I've been
here before, waiting for you."
"You have?"
"Oui."
"But what have you thought of, planned? I don't
understand," I said.
"Do you trust yourself, or me, for that matter,
enough to get into my canoe?"
I looked at it suspiciously. "And then?" "Let it be a surprise," he said. "Come along."
He took my hand and helped me step into his canoe.
Then he pushed off from the bank and turned the
pirogue to begin poling away. Someone had taught
him well. His strokes were long and efficient. In
moments we were gliding through the water. "How
am I doing? Will I make a Cajun fisherman yet?" "You might," I said.
As we continued he described some of the work
he had been doing since he had left the bayou, but
how his mind always drifted back to me and to this
natural paradise.
"And my cook loved your mother's herbs. She
says your mother must be a great traiteur."
"She is," I said. "Pierre, where are we going? I
don't . ." I paused when he turned the pirogue toward
shore. There was a small dock nearly completely
hidden in the overgrown water lilies and tall grass,
and beyond it, what I knew to be the old Daisy shack,
deserted ever since John Da
isy had died of heart
failure. He had been a fisherman and trapper. After he
had died, his wife had moved into Houma to work and
married a postman.
Pierre docked the canoe. "We're here," he said.
"Here? This is the old Daisy place," I said.
"Not anymore. I bought it a couple of weeks
ago."
"What? Are you serious? You bought it?" "Oui, " he said. "Come see. I had it fixed up a
bit. It's no New Orleans apartment, but it's cozy." "But how did you do this without anyone
knowing?"
"There are ways when you spend enough," he
replied with a wink.
"But why?"
"Why? Just to be close to you whenever I want
to be and when, I hope, you want me to be," he said.
He took my hand. Feeling swept along, I could only
follow him up the path to the shack. It was never
anything when the Daisys lived in it, but it had fallen
into some ruin after John Daisy's death. Pierre had had
the floorboards repaired, the holes mended, the
windows recovered, the tin roof restored, and the
furniture replaced. He had a new rug in the sitting
room.
"I brought that in from New Orleans myself,"
he said, nodding at the rug. "The shack has none of the modern conveniences, but I think that's what gives it all it's charm, don't you?" he said as I wandered through it. "The lamps have oil; there's something to eat and drink and the bed has new linens. What else could we ask for?" he said, and opened a cabinet in the kitchen to take out some glasses and then some
wine from a cool chest he had filled with ice. "I can't believe you did this," I said.
"I'm a man of action," he replied, laughing. He
uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. "Let's
make a toast," he said, handing me my glass. "To our
dream house in our dreamworld. I hope I never wake
up." He tapped my glass and brought his to his lips.
After a moment I sipped my wine, too. "So? What do
you think?"
"I think you're a madman," I said.
"Good. I'm tired of being Pierre Dumas, the
sensible, brilliant, respected businessman. I want to
feel young and alive again, and you make me feel that
way, Gabriel. You wipe the cobwebs out of my brain
and drive the shadows from my heart. You are all
sunshine and cool, clear water.
"Didn't you think constantly of me these past
weeks? Didn't you want me to return? Please, tell me
the truth. I need to hear it."
I hesitated.
In the back of my mind I heard Mama's voice, I
heard all the warnings. I saw myself heading toward a
precipice, in danger of a great fall. All that was
sensible and logical in me told me to leave, and as
quickly as possible; but my feet were nailed to the
floor by a love that rippled through my body as firmly
as he claimed his did.
"I thought of nothing else," I admitted. "I, too,
saw your face everywhere, heard your voice in every
sound. Every day you didn't return was an empty day,
no matter how much work I filled it with," I said. His
face brightened.
"Gabriel . . . I love you," he said, and took me
into his arms. Then he scooped me up and carried me
to the bedroom that would be our love nest.
After what Octavious Tate had done to me and
what Virgil Atkins had said to me, I thought I would
never taste love on my lips nor ever know what a soft,
gentle caress of affection was like. I thought I would
die resembling a wild rose, never seen, never smelled,
never touched, a flower that would be kissed by the
sun and the rain until it bloomed radiantly, but then
would eventually wither and decompose, its petals
floating sadly to the earth, its stem bending until the next rain pounded it into dust to be forgotten, to be
treated as if it had never existed.
But in Pierre's arms, I felt myself blossoming,
exploding with color and vibrancy. His kind and
tender touch filled my heart with a warmth I never
dreamed I'd feel. Nothing was rushed; nothing was
grotesque. When we were naked beside each other,
we were silent, speaking only with our eyes and our
lips. His fingers made secret places on my body
tingle, places I never imagined would ever feel as
alive. I closed my eyes and clung to him when he
moved over my breasts with his lips and touched me
with the tip of his tongue. I felt as if I were falling, but
as long as I held on to him tightly, I would be safe,
forever.
He didn't rush to put his manliness inside me. It
was as if he knew what I had experienced under the
gritty, violent pawing of Octavious Tate, as if he knew
I had to be brought back to a virgin state first and
then, gently, affectionately, lovingly, taken on that
ride young women dream about from the first day
they realize what can happen between them and some
loving man. It all happened now the way it was meant
to happen. That horrible violation of me was erased
with every tender caress, every word of love
whispered.
When we coupled on the bed, we paused and
gazed for a long moment into each other's eyes. It was
then that I realized the act of love could be the
ultimate confirmation of our deepest feelings for each
other. We weren't taking from each other as much as
we were giving to each other. I could hear Pierre's
thoughts, hear his plea: "Come with me, soar with me,
for these precious moments forget everything but us.
We are the world to each other; we are the sun for
each other; we are the stars."
It was wonderful to surrender myself
completely and feel him submerge his identity
completely into me. We were, as the poets say, one. Afterward we lay beside each other, tingling,
still touching each other with our lips as well as our
fingers.
"This is our secret place," Pierre said. "No one
must know. I will come to you as often, as many
times, as I can for as long as I am able," he promised. "But how, Pierre? You are married."
"My wife and I live separate lives right now.
She is content being the queen of the block, one of
New Orleans's royalty, a princess of the city. Her
friends are not my friends. I do not enjoy the affairs she attends and the people with whom she surrounds herself. They are all . . . fops, dandies, artificial men and women who lie to each other and to themselves continually and then whisper behind each other's backs. But Daphne enjoys the games, enjoys being the center of things, being kowtowed to and catered to
and treated like the blue blood she believes she is." "But, Pierre;is it not sinful what we are doing?"
I couldn't help thinking about Mama now and all her
warnings. "Tell me that love makes this all right," I
moaned, the tears burning beneath my eyelids. "Shh." He put his finger on my lips and then
kissed the tip of my nose and smiled. "Yes, darling
Gabriel. Love does make this all right, especially a
true love, for love like ours must be divinely inspired,
blessed. It's too wonderful to be c
reated by the devil
and it's too pure. I love you without lust, but with
affection; I love you without selfishness, but with
only the hope to make you happy."
"But what if you're eventually discovered here?
What if . . ."
"I would risk everything I have a hundred
times," he pledged, "because what I have means
nothing without you."
He kissed me and held me, and before we dressed to leave our secret place, we made love again. Afterward we returned to the pirogue and Pierre took me close to my shack home, but far enough away to leave me off unnoticed. We kissed and held each
other.
"I will return as soon as I can," he said. "I'll get
word to you and you will find me there, waiting. Let
every day become an hour, every hour become a
minute, so I can see you sooner," he said, and kissed
me again before pushing off. I watched him pole
away, my apparition, my dream lover, until he was
gone behind a bend.
It did feel more like an illusion than an actual
event. I had to pinch myself to convince myself I was
living this and not asleep on some rock conjuring the
images. I walked on air, my heart full of contentment,
but as I drew closer to the shack, I heard Mama and
Daddy arguing about money. I paused by the window
and listened.
She claimed he had gambled away what he had,
and he swore it all went to expenses. He wanted her to
give him what she had put aside, but she refused. "I ain't helping you pay your new gambling
debt, Jack. Gabriel and I worked hard for the little
we've put away, and we ain't watching it get washed down some ditch, along with everything else you
own."
"Ahh. You listen to me," Daddy said in a deep,
threatening voice.
Suddenly Mama wailed and then I heard her cry
for Saint Medad. She followed that with a string of
gibberish only she understood, and a moment later,
Daddy came rushing out of the house, his hair wild,
his face flushed, his eyes bulging with fear. He
practically leaped into his truck and drove off. When I entered the house, Mama was collapsed
in her rocker, her head down so that her chin touched
her chest.
"Mama!" I cried, going quickly to her side and
kneeling to hold her hand.