She didn't smile. Her stony eyes burned into mine, and then her lips quivered into a sardonic grin. She lowered the toast to her plate, swallowed some coffee, and nodded. "It's her, is it?" she finally said.
"Isn't she beautiful, Mother?"
Gladys Tate shot a reproachful look at Aunt Jeanne and then gazed at me again, her eyes scrutinizing me so closely, I felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"She has a nice face," she offered. "Looks more like her father than she does a Landry. Which is fortunate for you," she added, nodding at me.
"My mother is considered one of the most beautiful and talented women in New Orleans," I retorted, fixing my eyes on her as intently as she fixed hers on me. "I'd be proud and grateful to be considered like her in any way."
"Humph," she said and raised the toast to her mouth. I saw she couldn't quite close her fingers enough to keep it secure. She chewed slowly, each swallow an effort. Age looked more like a disease than a natural course of events in her case.
"Please sit down and eat something, Pearl," Aunt Jeanne insisted. I sat down and the maid quickly served a cup of coffee. "That's homemade jam," Aunt Jeanne said nodding toward the dish in the center of the table.
The small rolls beside it did look good. I thanked her and took one and dipped my butter knife into the jam. Aunt Jeanne asked more about Pierre. I explained his condition.
Mrs. Tate studied every word I said and every move I made. "How old are you now?" she snapped, obviously not interested in our tragedy.
"I'm almost eighteen, ma'am."
"She's just graduated from high school, remember, Mother? She was valedictorian, and she's going to go to college to become a doctor."
Mrs. Tate smirked, deepening the valleys of those wrinkles. "Your father was supposed to become a doctor, too," she said, and then quickly added, "Don't be surprised that I know a great deal about your parents. You were almost brought up here, you know. You should have been."
"Now, Mother, you promised not to talk about that anymore."
She glared back at Aunt Jeanne with her cold gray eyes shooting devilish electric sparks. "Promised. What good are promises? Do people keep promises? Promises are no more than elaborate lies," she declared. Perhaps she had recently had a minor stroke, I thought, noticing the way one corner of her mouth twisted while the other corner remained still. Her right eye was closed a little more than her left, too.
"I don't know what you think, Mrs. Tate," I said. "But I will become a doctor."
For a moment she seemed impressed. Then she nibbled on her toast. "You know," she said, "my son, Paul, would have been a good father to you. Of course, I didn't want him to be your father, but she put a spell on him."
"Mother!"
A white line was etched around Mrs. Tate's tight, hateful lips. "Don't tell me. I know about spells," she said. "Some of the people here think your great-grandmother was a healer, a spiritual person, but I know the truth. She was a witch. I told Paul. I begged him to stay away from that shack, that house of evil, but he was entranced, doomed."
"Mother, if you're going to continue like this, I'll have to take Pearl someplace else to eat. The past isn't her fault."
"Whose fault is it, then? Mine? Look at me," she said holding up her clawlike hands. "Look what that woman did to me. She cursed me. And for what? For trying to save my son. My son," she groaned.
"I'm sorry," Aunt Jeanne told me.
"It's all right. Pain distorts people's thinking," I said. "I'm sorry you're suffering with arthritis, Mrs. Tate, but it's not because of some curse. I imagine your doctor has diagnosed it as rheumatoid arthritis," I said. "Are you taking an anti-inflammatory drug?"
"Drug. I have cabinets filled with drugs. Not one of them does me any damn good," she muttered.
"Perhaps you should go to a specialist in New Orleans."
"I've been to specialists. None of them are worth a damn. It's a curse, I tell you. No medicine will help me."
"That's not true, Mrs. Tate. I think—"
"You think? Listen to her, Jeanne. She thinks. What arrogance. Are you a doctor already?"
"No, but . . ."
"But nothing," she said. "Jeanne, get me one of those pills. At least they keep me from suffering."
"Okay, Mother." Aunt Jeanne looked at me and then got up. The moment she left the room, Mrs. Tate seemed to have a surge of new energy. She leaned toward me, her eyes small dark beads. "Tell me about your mother. Quickly."
I explained again what had happened to Jean and why Mammy had returned to the bayou.
The story apparently pleased her. She smiled and sat back. "It's true," she said. "She is responsible, and more will happen until she . . ."
"Until she what?"
"Drowns, just as my son drowned," she said bitterly.
Before my eyes, her face seemed to shrivel and grow haggard with the impact of her hate. The sight of this transformation sent a hot flash through my spine. Bitterly I met her eyes. "That's a horrible thing to say. You're not just sick in your body; you're sick in your mind. Daddy was right. You're twisted up inside, and your hatred has turned you into this . . . creature!" I cried and got up.
"Pearl!" Aunt Jeanne said, returning. "What happened? Mother, what did you say?"
"Just the truth," she muttered. "Give me the pill." I ran from the room, my heart thumping, my face burning with anger and fear.
Aunt Jeanne caught up with me on the gallery steps. "Pearl, wait! Please! You mustn't listen to her, Pearl. She's not well."
"No, she isn't. She's so full of meanness and hate, it's eating her alive," I said. "I was hoping, praying, that for some reason Mommy would have come to you. She always liked you, but I can see why she would stay away," I said looking back through the front door.
"She might still call me, Pearl."
"I'm returning to Cypress Woods," I said. "That's where she was last."
"Cypress Woods? Oh, dear. I hope she'll be all right. The poor thing. There's nothing worse than losing a child. Look what it did to my mother," she added and I softened. She was right. There was no excuse for Gladys Tate's viciousness, but it was understandable that she would think the world had been cruel to her.
"Come on back inside, Pearl. She'll calm down and go to sleep, and you and I will be able to visit."
"Thank you, Aunt Jeanne, but I would just be on pins and needles thinking about Pierre and Mommy and Daddy."
"But what can you do at Cypress Woods?"
"Wait, hope, keep searching," I said. "I'll drive by the shack again and see if she's gone back there, and then I'll return to Cypress Woods."
"I'd go searching with you, but I can't leave my mother just yet," she explained.
"I'll be all right, Aunt Jeanne."
"My mother's going to return to her own home tomorrow. Then you can come and stay with me, okay? If you want, I'll ride around with you, too."
"I'll see." I was praying that I wouldn't have to be here tomorrow. "Thank you." We hugged, and I went to my car. She stood on the gallery, her arms folded, smiling hopefully at me. I saw the butler approach her and heard him say, "Mrs. Tate wants to see you immediately, ma'am."
Aunt Jeanne waved, and I got into the car and drove away, understanding a little more about the turmoil and unhappiness my mother had endured while she was a part of the Tate family.
At first the shack didn't look any different. I thought the path through the overgrown weeds might be more trampled, but I couldn't be sure. The front door, however, was now dangling, the top hinge having been broken off, and when I entered the shack, I gasped in shock. The remaining old furniture had been overturned and tossed about like toy furniture. The legs of the sofa were cracked, as were the arms of the rocker. There were marks on the wall where a chair had been slammed against it.