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"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. Grandmere 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.

"Grandmere," 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

Grandmere 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 Grandmere's reputation, was something special and very important to the Cajun community. Before late morning some of Grandmere 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 Grandpere 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 Grandpere 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.

He had taken no time to brush down his wild white hair or trim his beard even though he must have known there would be loads of people here. Thick little puffs of hair grew out of his ears and nose. His bushy eyebrows curved up and to the side on his leather tan face, the deeper wrinkles looking like they had a bed of dirt glued there for months. The acrid odors of stale whiskey, swamp earth, fish, and tobacco seemed to arrive at the house long moments before he did. I smiled to myself thinking how Grandmere Catherine would be screaming at him to keep his distance.

But she wasn't going to be screaming at him anymore. She was laid out in the sitting room, her face never so peaceful and still. I sat off to the right of the coffin, my hands folded in my lap, still quite dazed by the reality of what was happening, still disbelieving, hoping it was all a terrible nightmare that would soon end.

The quiet chatter that had begun earlier came to an abrupt pause when Grandpere Jack arrived. As soon as he strode into the house, the people gathered at the doorways parted and stepped back as if they were terrified he might touch them with his polluted hands. None of the men offered theirs to him, nor did he seek any handshakes. Women grimaced after a whiff of him. His eyes shifted quickly from one face to another and then he stepped into the sitting room and froze for a moment at the sight of Grandmere Catherine laid out in her coffin.

He looked at me sharply and then fixed his eyes on Father Rush. For a few moments, it seemed Grandpere Jack didn't trust what his own eyes were telling him or what people were doing here. It looked like the words were on the tip of his tongue and any moment he might ask, "Is she really dead and gone or is this just some scam to get me out of the swamp and cleaned up?" With that skeptical glint in his eyes, he approached Grandmere Catherine's coffin slowly, hat in hand. About a foot or so away, he stopped and gazed down at her, waiting. When she didn't sit up and start screaming at him, he relaxed and turned back to me.

"How you doin', Ruby?" he asked.

"I'm all right, Grandpere," I said. My eyes were blood-shot but dry, for I had exhausted a reservoir of tears. He nodded and then he spun around and glared back at some of the women who were gazing at him with a veil of disgust visibly drawn over their faces.

"Well, what are you all lookin' at? Can't a man mourn his dead wife without you busybodies gaping at him and whispering behind his back? Go on with ya and give me some privacy," he cried.

Outraged and stunned, Grandmere Catherine's friends spun around and, with their heads bobbing, hurried out like a flock of frightened hens to gather on the galerie. Only Mrs. Thibodeau, Mrs. Livaudis, and Father Rush remained in the sitting room with Grandpere Jack and me.

"What happened to her?" Grandpere demanded, his green eyes still lit with fury.

"Her heart just gave out," Father Rush said, gazing warmly at Grandmere. He shook his head gently. "She spent all her energy on helping others, comforting and tending to the sick and the troubled. It finally took its toll on her, God bless her," he added.

"Well, I told her a hundred times if I told her once, to stop parading up and down the bayou to tend to everybody's needs but our own, but she wasn't one to listen. Stubborn to the day she died," Grandpere declared. "Just like most Cajun women," he added, staring at Mrs. Thibodeau and Mrs. Livaudis. They pulled back their shoulders and stiffened their necks like two peacocks.

"Oh, no," Father Rush said, smiling angelically, "you can't keep a soul as great as Mrs. Landry's soul from doing what she can to help the needy. Charity and compassion were her constant companions," he added.

Grandpere grunted. "Charity begins at home I told her, but she never listened to me. Well, I'm sorry she's gone. Don't know who's goin' to send fire and damnation my way. Don't know who's goin' to nag me and chastise me for doin' this or that," Grandpere declared, shaking his head.

"Oh, I expect someone will always be around to chastise you good, Jack Landry," Mrs. Thibodeau replied, nodding at him with her lips tightly pursed.

"Huh?" Grandpere stared at her a moment, but Mrs. Thibodeau had been around Grandmere Catherine too long not to have learned how to stare him down. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth and then shifted his eyes away and grunted again. "Yeah, I suppose," he said. The aromas from the kitchen caught his interest. "Well, I guess you ladies cooked up somethin', didn't you?" he asked.

"There's a spread in the kitchen, gumbo on the stove, and a pot of hot coffee brewing," Mrs. Livaudis said with visible reluctance.

"I'll get you something to eat, Grandpere," I said, rising. I had to do something, keep moving, keep busy.