I nodded.

"Well, that's all. I spoke my piece. Now it's up to you young people. Times have changed," she said, wagging her head. "Times and people. Good night, dear." We hugged and she left.

By early evening everyone was gone and things settled down again. I put Pearl to sleep, humming to her awhile, and then went downstairs to have some coffee and sit out on my gallery. Mrs. Thibodeau's words returned. I knew they were the words not only thought by other neighbors, but spoken by them behind my back as well. This incident with Buster Trahaw would only make the topic that much more vocal.

When I had changed dresses, I found the letter I had written to Daphne still in my pocket. More than ever now, I felt I should mail it. I went back into the house and finished putting the address on it and then went out to put it in the mailbox for the postman to pick up in the morning. I sat on the gallery again, finally feeling myself relax.

But moments later, a rippling sensation on the back of my neck gave me the awareness that someone was near and watching. My heart contracted. I held my breath and turned to see someone silhouetted in the shadows. I gasped, but he stepped forward quickly. It was Paul. He had come by boat and walked up from the dock.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "I wanted to wait until everyone left. Are you all right?"

"Yes. Now."

"How long after I left yesterday," he asked, coming farther forward into the glow of the gallery light, "was it before Buster came here to attack you?"

"Oh, it was quite a while," I told him. "Nearly dinnertime."

"If I had been here . . ."

"You might have gotten hurt, Paul. I was just lucky to escape."

"I might have gotten hurt or I might have hurt him," he said proudly. "Or . . . he might not have come in," he added. He sat on the gallery step arid leaned against the post. After a moment he said, "A young woman and a baby shouldn't be alone." It was as if he had heard Mrs. Thibodeau's words.

"Paul . . ."

"No, Ruby," he said, turning to me. Even in the subdued light, I could see the fires of determination burning in his eyes. "I want to protect you and Pearl. In the world you think is pure make-believe, you would not have to confront Buster Trahaws. I can promise you that, and Pearl wouldn't either," he pointed out.

"But, Paul, it isn't fair for you," I said in a small, tired voice. All of the resistance was slipping away.

He fixed his eyes on me a moment and then nodded slowly. "My father came here to see you, didn't he? You don't have to answer. I know he did. I saw it in his eyes last night at dinner. He's only worried about the weight of his own conscience. Why do I have to suffer for his sins?" he cried, not waiting for my answer.

"But that's just what he doesn't want you to do, Paul. If you marry me . . ."

"I will be happy. Don't I have a say in my own future?" he demanded. "And don't tell me it's fate or destiny, Ruby. You come to a fork in the canals and you choose one or the other. It's only after you've made your choice that fate or destiny takes control, and maybe not even then. I want to make that first choice and I'm not afraid of the canal I'll be poling our pirogue through as long as you and Pearl are at my side."

I sighed and lay my head back on the chair.

"Can't you be happy with me, Ruby? Even under the conditions we outlined? Can't you? You thought you could. I know you did. Why don't we give it a chance, at least? Why don't you let me try? Forget you, forget me. Let's just do it for Pearl," he said.

I smiled at him and wagged my head. "Dirty pool, Paul Marcus Tate."

"All's fair in love and war," he said, smiling back.

I took a deep breath. Out of the darkness could come all the demons of our childhood fears. Every night we put our heads to our pillows, we wondered what loitered in the shadows about our shacks. We were made stronger by our trepidations, but we were haunted by them nevertheless. I was not so naive to think there would be no other Buster Trahaws waiting, hovering in the days to come, and that was why I put the letter to Daphne in my mailbox.

But what was the world I wanted Pearl to grow up in . . . the rich Creole world, the Cajun swamp world . . . or the magical world Paul was designing for us? To live in that castle of a house where I could spend my time painting in the great attic studio, feeling and actually being above all that was hard and dirty and difficult below, did seem like a long, golden promise come true. Should I run away into my own Wonderland? Maybe Paul was right, maybe his father was worried only about soothing his own troubled conscience. Maybe it was time to think of ourselves and to think of Pearl.

"Okay," I said softly.

"What? What did you say?"

"I said . . . okay. I'll marry you and we'll live in our own private paradise above and beyond the troubles and turmoil mired in our pasts. We'll obey our own covenants and take our own oaths. We'll pole down that canal together."

"Oh, Ruby, I'm so happy," he said. He stood up and came to me, taking my hands into his. "You're right," he said suddenly, a new excitement in his eyes. "We must have our own private ceremony first and foremost. Stand up," he said.

"What?"

"Come on. There's no better church than the front gallery of Catherine Landry's home," he declared. "What should we do?" I asked, laughing.

"Take my hand." He seized mine into his and pulled me to my feet. "That's it. Now face . . . that sliver of a moon up there. Go on. Ready? Repeat after me. I, Ruby Dumas. Go on, do it," he said.

"I, Ruby Dumas . . ."

"Do hereby pledge to be the best friend and companion Paul Marcus Tate could have or want."

I repeated it and shook my head.

"And I promise to devote myself to my art and become as famous as possible."

That was easy to say.

"That's all I will ask of you, Ruby," he whispered. "But I have more to ask of myself," he added, and then he looked up at the moon. "I, Paul Marcus Tate, do hereby pledge to love and protect Ruby and Pearl Dumas, to take them into my special world and make them as happy as it is possible to be on this planet. I pledge to work harder and keep all that is ugly and unpleasant from our doorstep and I pledge to be honest and truthful and understanding of any and all Ruby's needs, no matter what I might feel."

He kissed me quickly on the cheek.

"Welcome to the land of magic," he said. We both laughed, but my heart was pounding as if I had really been part of some sacred and important ceremony. "We should have something . . . a toast to our happiness."

"I found a little of Grandmère Catherine's blackberry brandy in a jar at the bottom of a closet," I said. We went inside and I poured the few precious drops into two glasses. Laughing, we tapped our glasses and swallowed the brandy in a gulp. It did seem fitting that we top our pledge with something my Grandmère had made.

"No ceremony, nothing any priest or judge could say, will top this," Paul declared, "for this comes from the bottom of our hearts."

I smiled. I didn't think I could feel so good so soon after my ordeal with Buster Trahaw.

"How should we get married?" I wondered, and thought about his parents again.

"A simple ceremony . . . Let's just elope," he decided. "I'll come by tomorrow and we'll drive up to Breaux Bridge. There's a retired priest there who will marry us, legal and all. He's an old friend of the family."

"But he'll want to know why your parents aren't at our sides, Paul, won't he?"

"Leave it up to me," he said. "I'm to start taking care of you from the moment I wake up tomorrow until the day I die," he said. "Or as long as you'll have me around to do so," he qualified. "Be ready at seven. Just think," he said, "all the old biddies who have been quacking about us will finally stop."

Paul remained with me talking about the house, the things we had to buy and do even after we moved in. He was so excited, I barely got in a word. He talked until I grew so tired, I couldn't keep my eyes from shutting.

"I'd better get going and let you get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow." He kissed me on the cheek and then I watched him go off toward the canal to take his boat home.

Before I went back into the house, however, I walked out to the mailbox and took back the letter to Daphne. I wouldn't mail it, but I couldn't get myself to tear it up. If I had learned anything in my short life, it was that nothing was forever, nothing was certain. I couldn't close all the doors. Not yet.

But at least tonight, I thought, I would go to sleep easily, dreaming of that great attic and my wonderful studio and all the exciting paintings I would do in the days to come. What a great place for Pearl to grow up in, I thought when I looked in on her. I fixed her blanket, kissed her cheek, and went to bed looking forward to my dreams.


3

  My True Wonderland

Pearl's baby babble woke me. It was a heavily overcast day, so there was no warm sunlight to slip through the curtains and caress my closed eyelids until they fluttered open. As soon as I awoke, the significance of what I was about to do returned. I'm going to elope, I thought. Questions rained down from everywhere. When would I actually move Pearl and myself into Cypress Woods? How would we announce our marriage to the community? Had he informed his family by now? What, if anything, did I want to take from the shack? What kind of a wedding were we about to have?

I rose, but I had the strange sensation that I was caught in a dream. Even Pearl had a distant, quiet look in her eyes and was more patient than normally, not crying for her breakfast, not demanding to be plucked out of her crib and held.

"It's a big day for you, my precious," I told her. "Today I'm giving you a new life, a new name, and an entirely different future, one I hope is full of promise and happiness.

"We've got to pick out a nice dress for you to wear. First, let me feed you, and then you will help Mommy choose her own wedding dress, too.

"My wedding dress," I muttered, my eyes suddenly filling with tears. It was in this shack, in this very room that Grandmère Catherine and I talked about my future wedding.

"I always dreamed," she had said, coming over to me to sit beside me and stroke my hair, "that you would have the magical wedding, the one in the Cajun spider legend. Remember? The rich Frenchman imported those spiders from France for his daughter's wedding and released them into the oaks and pines where they wove their canopy of webs. Over them, he sprinkled gold and silver dust and then they had the candlelight wedding procession. The night glittered all around them, promising them a life of love and hope.

"Someday you will marry a handsome man who could be a prince, and you, too, will have a wedding in the stars," Grandmère had promised.

How sad she would be for the now. How much I was feeling sorry for myself. A young woman's heart should be filled with so much excitement on the morning of her wedding day that she would be afraid she would simply burst, I told myself. Every color should be brighter, every sweet sound, sweeter. It should seem like every single creature that lived around her was delighted, too. There should be happy, deliriously excited voices around her, and everywhere she looked, she should fix her eyes on some preparation, some activity related and solely de-voted to the wonderful ceremony she was about to undertake with the man she loved.

And love . . . it should have blossomed and overwhelmed her. She would stop for a moment and wonder if it was possible to ever again be as happy and content as she was. Could any event bring her as much joy? She should be surrounded by dozens of friends, each and every one electrified, thrilled, the whole bunch of them chattering away, no one particularly listening to anyone else, but everyone listening to everyone, a cacophony of laughter, giggles, shrieks, and exclamations.

The kitchen should be filled with the sounds of clanking pots, nervous cooks, aromas of wonderful fish and chicken dishes, cakes and pies. Orders should be shouted across rooms, cars pulling up and driving off, their drivers assigned various errands. Little children would be charged with some of the electricity, making mischief and being shooed from one place to another. The older women would be pretending to be annoyed and concerned but stopping every once in a while to recall their own special day, their own excitement, and now feeling overjoyed that they were sharing in hers, drawing from it like a bee drawing pollen from a flower and turning that excitement into honey-filled memories and moments of their own pasts. She should see it on every woman's face when they finally set eyes on her in her wedding dress.