Throughout the fall and early winter, Grandmère Catherine had her usual traiteur missions, especially ministering her herbal cures and her spiritual powers to the elderly. They saw her as far more sympathetic to their arthritic pains and aches, their stomach and back troubles, their headaches and fatigue than any ordinary physician would be. She understood because she suffered from the same maladies.

One early February day with the sky a hazy blue and the clouds no more than smokelike wisps smeared here and there from one horizon to the other, a pickup truck came bouncing over our drive, the horn blaring. Grandmère and I were in the kitchen, having some lunch.

"Someone's in trouble," she declared, and got up as quickly as she could to go to the front door.

It was Raul Balzac, a shrimp fisherman, who lived about ten miles down the bayou. Grandmère was very fond of his wife, Bernadine, and had treated her mother for lumbago time after time before she had passed away last year.

"It's my boy, Mrs. Landry," Raul cried from the truck. "My five-year-old. He's burning up something terrible."

"Insect bite?" Grandmère asked quickly.

"Can't find anything on him that says so," Raul replied. "Be right with you, Raul," she said, and went back to get her basket of medicines and spiritual things.

"Should I come with you, Grandmère?" I asked as she hurried out.

"No, dear. Stay and make us dinner. Prepare one of your good jambalayas," she added, and went to Raul's truck. He helped her in and then quickly drove off, bouncing over the drive as hard as he had when he had arrived. I couldn't blame him for being anxious and frightened, and once again, I was proud of Grandmère Catherine for being the one to whom he came for assistance, the one in whom he placed such trust.

Later in the day, I did what she asked and worked on our dinner while I listened to some of the latest Cajun music on the radio. There was a prediction of another downpour, one that would be full of lightning and thunder. The static on the radio told me the prediction would come true and sure enough, by late afternoon, the sky had turned that purplish dark color that often preceded a violent storm. I was worried about Grandmère Catherine and after I had battened down all the windows, I stood by the door waiting and watching for Raul's pickup. But the rain came before the truck did.

We had hail and then a pounding downpour that sounded like it would drill holes even through the metal roof. Wave after wave of rain was washed over the bayou by the wind that came rushing over the sycamores and cypresses, bending and twisting the branches, tearing leaves and limbs from trees. The distant low, rumbling thunder soon became real boomers, crashing down around the house like boulders and then lighting up the sky with fire. Hawks shrieked, everything that lived struggled to find a hole to crawl in to remain safe and dry. The railings on the porch groaned and the whole house seemed to turn and twist in the wind. I couldn't recall a storm as fierce, nor when I was more frightened by one.

Finally, it began to recede and the heavy drops thinned. The wind slowed down and became less and less severe until it was nothing more than a brisk breeze. Night fell quickly afterward, so I didn't see the resulting damage around the swamp, but the rain trickled on for hours and hours.

I expected Raul was waiting for the storm to stop before bringing Grandmère Catherine home, but as the hours ticked by and the storm dissipated until it was finally nothing more than a sprinkle, the truck still did not appear. I grew more and more nervous and wished that we had a telephone like most of the other people in the bayou, although I imagined the lines would have been down just like they often were after such a storm and the telephone would have been useless.

Our supper was long done. It simmered in the pot. I wasn't all that hungry, being so anxious, but finally, I ate some and then cleaned up. Grandmère had still not returned. I spent the next hour and a half waiting on the galerie, just watching the darkness for the lights of Raul's truck. Occasionally, a vehicle did appear, but it was someone else all the time.

Finally, nearly twelve hours after Raul had come for Grandmère Catherine, his truck turned into the drive. I saw him clearly, and I saw his oldest son, Jean, but I didn't see Grandmère Catherine. I ran down the galerie steps as he came to a stop.

"Where's my Grandmère?" I called before he could speak.

"She's in the back," he said. "Resting."

"What?"

I hurried around and saw Grandmère Catherine lying on an old mattress, a blanket over her. The mattress was on a wide sheet of plywood and was used as a makeshift bed for Raul's children when he and his wife went on long journeys.

"Grandmère!" I cried. "What's wrong with her?" I asked as Raul came around.

"She collapsed with exhaustion a few hours ago. We wanted to keep her overnight, but she insisted on us bringing her home and we wanted to do whatever she asked. She broke my boy's fever. He's going to be all right," Raul said, smiling.

"I'm happy about that, Mr. Balzac, but Grandmère Catherine . . ."

"We'll help you get her into the house and to bed," he said, and nodded to Jean. They lowered the rear of the truck and the two of them lifted the mattress and board with Grandmère Catherine off the truck. She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Grandmère," I said, taking her hand, "what's wrong?"

"I'm just tired, so tired," she muttered. "I'll be fine," she added, but her eyelids clamped down shut so quickly alarm filled me.

"Quickly," I said, and rushed ahead to open the door for them. They brought her up to her room and eased her off the mattress and into her own bed.

"Is there anything we can do for you, Ruby?" Raul asked. "No. I'll take care of her. Thank you."

"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.