would do no good and it would only make me look even more horrible when Mama set eyes on me. I was terrified of that. Feeling dirty and violated, I lowered myself off the side of the pirogue and scrubbed my body vigorously. Then I got back into the canoe and dressed quickly, swallowing down my sobs, choking back my tears.
It terrified me to think of what would happen if everyone found out what Mr. Tate had done. The scandal would be worse than a hurricane. Hateful gossips would find a way to blame me, I was sure. Why was I naked in the swamp? Those who had made up fantastic stories about my wild ways with animals in the bayou would see this only as a reinforcement of their terrible lies. And poor Mama, she would bear the brunt of the storm. Daddy would only get drunker and into more fights.
No, I decided, there was nothing to do but try to forget; although right now, I didn't see how that was possible. For one thing, I could never return to my beautiful pond without recalling this nightmare. The surroundings lost their pristine beauty for me. I would be afraid to return. What if he returned when I was alone again?
How horrid and guilty I felt. Maybe this was my fault. Maybe I was wrong to bathe nude. I had a woman's mature body and I would be a liar to claim I never craved to be touched, to tingle and fulfill my own longing for love; but it was a longing I had hoped to satisfy with someone who truly cherished and loved me, too.
I desperately longed to talk to Mama about it, to get her advice and wisdom, but I didn't see how I could do so without her realizing what had happened. Mama would take one deep look into my eyes and know the truth. I had to be strong and not appear to be avoiding her gaze tonight, I thought. I sat there with my eyes closed and held my breath. Then I released it and took long, deep breaths, willing my heart to stop thumping like a drum. I would be calm. I would press this memory down and smother it with other thoughts.
My legs were still trembling when I stood up to begin my poling, but as I gathered speed and momentum, they grew stronger and more sturdy. I pushed myself away from the pond, the leaves of the sprawling cypress closing like a door behind me. I didn't look back. For a while as I continued, I darted my gaze from side to side, afraid Monsieur Tate might be somewhere nearby, waiting to apologize or plead with me to say nothing. The thought of facing him ever again set my heart pounding. What would I do? What would he do?
When I reached our dock and tied up my pirogue, I checked my clothing and tried to see my reflection in the water. Mama would think my appearance was due only to my swim anyway, I assured myself. I looked up at the shack where I knew she was waiting, setting the table, lighting a butane lantern, putting a record on our windup Victrola, trying to forget her own troubles. I had to do everything I could to keep what had just happened to me buried outside the house.
I took a deep breath and started up the pathway. As soon as Mama heard my steps on the gallery, she called.
"Is that you, Gabriel?"
"Yes, Mama. I'll just go up and change into something else," I said. "I got this dress wet and dirty," I added before she could inquire. I flashed a smile at her in the kitchen and hurried up the stairway to my bedroom.
"How was your swim?" she called.
"Refreshing, Mama. You should come with me someday." I heard her laugh.
"I don't remember when I swam last. Probably that time your father took us all to Lake Pontchartrain, before the war. Can you remember that?"
"Yes, Mama."
I studied myself in the long mirror over the oak armoire in Mama's room. My shoulders were red and there were faint patches of irritation on my neck, too. What was I to do? I put on my yellow and white dress, the one that had the buttons up to my collarbone, and then I wiped my hair vigorously with a towel, brushed it down, and wrapped the towel over my neck like a scarf. I kept my fingers crossed and descended to the
It terrified me to think of what would happen if everyone found out what Mr. Tate had done. The scandal would be worse than a hurricane. Hateful gossips would find a way to blame me, I was sure. Why was I naked in the swamp? Those who had made up fantastic stories about my wild ways with animals in the bayou would see this only as a reinforcement of their terrible lies. And poor Mama, she would bear the brunt of the storm. Daddy would only get drunker and into more fights.
No, I decided, there was nothing to do but try to forget; although right now, I didn't see how that was possible. For one thing, I could never return to my beautiful pond without recalling this nightmare. The surroundings lost their pristine beauty for me. I would be afraid to return. What if he returned when I was alone again?
How horrid and guilty I felt. Maybe this was my fault. Maybe I was wrong to bathe nude. I had a woman's mature body and I would be a liar to claim I never craved to be touched, to tingle and fulfill my own longing for love; but it was a longing I had hoped to satisfy with someone who truly cherished and loved me, too.
I desperately longed to talk to Mama about it, to get her advice and wisdom, but I didn't see how I could do so without her realizing what had happened. Mama would take one deep look into my eyes and know the truth. I had to be strong and not appear to be avoiding her gaze tonight, I thought. I sat there with my eyes closed and held my breath. Then I released it and took long, deep breaths, willing my heart to stop thumping like a drum. I would be calm. I would press this memory down and smother it with other thoughts.
My legs were still trembling when I stood up to begin my poling, but as I gathered speed and momentum, they grew stronger and more sturdy. I pushed myself away from the pond, the leaves of the sprawling cypress closing like a door behind me. I didn't look back. For a while as I continued, I darted my gaze from side to side, afraid Monsieur Tate might be somewhere nearby, waiting to apologize or plead with me to say nothing. The thought of facing him ever again set my heart pounding. What would I do? What would he do?
When I reached our dock and tied up my pirogue, I checked my clothing and tried to see my reflection in the water. Mama would think my appearance was due only to my swim anyway, I assured myself. I looked up at the shack where I knew she was waiting, setting the table, lighting a butane lantern, putting a record on our windup Victrola, trying to forget her own troubles. I had to do everything I could to keep what had just happened to me buried outside the house.
I took a deep breath and started up the pathway. As soon as Mama heard my steps on the gallery, she called.
"Is that you, Gabriel?"
"Yes, Mama. I'll just go up and change into something else," I said. "I got this dress wet and dirty," I added before she could inquire. I flashed a smile at her in the kitchen and hurried up the stairway to my bedroom.
"How was your swim?" she called.
"Refreshing, Mama. You should come with me someday." I heard her laugh.
"I don't remember when I swam last. Probably that time your father took us all to Lake Pontchartrain, before the war. Can you remember that?"
"Yes, Mama."
I studied myself in the long mirror over the oak armoire in Mama's room. My shoulders were red and there were faint patches of irritation on my neck, too. What was I to do? I put on my yellow and white dress, the one that had the buttons up to my collarbone, and then I wiped my hair vigorously with a towel, brushed it down, and wrapped the towel over my neck like a scarf. I kept my fingers crossed and descended to the
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