'One moment,
I gazed around the entryway. It was a bright house with windows everywhere to let in the sunshine. It had beautiful cypress floors and eggshell white walls decorated with pastoral paintings and scenes of fishermen in the canals. A bleached oak grandfather clock stood just ahead of me, and across from it was a fan of ivory and gold leaf painted with senoritas in ball gowns.
A few moments later, in a bright pink robe and Japanese slippers, Aunt Jeanne came sweeping down the corridor, her face beaming. Her unpinned dark brown hair hung down over her shoulders.
'Pearl! What a wonderful surprise!' She held out her hands and when I took them, she drew me to her for a hug. 'Is your father with you?'
'No, Aunt Jeanne,' I said.
She grimaced with concern. 'Your mother is still missing?' I nodded and she shook her head and sighed. 'How dreadful for all of you on top of everything else that's happened. How is Pierre?'
'Not well. Very bad, in fact. It's why I'm here. I've got to find Mommy. Pierre needs her. I was hoping you might have heard from her.'
'Not a word, not a syllable. I'm sorry. No one I've asked has seen or heard anything. But surely she'll turn up,' she added. 'Come,' she said taking my hand again, 'Mother and I were just having a late breakfast. Are you hungry?'
'No,' I said. I hadn't expected to see Mrs. Tate. My legs began to tremble and my heart pound.
'How do you like our home?'
'It's beautiful and so peaceful,' I said.
'Yes. I just love to share it with people I love. You must stay here tonight. Promise you will,' she followed.
'I can't,' I said. 'But maybe another night,' I added quickly when her smile faded.
'Well, if you promise that, I'll let you get away with not staying tonight. Come meet Mother.' As she pulled me along I gazed into the first room, a pleasant sitting room done in teacup blue.
'Many of our furnishings are antique,' Aunt Jeanne explained. 'James loves to buy and restore things. It's his hobby. He gets more excited over a valuable find in someone's old barn than he does over his law cases. You see that sofa?' she said, pointing. 'It's upholstered with material from a homespun bedspread, and that chair beside it dates from the early 1800s. In his office James has an original French Creole plantation desk made of rosewood and walnut. And his walls are covered with knives and swords and helmets that date back to the Spanish occupation of Louisiana. Ooh,' she said pausing to hug me again, 'I'm so happy you're finally here. Even though it's under terrible circumstances.'
'Thank you, Aunt Jeanne,' I said and took a deep breath as we entered the dining room.
Mrs. Tate had her back to us. She was seated at the table in a wheelchair and chewing slowly on a piece of toast. Aunt Jeanne brought me around so Mrs. Tate didn't have to turn her head.
'Look who's here, Mother.'
Gladys Tate's head seemed to have sunk back in her neck because of the arthritis. Her short gray hair was so thin that her scalp was visible in spots. Her face was etched with wrinkles on her forehead, along her chin, and around her dark, watery eyes. Her pink and blue robe made her look even more shriveled and thin. It hung off her small shoulders and dangled around her. My eyes were quickly drawn to her hands. The fingers were swollen at the knuckles and curled like claws. The obvious attention given to her nails seemed bizarre, as did the rest of her makeup. Her face powder had been dabbed on so heavily, and her lipstick was too thick, giving her a clownish appearance. Overkill to detract from her pasty pallor, I thought.
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.'
