There was only a single lantern lit on the old kitchen table. Its tiny flame flickered precariously as the breeze flowed unabated through the shack from the opened rear windows.
'All the bugs in the bayou have come in here, I'm sure,' Paul said.
The kitchen was a filthy mess. There were empty whiskey bottles on the floor, under the tables and chairs, and on the counters. The sink was filled with dishes caked with old food and the floor had food drippings decomposing on it, some of it looking like it had been there for weeks, if not months< I took the lantern and walked through the downstairs.
The living room was in no better condition. The table was turned over, as well as the chair in which Grandmere used to sit and fall asleep every night. There were empty bottles in here too. The floor was plastered with mud, grime, and swamp grass. We heard something scurry along the wall,
'Probably rats,' Paul said. 'Or at least field mice. Maybe even a raccoon.'
'Grandpere!' I cried.
We went to the rear and searched and then walked up the stairs. I think the effort it took for Grandpere to climb those steps saved the upper part of the house from the same abuse and deterioration the downstairs suffered. The loom room was not very changed, nor was my old bedroom and Grandmere Catherine's, save everything that could have been opened and searched had been. Grandpere had even pulled off some wallboards.
'Where could he be?' I wondered.
Paul shrugged. 'Down at one of the zydeco bars, begging for a drink maybe,' he said, but when we descended the stairs again, we heard Grandpere Jack's shrill screams coming from the rear of the house. We hurried around back and saw him, naked but caked with mud, swinging a burlap sack over his head and yelping like a hound dog after game.
'Stay back,' Paul advised. 'Jack,' he called. 'Jack Landry!'
Grandpere stopped swinging the sack and stared through the darkness. 'Who's there? Robbers, thieves, git on wit' ya!'
'No thieves. It's Paul Tate.'
'Tate? You stay away, hear? I ain't giving you nothin' back. Stay away. This is my fortune. I earned it. I found it. I dug and dug until I found it, hear? Back, back or I'll heave a rock at yer. Back!' he screamed again, but he backed up himself.
'Grandpere!' I cried. 'It's me, Ruby. I've come home.'
'Who? Who's that?'
'It's Ruby,' I said, stepping forward.
'Ruby? No. I ain't takin' the blame for that. No. We needed the money. Don't blame me. Don't go blaming me. Catherine, don't you blame me!' he screamed. Then, clutching his burlap sack to his chest, he went running toward the canal.
'Grandpere!'
'Let him go, Ruby. He's gone mad from the rotgut whiskey.'
We heard him scream again, and then we heard the splash of water.
'Paul, he'll drown.'
Paul thought a moment. 'Give me the lantern,' he said, then went after Grandpere. I heard more splashing, more screaming.
'Jack!' Paul cried.
'No, it's mine! Mine!' Grandpere replied. There was more splashing, and then it grew quiet.
'Paul?' I waited and then charged, through the darkness, my feet sinking into the soft swamp grass. I ran toward the light and found Paul gazing over the water.
'Where is he?' I asked in a loud whisper.
'I don't know, I . . .' He squinted and then he pointed.
'Grandpere!' I screamed.
Grandpere Jack's body looked like a thick log floating along. It bounced against some rocks and then got caught in the current and continued on until it became entangled in some brush that stuck up out of the water.
'We'd better get some help,' Paul suggested. 'Come on.'
Less than an hour later, the firemen hoisted Grandpere Jack's body out of the water. He was still clutching his burlap sack, only instead of buried treasure, it was filled with rusted old tin cans.
How could I have a more horrible homecoming? Despite the terrible things Grandpere Jack had done and the pathetic creature he had become, I couldn't help but remember him when I was a little girl. He had his soft moments. I would go out to his swamp shack and he would talk about the bayou as if it were his dearest friend. At one time he was a legend. There wasn't a better trapper. He knew how to read the swamp, knew when the waters would be rising and falling, knew when the bream would be running, and knew where the 'gators slept and the snakes curled.
He liked to talk about his ancestors then, about the scoundrels who raised hell on the Mississippi, the famous gamblers and flatboat polers. Grandmere Catherine said he spun most of it out of his own imagination, but it didn't matter to me whether it was wholly true or not. I just liked the way he told his tales, staring out at the Spanish moss and puffing on his corncob pipe as he rattled on and on, pausing only occasionally in those days to take a swig from his jug. He always had an excuse for it. He had to clear his throat of the grime that floats through the air in the swamp or he had to chase a cold away. Sometimes he just had to keep his gizzards warm.
