"What happened?"
"You just fainted, dear, and we carried you to the car. How are you now?" she asked.
"I'm all right," I said. "Where's Grandpère Jack?" I asked. I tried sitting up, but my head began to spin and I had to fall back against the seat.
"He went off already," Mrs. Livaudis said, smirking, "with his usual swamp bums. You just rest there, dear. We're taking you home now. Just rest," she advised.
"I'll be right behind you," Paul said, leaning in. I tried to smile and then closed my eyes. By the time we reached the house, I felt strong enough to get up and walk to the galerie steps. There were dozens of people waiting to help. Mrs. Thibodeau directed I be taken up to my room. They helped me off with my shoes and I lay back, now feeling more embarrassed than exhausted.
"I'm fine," I insisted. "I'll be all right. I should go downstairs and—"
"You just lie here awhile, dear," Mrs. Livaudis said. "We'll bring you something cool to drink."
"But I should go downstairs . . . the people . . ."
"Everything's taken care of. Just rest a bit more," Mrs. Thibodeau said. I did as they ordered. Mrs. Livaudis returned with some cold lemonade. I felt a lot better after I had drunk it and said so.
"If you're up to it then, the Tate boy wants to see how you are. He's chomping at the bit and pacing up and down at the foot of the stairs like an expectant father," Mrs. Livaudis said, smiling.
"Yes, please, send him in," I said, and Paul was permitted to come upstairs.
"How are you doing?" he asked quickly.
"I'm all right. I'm sorry I was so much trouble," I moaned. "I wanted everything to go smooth and proper for Grandmere."
"Oh, it did. It was the most . . . most impressive funeral I've ever seen. No one could remember more people attending one, and you did fine. Everyone understands."
"Where's Grandpère Jack?" I asked. "Where did he go to so quickly?"
"I don't know, but he just arrived a little while ago. He's downstairs, greeting people on the galerie."
"Was he drinking?"
"A little," Paul lied.
"Paul Tate, you'd better practice more if you're going to try to deceive me," I said. "You're no harder to see through than a clean windowpane."
He laughed.
"He'll be all right. Too many people around him," Paul assured me, but no sooner had he uttered the words than we heard the shouting from below.
"Don't you tell me what to do and what not to do in my own house!" Grandpère raved. "You may run the pants off your men at your homes, but you ain't running off mine. Now just get your butts on outta here and make it quick. Go on, get!"
That was followed by a chorus of uproars and more shouting.
"Help me go down, Paul. I've got to see what he's doing," I said. I got out of bed, slipped into my shoes, and went down to the kitchen where Grandpère had a jug of whiskey in his hands and was already swaying as he glared at the small crowd of mourners in the doorway.
"Whatcha all gapin' at, huh? You never seen a man in mourning? You never seen a man who just buried his wife? Quit your gapin' and go about your business," he cried, took another swig, swayed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were blazing. "Go on!" he shouted again, when no one moved.
"Grandpère!" I cried. He gazed at me with those bleary eyes. Then he swung the jug against the sink, smashing it and its contents all over the kitchen. The women shrieked and he howled. He was terrible in his anger, frightening as he whumped around with an energy too great to confine in such a small space.
Paul embraced me and pulled me back up the stairs.
"Wait until he calms down," he said. We heard Grandpère scream again and then we heard the mourners flee the house, the women who had brought their families, grabbing up their children and getting into their trucks and cars with their husbands to hightail it away.
Grandpère ranted and raved awhile longer. Paul sat beside me on my bed and held my hand. We listened until it grew very quiet downstairs.
"He's settled down," I said. "I'd better go down and start cleaning up."
"I'll help," Paul said.
We found Grandpère collapsed in a rocker on the galerie, snoring. I mopped up the kitchen and cleared away the pieces of broken jug while Paul wiped down our table and straightened up the furniture.
"You'd better go home now, Paul," I said as soon as we were finished. "Your parents are probably wondering where you are so long."
"I hate to leave you here with that . . . that drunk. They ought to lock him up and throw the key away for doing what he did this time. It's not right that Grandmère Catherine's gone and he's still around, and it's not safe for you."
"I'll be all right. You know how he gets after he has his tantrum. He'll just sleep it off and then wake up hungry and sorry for what he did."
Paul smiled, shook his head, and then reached to caress my cheek, his eyes soft and warm.
"My Ruby, always optimistic."
"Not always, Paul," I said sadly. "Not anymore."
"I'll stop by in the morning," he promised. "To see how things are."
I nodded.
"Ruby, I . . ."
"You had better go, Paul," I said. "I don't want any more nasty scenes today."
"All right." He kissed me quickly on the cheek before rising. "I'm going to talk to my father," he promised. "I'm going to get at the truth of things."
I tried to smile, but my face was like dry, brittle china from all the tears and sadness. I was afraid I might simply shatter to pieces right before his eyes.
"I will," Paul pledged at the doorway. Then he was gone.
I sighed deeply, put some of the food away, and walked upstairs to lie down again. I had never felt so tired. I did sleep through a good part of the rest of the day. If anyone came to the house, I didn't hear them. But early in the evening, I heard pots clanking and furniture being shoved around. I sat up, for a moment, very confused. Then, my wits returning, I got out of bed quickly and went downstairs to find Grandpère on his hands and knees tugging at some loose floorboards. Every cabinet door was thrown wide open and all of our pots and pans had been taken out of the cabinets and lay strewn about.
"Grandpère, what are you doing?" I asked. He turned and gazed at me with eyes I hadn't seen before, eyes of accusation and anger.
"I know she's got it hidden somewhere here," he said. "I didn't find it in her room, but I know she's got it somewhere. Where is it, Ruby? I need it," he moaned.
"Need what, Grandpère?"
"Her stash, her money. She always had a pile set aside for a rainy day. Well, my rainy days have come. I need it to get my motor fixed, to get some new equipment." He sat back on his haunches. "I got to work harder to make a go of it for both of us, Ruby. Where is it?"
"There isn't any stash, Grandpère. We were having a hard time of it, too. I once poled out to your shack to see if I could get you to help us get by, but you were collapsed on your galerie," I told him.
He shook his head, his eyes wild.
"Maybe she never told you. She was like that . . . secretive even with her own. There's a stash here somewhere," he declared, shifting his eyes from side to side. "It might take me a while, but I'll find it. If it's not in the house, it's buried somewhere outside, huh? Did you ever see or hear her diggin' out there?"
"There's no stash, Grandpère. You're wasting your time."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my art money, but it was also as if Grandmère Catherine were still there, standing right beside me, forbidding me to mention a word about it. In case he decided to look in her chest for valuables, I made a note to myself to move the money under my mattress.
"Are you hungry?" I asked him.
"No," he said quickly. "I'm going out back before it gets too dark and look some more," he said.
After he left, I put back all the pots and pans and then I warmed some food for myself. I ate mechanically, barely tasting anything. I ate just because I knew I had to in order to keep up my strength. Then, I went back upstairs. I could hear Grandpère's frantic digging in the backyard, his digging and his cursing. I heard him ripping through the smokehouse and even banging around in the outhouse. Finally, he grew exhausted with the searching and came back inside. I heard him get himself something to eat and drink. His frustration was so great, he moaned like a calf that had lost its mother. Soon, he was talking to ghosts.