Tarnished Gold

'Yes,' he admitted, 'but despite her expensive hairdressers and makeup, she doesn't look more attractive than you.'

'I doubt that,' I said, the magic seeping out of my precious, special moment. 'I never wore anything but a little lipstick. Mama says most of it is bad for your skin.'

'And she's right.'

'Why? Does Daphne have bad skin?' I snapped back quickly.

'She will,' he said.

'The only perfume I've ever owned is the scents Mama concocts with her herbs and plants.'

'And they're ten times better than what Daphne imports from France.'

I shook my head, 'I may look like a swamp rat, but I'm not that dumb.'

'You don't look like a swamp rat. I'd match you against the most elegantly dressed debutante in New Orleans,' he declared. 'And you shouldn't dismiss your simple life out here. To me it looks like an idyllic world when I think of the turmoil, the phoniness, and the deceit I contend with day after day in the supposedly sophisticated city.'

'Some idyllic world,' I said, flopping on a chair. 'My mother spends all her life helping people fight diseases and pains, bites and poisons, and then comes home to do battle with my drunken father.'

'Why so sad, cherie?' Pierre asked, moving quickly to my side so he could take my hand. 'This is not like you, especially when you talk about the bayou.'

'It's Daddy again,' I said, and described what he had done to our home and what had happened between him and Mama. 'Money has made him worse, not better.'

'I'm sorry. I wish there was a way to take you away and build you a castle someplace where you will always be safe and happy,' he told me. He thought a moment. 'Maybe I will.'

'Don't be a dreamer, too, Pierre,' I warned him. Thanks to Daddy, I knew too well what misery false promises could bring.

Pierre smiled. 'My little old wise woman.' He kissed me. 'Come. Let's refuse to be sad. Remember our pledge? When we are here, we shut the rest of the world away and live only for ourselves.' He put the music on again and held out his arms. 'Come to me, Gabrielle. Let these arms comfort and protect you forever and ever.'

I softened. 'Am I really as pretty as a rich and elegant New Orleans debutante?'

'They can't touch you. You are fresh and beautiful in ways they couldn't even begin to understand,' he said. My heart felt full again. He was right, I thought, we must live up to our pledge and think only of ourselves and our own happiness. I rushed into his arms and we danced, had wine and coffee, and then made love as passionately as ever. It seemed we would never grow accustomed to each other, never stop discovering something new and exciting about each other.

I felt so complete, so full and satisfied, when I went home that night. Mama was already asleep, or at least in bed, and Daddy was nowhere in sight. I moved through the shack as quietly as I could, but the stairs creaked and the floor groaned. When I lay back on my pillow, I thought I heard the sound of Mama weeping. I listened hard and didn't hear it again, but even the thought of such a thing put a sword of ice through me. I felt terribly guilty for being so happy at a time when Mama was so terribly sad.

In the days that followed, Daddy returned to eking out a small living harvesting oysters and Spanish moss, which was used by furniture manufacturers for stuffing chairs and sofas. He trapped muskrats and did some fishing. He seemed angry all the time, and Mama and he said very little to each other. Pierre offered to give me some money for him, but I thought that would only make Mama angrier, and Daddy would only spend it on jugs of whiskey. There was nothing to do but plod on and hope for the best. Mama must have felt the same way. She seemed busier than ever with her traiteur missions.

One afternoon Pierre arrived earlier than usual and had a basket of food. He thought it would be nice to try a picnic. He asked me if I knew any place in the swamp that was interesting, quiet, secluded. Of course, I thought of my special place, my pond, but that was where Octavious Tate had raped me, and I hadn't been able to go there and swim or sun myself since.

'There is one place,' I said, 'but I don't think I can show it to you.'

'Why not?' Pierre asked, and I explained. He listened, his face turning grim and dark.

'It makes it even worse if you permit what he did to destroy what you had,' he said after I finished describing what had happened. 'It wasn't Nature's fault, was it?'

'No.'

'Then what we must do is win back your special place, win back its magic for you.'

'I can't go back there, Pierre.'

'With me, you can do anything,' he said defiantly and firmly. 'Take me as close as you can and I will do the rest,' he declared.

My heart pounding, fearful and nervous, I did as he asked, bringing us right up to the overgrown cypress before stopping the canoe.

'Well?' Pierre asked, sitting up and gazing around. 'Is this it?' He looked very disappointed.

'No.' I smiled. 'It's through there,' I said, pointing to the cypress.

'You can go through there?' He stood up. 'Let me have that,' he said, taking the pole from my hands excitedly. It was my turn to sit and watch him work. He pressed us forward, the canoe penetrating the branches and leaves, which parted like a door, and then we were there.

The horror of what had happened to me began to rush back through the halls of my memory, charging forward, every image, every sound, as vivid as they would be had it all happened minutes ago. I grimaced, but Pierre didn't notice. He was drinking in the beauty of my pond.

'It is magnificent here,' he said, gazing over the clear water. There was my pair of egrets, strutting over the big