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"Are you sure? I could testify about it and . . ."

"And say what, Beau? That we were upstairs in my room making love while Gisselle and her friends wrecked the house?"

He nodded. "Oh boy," he said. "What are you going to say?"

"Nothing. It's better than lying," I replied.

He shook his head.

"You want me to help you get her upstairs?" he asked, nodding toward Gisselle.

"No, leave her there."

I walked him to the door, where we kissed good night.

"I'll call tomorrow . . . sometime," he said, raising his eyebrows. I watched him leave and then I closed the door and walked back to the living room to wait for the inevitable storm that would soon break and rage over my head.

I sat in the easy chair across from Gisselle, who was still sprawled out and dead to the world on the floor. She had vomited but was too out of it to notice or care. The clock ticked and bonged at two. I closed my eyes and didn't open them again until I felt someone shaking me roughly. I looked up into Daphne's enraged face and for a moment forgot where I was and what had happened. She wouldn't let that moment last long.

"What did you do! What did you do!" she screamed down at me, her mouth twisted and her eyes wide. Bruce stood in the doorway shaking his head, his hands on his hips.

"I didn't do anything, Daphne," I said, sitting up. "This is what Gisselle and her friends call a good time. I'm only a backward Cajun. I wouldn't know what a good time is."

"What are you saying? This is how you repay me for being understanding and kind to you?" she shrilled.

Gisselle's loud moan spun Daphne around.

"Get up!" she screamed over her. "Do you hear me, Gisselle? Get up this minute!"

Gisselle's eyes fluttered, but they didn't open. She groaned and went quiet again.

"Bruce!" Daphne cried, turning to him.

He sighed and stepped forward. Then he knelt down, put his arms under Gisselle, and, not without great effort, lifted her off the floor.

"Take her upstairs this minute," Daphne commanded. "Upstairs?"

"This minute, do you hear? I can't stand the sight of her."

"I'll use the wheelchair," he said, and dropped her in it, disregarding the piece of cake smeared over the back of the seat. She sat limply, her head on her shoulder, and moaned again. Then Bruce wheeled her out the way Grandpere Jack would wheel a wagonful of cow manure, his head back and his arms extended so the stench would be as far away from him as possible. The moment Bruce and Gisselle were out of the room, Daphne was on me again.

"What went on here?"

"They had a food fight," I said. "They drank too much. Some of them couldn't hold their liquor and threw up. The others were too drunk to be careful. They broke glasses, dropped food, fell asleep on the floor. Gisselle told them they could go anywhere in the house but upstairs. I found a couple in your office."

"My office! Did they touch anything?"

"Just themselves, I imagine," I said dryly. I yawned.

"You're happy this happened, aren't you? You think this proves something."

I shrugged. "I've seen people get drunk and sloppy in the bayou," I said, thinking about Grandpere Jack. "Believe me, I have, and drunken rich young Creoles are no different."

"I was depending on you to keep things in order," she said, shaking her head.

"Me? Why always me? Why not Gisselle? She was brought up better, wasn't she? She was taught about all the finer things in life, given all this!" I cried, holding out my arms.

"She's crippled."