"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."
She glared back at Aunt Jeanne with her cold gray eyes shooting devilish electric sparks. "Promised. What good are promises? Do people keep promises? Promises are no more than elaborate lies," she declared. Perhaps she had recently had a minor stroke, I thought, noticing the way one corner of her mouth twisted while the other corner remained still. Her right eye was closed a little more than her left, too.
"I don't know what you think, Mrs. Tate," I said. "But I will become a doctor."
For a moment she seemed impressed. Then she nibbled on her toast. "You know," she said, "my son, Paul, would have been a good father to you. Of course, I didn't want him to be your father, but she put a spell on him."
"Mother!"
A white line was etched around Mrs. Tate's tight, hateful lips. "Don't tell me. I know about spells," she said. "Some of the people here think your greatgrandmother was a healer, a spiritual person, but I know the truth. She was a witch. I told Paul. I begged him to stay away from that shack, that house of evil, but he was entranced, doomed."
"Mother, if you're going to continue like this, I'll have to take Pearl someplace else to eat. The past isn't her fault."
"Whose fault is it, then? Mine? Look at me," she said holding up her clawlike hands. "Look what that woman did to me. She cursed me. And for what? For trying to save my son. My son," she groaned.
"I'm sorry," Aunt Jeanne told me.
"It's all right. Pain distorts people's thinking," I said. "I'm sorry you're suffering with arthritis, Mrs. Tate, but it's not because of some curse. I imagine your doctor has diagnosed it as rheumatoid arthritis," I said. "Are you taking an anti-inflammatory drug?"
"Drug. I have cabinets filled with drugs. Not one of them does me any damn good," she muttered.