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can from them when I can and don't put no stock in

any of their promises.

"Why you asking?" he said quickly. "You ain't

gonna start on me again, are you, Gabriel? You ain't

gonna start complaining about the little animals they

shoot. Because if you do . . ."

"No, Daddy," I said abruptly. "I was just

wondering. That's all," I replied, and hurried away

before he went into one of his tirades against the

animal lovers and the oil industry that was destroying the bayou. He could ramble for hours, working himself into such a frenzy, it would take as many hours for him to wind down. Mama could get just as upset at whoever started him on a rampage as she

could get at him.

The days passed and I began to try to do what

Mama wanted--fill my mind with other thoughts. I

did work harder, but I always had time to go into my

swamp, and whenever I poled in my small canoe, I

couldn't help but think of Pierre. After another week

went by, I concluded Daddy was right--rich people

tell grander lies. Their wealth gives them more

credibility and makes us more vulnerable to their

fabrications. Maybe Daddy was right about all of it;

maybe we were victims and should take advantage of

them every chance we could get.

I hated thinking like Daddy, but it was my way

of overcoming the deep feeling of sadness that filled

my stomach like sand. I began to wonder if this wasn't

why Daddy was so negative and down on everything.

Perhaps it was his way of battling his own sadness,

his own defeat, his own disappointments. Ironically, I

became more tolerant of him than Mama. I stopped

complaining about his hunting trips and was even