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We got Grandpere into his dingy and sat him down. Immediately, he fell over the bench. Paul helped him get comfortable and then he started the motor and we pulled away from the dock, some of the people still watching us and shaking their heads. Grandmere Catherine would hear about this quickly, I thought, and she would just nod and say she wasn't surprised.

Minutes after we pulled away from the dock, Grandpere Jack was snoring. I tried to make him more comfortable by putting a rolled up sack under his head. He moaned and muttered something

incoherently before falling asleep and snoring again. Then I joined Paul.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"I'm sure your parents will find out about this tomorrow and be angry."

"It doesn't matter," he assured me, but I remembered how dark Grandmere Catherine's eyes had become when she asked me what his parents thought of his seeing me. Surely they would use this incident to convince him to stay away from the Landrys. What if signs began to appear everywhere saying, "No Landrys Allowed," just like Grandmere Catherine described from the past? Perhaps I really would have to flee from the bayou to find someone to love me and make me his wife. Perhaps this was what Grandmere Catherine meant.

The moon lit our way through the canals, but when we went deeper into the swamp, the sad veils of Spanish moss and the thick, intertwined leaves of the cypress blocked out the bright illumination making the waterway more difficult to navigate. We had to slow down to avoid the stumps. When the moonlight did break through an opening, it made the backs of the gators glitter. One whipped its tail, splash-ing water in our direction as if to say, you don't belong here. Farther along, we saw the eyes of a marsh deer lit up by the moonbeams. We saw his silhouetted body turn to disappear in the darker shadows.

Finally, Grandpere's shack came into view. His galerie was crowded with nets for oyster fishing, a pile of Spanish moss he had gathered to sell to the furniture manufacturers who used it for stuffing, his rocking chair with the accordion on it, empty beer bottles and a whiskey bottle beside the chair and a crusted gumbo bowl. Some of his muskrat traps dangled from the roof of the galerie and some hides were draped over the railing. His pirogue with the pole he used to gather the Spanish moss was tied to his small dock. Paul gracefully navigated us up beside it and shut off the motor of the dingy. Then we began the difficult task of getting Grandpere out of the boat. He offered little assistance and came close to spilling all three of us into the swamp.

Paul surprised me with his strength. He virtually carried Grandpere over the galerie and into the shack. When I turned on a butane lamp, I wished I hadn't. Clothing was strewn all about and everywhere there were empty and partially empty bottles of cheap whiskey. His cot was unmade, the blanket hanging down with most of it on the floor. His dinner table was covered with dirty dishes and crusted bowls and glasses, as well as stained silverware. From the expression on his face, I saw that Paul was

overwhelmed by the filth and the mess.

"He'd be better off sleeping right in the swamp," he muttered. I fixed the cot so he could lower Grandpere Jack onto it. Then we both started to undo his hip boots. "I can do this," Paul said. I nodded and went to the table first to clear it off and put the dishes and bowls into the sink, which I found to be full of other dirty dishes and bowls. While I washed and cleaned, Paul went around the shack and picked up the empty cans and bottles.

"He's getting worse," I moaned, and wiped the tears from my eyes. Paul squeezed my arm gently.

"I'll get some fresh water from the cistern," he said. While he was gone, Grandpere began to moan. I wiped my hands and went to him. His eyes were still closed, but he was muttering under his breath.

"It ain't right to blame me. . . ain't right. She was in love, wasn't she? What's the difference then? Tell me that. Go on," he said.

"Who was in love, Grandpere?" I asked.

"Go on, tell me what's the difference. You got somethin' against money, do you? Huh? Go on."

"Who was in love, Grandpere? What money?"

He moaned and turned over.

"What is it?" Paul said, returni

ng with the water.

"He's talking in his sleep, but he doesn't make any sense," I said.

"That's easy to believe."

"I think . . . it had something to do with why he and my Grandmere Catherine are so angry at each other all the time."

"I don't think there's much of a mystery to that, Ruby. Look around; look at what he's become. Why should she want to have him in the house?" Paul said.

"No, Paul. It has to be something more. I wish he would tell me," I said, and knelt beside the cot. "Grandpere," I said, shaking his shoulder.

"Damn oil companies," he muttered. "Dredged the swamps and killed the three-cornered grass . . . killing the muskrats. . . nothin' for them to eat."

"Grandpere, who was in love? What money?" I demanded. He moaned and started to snore.

"No sense talking to him when he's like that, Ruby," Paul said.

I shook my head.