"Most men in these here parts don't know their right from their left when it comes to going someplace other than the bayou. Once you take them out of the swamp, they're confused, stupid fools. But I ain't no swamp rat, hear? I'm Jack Landry. My great-grandpère worked the riverboats, and my mère's great-grandpère was one of the best gamblers this side of the Mississippi," he boasted. "It's true, he was hanged, but that was a mistake."

"All right, Jack. I know how wonderful your ancestors were. Get on with it," Mama demanded.

"Yeah. You know. You know everything, don'tcha, Catherine Landry? Anyways, I upped and took myself to New Orleans."

"What?" I said with a gasp.

"That's right," he said, his eyes blazing.

"What were you doing in New Orleans, Jack?" Mama asked.

"I found out where those Dumas men live and I paid 'em a little visit. Turns out the old man is not really unhappy with what I come to tell him either," Daddy said, nodding.

Mama stared, astounded. She looked at me and then she leaned forward.

"What did you tell him, Jack?"

"I told him about Gabrielle here and the condition his son put her into," he said, standing proud. "That's what I told him, and I didn't spare no words, neither. I told him about the shack and the way he done seduced my little girl."

"He did not!" I cried.

"Hush a moment," Mama said, her eyes brighter, her face flushed. "Go on, Jack. What else did you tell him?"

"I told him I was about to bring Gabrielle into New Orleans and take her to the newspaper people if I had to," he said, nodding and smiling. "I would let the whole city know what his fine, upstanding, well-to-do businessman son done to a poor, innocent girl in the bayou."

"Where was Pierre?" I asked, my heart pounding.

"Hiding himself someplace, I bet," Daddy said. "He didn't show his face the whole time I was there. They got a palace, not a house, Catherine. You can't even imagine the rich things in the house and the size of the rooms, and there's a tennis court and a swimming pool and—"

"I don't care about any of that, Jack. Just tell us what you told Monsieur Dumas."

"Well, I expected to get the money I needed to look after Gabrielle here. You ain't gonna find yourself a good husband now, Gabrielle," he said, turning to me and shaking his head. "A woman with a child and no marriage ain't got a chance and certainly ain't got the pickin's. Why, I couldn't even get you Nicolas Paxton now, and it's your own doin'."

"Never mind all that, Jack. You haven't told us anything we don't know."

"Right." He straightened up. "Well, Monsieur Dumas, he says his son already told him about what he had done. He knew the details, and what's more, he said his son's wife knew the details, so I couldn't threaten him none."

"His wife?" I gasped.

"That's right. That's what he says, and full of arrogance, too. I was about to protest and start ragin' at him when he puts up his hand, looks away for a moment, and then says he's willing . . . no, he wants to buy the child."

"No!" I cried.

"Not again, Jack?" Mama said. "You didn't go and make a bargain with the devil again?"

"This is different, Catherine," Daddy protested. "We got no way to hide Gabrielle's condition. We can't keep the community from knowing she's a fallen woman. I got to look after the future. These people are so rich, they make the Tates look like paupers. You see that pile of money there?" he said, pointing to the table. "Well, that's just payment for me to think on it. I'm going to get us enough to take care of us forever. We don't have to worry about Gabrielle finding herself a good man, see? And you don't have to go running off at everyone's beck and call to tend to their insect bites and coughs."

Mama was silent a moment. The tears were streaming down my cheeks. Where was Pierre? How could he have permitted his father to make such an offer? Mama rose to her full height, which wasn't much, but with her eyes wide, she looked taller, and Daddy stepped back, shaking his head.

"You gotta admit I done good, Catherine. You gotta admit that."

"You done good? You done good? How, Jack? By running off to sell your daughter's child? You think children are just like a bag of oysters? It's part of her, which makes the child part of us, too. It's our flesh and blood."

"And it's our burden," Daddy said, his determination firmer than I had ever seen. He didn't flinch or retreat from Mama's anger as he usually did. "I know I done right." His courage mounted, his chest pumped. "I'm the man here, see? I make the decisions. You might be the best traiteur in these parts, Catherine, but you're still my wife and that's still my daughter, and what I decide is . . . is what will be when it comes to this family, hear?"

"Go to hell, Jack Landry," Mama said. Daddy's face turned so red, I thought the top of his head would explode. He looked at me. I was holding my breath, my eyes so wide, they hurt. It only added to his embarrassment. "Take your bargain back to the devil," Mama hissed.

Daddy didn't retreat.

Mama started toward him, and suddenly he swung his open right palm and caught her on the side of the face. The blow sent her flying against the table. I screamed. Daddy stood there, surprised at what he had done himself. He started to stutter and stammer an apology as Mama shook the dizziness out of her head and stood up to him again. This time she pointed her finger at the door. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper, her voice cold and throaty.

"Get out of my house," she said. "And never set foot in here again or I'll put the blackest curse on your head. I swear by my ancestors."

Daddy's mouth opened and closed. I felt so faint I thought I would collapse on the table myself. He looked at me a moment and then at Mama, but his eyes shifted from hers quickly. It was as if he were looking right into the heart of a blazing fire. He raised his hand as if to block a blow she might throw at him and retreated.

"You'll be sorry you talked to me like that, Catherine. I might just not return," he threatened.

"I'm telling you not to return, ever," she retorted. "Everything that's yours will be on that galerie in less than an hour. You come by and take it away, and with it, your dirty, filthy soul. Get out! Get out!" she shouted.

Daddy turned and pounded over the floorboards. He slammed the door behind him and marched over the galerie. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and then . . . a deadly, deep silence until I heard his truck engine start.

"I won’t come back until you apologize!" he cried, and then the truck spun away.

Mama pivoted and rushed toward the stairway to go upstairs and do what she said she would: gather Daddy's things and put them on the galerie. I heard her rip through the dresser drawers and pull out the clothing from the closet. She heaved it down the stairs and then followed, pounding the stairs with such anger, I was afraid to get in the way. I spoke to her, but she acted as if I weren't even there. It took her only ten minutes to gather everything that belonged to Daddy. She cast it all out the door, just as she had vowed. It was the worst fight ever between them.

And all I could think was I was the cause of it all.

Daddy didn't return for his things that night. I kept waking up, thinking I heard him, but when I listened hard, there was only silence, no footsteps, nothing. Mama had gone to sleep early. She seemed to age years in minutes, and right before my eyes, too. I remained awake as long as I could, sitting by the front door, and then I went up to bed.

Mama was up earlier than ever the next morning. I suspected she had gone downstairs before the sun had risen. I had woken so many times during the night, my eyelids felt like they were made of slate. It took gobs of cool rainwater to snap them open. When I walked past Daddy's things scattered over the galerie, I felt my heart sink like lead in my chest. Mama wouldn't talk about it. She rattled on about the things she had to do all day and described some of the chores she wanted me to complete.

She moved in and out of the shack all day that day without as much as glancing at Daddy's things. I saw some of his socks had been cast over the railing, but I was afraid to touch anything. We had a few customers and Monsieur Tourdan brought his mother to get Mama to treat her warts. When anyone asked her about the clothing on the galerie, she looked at it as if she saw it for the first time herself and said, "That's Jack Landry's business, not mine."

The way she spoke about Daddy, it was as if he were some stranger, someone she barely knew. She avoided saying "husband." In her mind her husband was dead and gone, and this man, Jack Landry, a boarder, had to get his stuff away from here. No one said anything or asked anything. Everyone just nodded, understanding. Most people had often wondered how Mama had put up with Daddy all these years anyway, ascribing it to her healing powers.

It wasn't until dinner that I finally brought the topic up. "I just hate myself for causing all this, Mama," I told her.

She laughed. "You? Believe me, honey, the forces that caused Jack Landry to be the man he is come from the Garden of Eden. Don't you blame yourself for your father, Gabrielle."

"Maybe Daddy was right," I said mournfully. "Maybe I'm wrong wanting to keep my baby. Maybe it is like hoisting a flag of sin in front of our house."

"If there is such a flag, your père wrapped himself in it years ago."

I looked away and thought before turning back to her. "I don't understand why Pierre hasn't returned to see me, Mama." My chin quivered.

"He got himself into a pot of gumbo, too, honey. I'm sure about now he'd like to be able to make it all disappear."

I shook my head, my hot tears streaking my cheeks. "But he loves me; he really does."

"Maybe so, but it's something he can't do. I'm sorry, Gabrielle, but it looks like he's come to that realization. Don't expect him anymore. You're only adding to the pain you got, honey," she advised wisely. "Take a deep breath and turn the corner."

I nodded. It looked to me like she was right, just as she usually was.

Another day passed and Daddy didn't return for his things. But sometime during the night, he did. I heard his truck and I heard the truck door slam. I waited, expecting to hear the sound of the screen door, but all I heard were his footsteps on the galerie. After a few moments, he shouted.

"You'll all be sorry! Hear! I ain't coming begging to live in my own home, no! You'll beg me to come back. You'll see!"

His voice reverberated. It sent shivers through me. Mama didn't get up or say anything. I heard the truck door slam shut and then I heard him drive away.

The darkness seemed thicker, the silence deeper. I took a deep breath and waited.

My eyes were still open when the first rays of sunlight peeked through the moss-draped trees, but Daddy was gone. It had a sense of finality to it. Mama sensed it, too. There was a funereal air about our home. More than once that day, both of us gazed at where Daddy's clothes had been, but neither of us mentioned his coming and going. Mama finally picked up one of his socks he had missed. She crushed it in her hand and dropped it in the garbage.

Her eyes were frosted with tears when she looked at me this time.

"Mama?"

She shook her head. "I've really been a widow for a long time, Gabrielle. It's just that now, I'm mourning."

I cried a lot that day. I cried for the daddy I never really had as much as the daddy who had left. I cried over the memories of the good times. I cried thinking about Mama's smile and the sound of her laughter. I cried for the sunshine and the warm breeze, the fiddle music and the steaming hot gumbos we once all shared. I remembered holding Daddy's hand when I was a little girl and looking up at him and thinking he was so big and so strong, nothing in the world could ever hurt me. I trusted his embrace when he carried me over the swamp and I had faith in everything he told me about the water and the animals.

He was a different man then. That which was good in him had its day, and maybe, because I was more like a boy than a little girl sometimes, he saw himself again and it made him feel good to reach back and be younger.

It's the death of a precious childhood faith when you become old enough to understand that the man you call Daddy isn't perfect after all. Then, desperate and afraid, you look elsewhere for your prince, for the magic.

He had come to me, just like in the Cajun fairy tale. One day he was there in the canoe, smiling, handsome, full of promises and hope, turning cloudy days to sunny ones and making every breeze warm and gentle. The world was once again filled with kisses and hugs, and once again I felt safe.