"When were they here?"

"A few days ago, Jack. What do you owe them?" "Just a little money. I'll straighten it out," he said. "How much is a little, Jack?" she pursued.

"I got no time to talk to you, woman," he said. "I gotta go upstairs and rest from the journey."

He climbed the stairs, pulling himself up and nearly pulling out a rafter at the same time. Then he went into the house and stumbled up the stairs, leaving a cloud of sour whiskey stench behind him.

"I bet his will be the first corpse the worms reject," Mama said, and plopped into her rocking chair. It made me sick to see her so defeated and depressed. I thought it was that and the heat and my own gloom that upset my stomach something awful that night. Mama thought I might be coming down with some sort of summer dysentery. She gave me one of her herbal drinks and told me to go to bed early.

But the next morning I woke up just as nauseous and had to vomit again. Mama was worried, but once I finished throwing up, I suddenly felt better. My headache was gone and my nausea passed.

"I guess your medicine worked, Mama," I told her. She nodded, but she looked thoughtful and unconvinced. I wasn't sick again for nearly a week, but I was continually tired and sluggish, once falling asleep in Mama's rocker.

"This heat," Mama said, thinking that was the cause. I tried to keep cool, wrapped a wet towel around my neck, drank lots of water, but I was still tired all the time.

One afternoon Mama noticed me returning from the outhouse.

"How many times you been to the bathroom today, Gabrielle?" she asked.

"A few. Just to piddle, Mama. My stomach's okay." She still stared at me suspiciously.

And then the next morning I woke and had the same nausea. I had to vomit again.

Mama came to me and put a wet towel on my forehead and then she sat on my bed and stared at me. Without speaking, she pulled the blanket back and looked at my breasts.

"Is it sore there?" she asked. I didn't reply. "It is, isn't it?"

"A little."

"You tell me the truth and mighty quickly, Gabrielle Landry. Did you miss your time?"

"It's come late before, Mama."

"How late is it, Gabrielle?" she probed.

"A few weeks," I admitted.

She was quiet. She looked away and took a deep breath and then she turned to me slowly, her eyes sad but firm. Her lips were pressed together so hard, the color drained from them, but there was a redness in her cheeks and in her neck. She sucked in some air slowly and looked up before she looked at me again. I couldn't remember Mama ever looking at me this sadly.

"How did this happen, Gabrielle?" she asked softly. "Who made you pregnant?"

I shook my head, the tears burning beneath my eyelids. "I'm not pregnant, Mama. I'm not."

"Yes, you are, honey. You're as pregnant as pregnant is. They're ain't no half-pregnant. When did this happen? I ain't seen you with no boy here and don't remember you going off except to go . . ." Her eyes widened. "Into the swamp. You been meeting someone, Gabrielle?"

"No, Mama."

"It's time for the whole truth, Gabrielle. No half sentences."

"Oh, Mama!" I cried and covered my face with my hands. "Mama!"

"What in tarnation's going on here?" Daddy complained. He came to my doorway in his tattered underpants. "A man's trying to get some rest."

"Oh, hush up, Jack. Can't you see something's happened to Gabrielle?"

"Huh? Whaaa ." He scrubbed his cheeks with his rough palms and ran his long fingers through his hair. "What happened?"

"Gabrielle's pregnant," she said.

"What? When . . . Who . . . How did this happen?" he demanded.

"I'm trying to find that out. If you'll just clamp down on that tongue . . ."

My shoulders shook with my sobs. Mama put her hand on my head and petted me.

"There, there, honey. I'll help you, don't worry. What happened?"

"He . . ."

"Go on, honey. Just spit it out," Mama said. "Best way to get something bitter and distasteful from your mouth is quick," she assured me.

I took a deep breath and sucked back my sobs. Then I raised my head and took my hands from my face.

"He had his way with me in the canoe, Mama. I couldn't stop him. I tried, but I couldn't."

"That's all right, Gabrielle. That's all right,"

"What?" Daddy said, stepping closer. "Who did this? Who had his way? I'll—"

"Hush, Jack. You'll frighten her."

"Well . . . no one's gonna . . ."

"Gabrielle, did this happen at your swimming hole?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Who was it, honey, did this to you? Someone we know?" I nodded. Mama took my hand into hers.

"These young bucks, these worthless, good-for-nothing . . ." Daddy rattled.

"It was Monsieur Tate," I blurted, and Daddy stopped ranting, his jaw falling open.

"Octavious Tate!"

"Mon Dieu," Mama said.

"Octavious Tate done this?" Daddy fumed. He stood there, his eyes widening, his face a magenta color from his rage. Then he frightened both Mama and me by slamming his fist into the wall so hard he bashed in a hole.

"Jack!"

"Gabrielle, you get up out of that bed, hear? You get yourself dressed and out of that bed right now," Daddy directed, jabbing his right forefinger at me.

"Jack," Mama cried. "What are you going to do?"

"Just get her dressed. I'm the man of this house. Get her dressed!"

"She's not—"

"It's all right, Mama," I said. "I can get up." I never saw Daddy so full of fury. There was no telling what he would do if he didn't have his way.

"Well, what's he planning to do?" Mama cried. She looked at me. "My poor baby. Why didn't you tell me this all before?"

"It happened right before graduation, Mama. I didn't want to start anything then and . . . I wasn't sure whether or not it was partly my fault."

"Your fault? Why?"

"Because I . . . swim without my clothes," I said.

"That still don't give no man the right to do what he done," Mama said.

"Get her up and dressed!" Daddy screamed from the other room.

"I will not," Mama replied.

"No, Mama. I'll do what Daddy wants. I made this trouble worse by not telling you about it." I rose and began to dress, my hands trembling, my legs shaking, feeling as if I were sinking, drowning, going under in a pool of hopeless despair, and not even thinking for the moment that there was a baby growing inside me.

"Where you taking her, Jack?" Mama demanded. After I was dressed, Daddy took my hand and led me out and to his truck, practically dragging me along. Mama followed to the galerie steps.

"Get in the truck," he ordered, and then turned to her.

"You hush up now, woman," he said to Mama. "This here's a man's job to do."

"Jack Landry . . ."

"No. If you didn't let her wander about freely, this probably wouldn't have happened, hear?" he accused.

I felt terrible for Mama and buried my face in my hands. What had I done? It was all my fault. First, I shouldn't have been so unaware and trusting in the swamp, and afterward, I should never had kept it such a deep, dark secret from Mama. She looked so small and defeated on the galerie and so disappointed. I knew she blamed herself for bringing me up to believe I led a charmed life. It was true I always felt nothing in Nature would harm me, but I never counted on another human being invading the sanctity of my precious perfect world.

Daddy started the truck and slammed it into gear. He pressed down hard on the accelerator, tearing up some grass and gravel as we shot off. The truck bounced so hard my head nearly hit the roof. Daddy mumbled angrily to himself and slammed the steering wheel with the ball of his palm. I kept my eyes low. Suddenly he turned sharply to me.

"You didn't offer yourself to this man, didja, Gabrielle?"

"Oh no, Daddy."

"You was just swimming in your pond and he come on you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"And you tried to get away, but he wouldn't let you?"

"He took my clothes," I said.

"That low-down . . . rich . . ." Daddy's eyes got so small, I didn't think he could see the road. The tires squealed as we went around a turn.

"Where are we going, Daddy?"

"You just keep your head low and your mouth closed until I tell you to speak, understand, Gabrielle?"

"Yes, Daddy."

A short while later, we drove over the gravel in front of the Tate Cannery. Daddy brought the truck to a sharp stop, the wheels sliding and jerking.

"Come on," he said, opening the door.

I got out slowly. Daddy came around the truck and seized my left hand. He marched us up to the office door and pulled so hard on the knob, the door nearly came off the jamb. Mr. Tate's secretary, Margot Purcel, looked up from her desk sharply. She was typing an invoice, but when her eyes fell on Daddy, they widened and she looked terrified.

"Where is he?" Daddy demanded.

"Sir?"

"Don't you 'sir' me. Where's Tate?"

"Mr. Tate's on the telephone in his office," she said. "Can I tell him why you want to see him?"

She started to rise.

Daddy glared at her and just tugged me once toward the inner office door.

"Sir!"

Daddy opened the door and pushed me in ahead of him. Then he slammed the door behind us.

Octavious Tate sat behind a large, dark hickory desk. He wore a cream shirt and tie and had his suit jacket over the back of the chair. The fan in the corner hummed and created a nice breeze that circulated around the office. The shades on the-east side were drawn to block out the late morning sunlight, but the shades were up on the west side, so we could see the trucks loading up and men working.

Mr. Tate was on the phone, but he told whomever he was speaking to that he would call him back and quietly returned the black receiver to its cradle. Then he sat back.

"What is this?" he asked so calmly, I wondered for the moment if I had indeed dreamed everything.

"You know what this is," Daddy said.

Mr. Tate shifted his eyes to me, but I did what Daddy had told me to do and looked down.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Landry. I'm a busy man. You've got no right to come busting in my office. If you don't turn around and just march out that door,

Daddy walked up to his desk and slapped his hand down. Then he leaned over until his face wasn't a foot from Mr. Tate's.

"That's my daughter standing there and she's pregnant with your baby. You done raped her in the swamp, Tate."

"What? Now . . . see . . . see here," Mr. Tate stammered. "I did no such thing."

Daddy straightened up and gave him a crooked smile.

"Everyone knows my daughter ain't no liar." He stepped to the side. "This the man who jumped you, Gabrielle?" he asked.

I lifted my head slowly and looked at Mr. Tate. He curled his lips in and stared at me.

"Yes," I said softly.

"Well?" Daddy said.

"I don't care what she claims. It's ridiculous."

"You're going to pay, Tate. It's either going to be easy or hard, but you're going to pay."

Mr. Tate swallowed hard and then gathered his strength. He lifted the receiver again. "I'm going to call the police and have you arrested if you're not out of this office in ten seconds," he threatened.

"Okay then," Daddy said. "It will be hard."

He spun around, scooped my hand into his, and jerked the office door open. Without closing it behind us, he marched us out. Margot Purcel stood up and looked toward the inner office as we went past her and out the door.

"Get in the truck," Daddy said.

"Where we going now, Daddy?"

"Just get in. I know how to deal with the likes of him," he said.

Ten minutes later we turned up the long driveway to the Tate mansion, which was known as The Shadows because of the grand moss-draped oaks, willows, cypress, and magnolia trees that surrounded it and kept it in long, cool silhouettes most of the day. I had seen it only from the road before this. Our family was never invited to the famous parties that the Tates held there, nor was Mama ever called upon to treat Monsieur or Madame Tate.

As we continued up the long driveway, my heart throbbed in triple time and I shrank into a tighter ball, fearful of what Daddy had in mind to do next. Daddy's battered truck rattled over the gravel, kicking up dust clouds behind us. The grounds were so immaculate and neatly trimmed, I felt as if we were tracking mud over a new carpet.

All the oak trees had beds of azaleas and camellias under them. Queen Anne's lace bordered both sides of the driveway. To the right toward the canal, I saw the seemingly endless vegetable gardens and fruit trees. A short, stout black man with stark white hair and a tall, lean black woman with her ebony hair pinned up were harvesting crops. They looked our way for a moment and then went back to their labor.