watched the bushes and the trees pass him; he saw each leaf terribly clear, and each flower. As he walked he counted the petals on a red oleander. And saw the designs in the bark. In the top leaves of a little scrub oak a hummingbird was sitting, his wings closed, resting.
“I will kill the dogs,” he said.
And he went on.
The gate to his daughter’s house was closed.
He kicked it in with his bent knee. He walked up the path that was carefully swept with sand and lined with big shells: his daughter was a fine housekeeper, he thought; a fine girl.
He wondered if she had heard about the store. A thing like that went around the island fast as a brush fire—with kids running in all directions, carrying it.
The way rabbits spread a brush fire, he thought, on their own coats.
He reached the porch and, crooking one finger to his daughter to follow, opened the screen door and went inside. In the sudden duskiness he could see nothing. And he knew exactly what chair he wanted. He would have to ask.
“Where is the big red chair?” The words were an effort that left him breathless. A hand on his arm led him and another on his shoulder pushed him down. He felt the chair, sat bolt up right for a minute studying it to be sure it was the right one, and then passed out.
T HE NEWS MOVED FAST with kids to carry it from door to door.
It wasn’t half an hour before everybody on the island knew what had happened down at the grocery. Most of them went down to see for themselves so that all afternoon there were plenty of people around. It was almost like a picnic or the pirogue races over at Lafitte. Philomene sat in her chair, nodded and smiled.
The three Livaudais men—Eddie, Henry and Pete—went down together. Henry was in his pajama pants (he had been napping when Pete yelled the news up to him), and he hadn’t bothered changing. He didn’t even bother pulling the cord tighter, until the girls began to whistle.
Eddie said to his son Henry: “You got a girl, no? That why you don’t want to get cut up?”
“I ain’t turn chicken,” Henry said, “don’t you sweat about that.”
But just then Robby came running up and Eddie turned away to shadowbox with him. When his wife wasn’t around, he was always happy to see his bastard.
All that afternoon, until long past suppertime, Mamere Terrebonne hung around the grocery. It was hard to tell exactly what she was doing, but whenever anybody saw her she was busily walking around the building, or digging in the heap of glass on the front porch. She circled the building at least three times, moving slowly and carefully, looking at almost every board in the walls. Then she poked around with her cane in the heap of glass on the front porch, until she had sorted it all out into four piles, according to size.
During the afternoon there were plenty of people there, but around suppertime they left. And only the kids came back later.
But it wasn’t until about eight o’clock, just when it was getting good and dark, that Mamere Terrebonne pulled her hat down, low so that it almost covered her eyes, and started home.
Maybe it was all the excitement. Or maybe it was just the way things fall out. But that night Mamere Terrebonne had another one of her attacks. And the worst one yet.
She lived alone, in the same house she had lived in ever since she was married, in the cluster of houses that belonged to her relatives, her children’s children. (Her children had grown up and died, some of them, and her husband too, and even some of her grandchildren.) She cooked for herself—she ate very little now, and that mostly fish, like a seagull. And she cleaned house for herself, and she padded around in the little front-yard garden, not growing much, hardly doing more than stirring up the soil with a stick.
At night she would light the lamp (she had never had the house wired for electricity), and she would sit under it, making flowers of the fins of shrimptails, twisting the flowers into
“I will kill the dogs,” he said.
And he went on.
The gate to his daughter’s house was closed.
He kicked it in with his bent knee. He walked up the path that was carefully swept with sand and lined with big shells: his daughter was a fine housekeeper, he thought; a fine girl.
He wondered if she had heard about the store. A thing like that went around the island fast as a brush fire—with kids running in all directions, carrying it.
The way rabbits spread a brush fire, he thought, on their own coats.
He reached the porch and, crooking one finger to his daughter to follow, opened the screen door and went inside. In the sudden duskiness he could see nothing. And he knew exactly what chair he wanted. He would have to ask.
“Where is the big red chair?” The words were an effort that left him breathless. A hand on his arm led him and another on his shoulder pushed him down. He felt the chair, sat bolt up right for a minute studying it to be sure it was the right one, and then passed out.
T HE NEWS MOVED FAST with kids to carry it from door to door.
It wasn’t half an hour before everybody on the island knew what had happened down at the grocery. Most of them went down to see for themselves so that all afternoon there were plenty of people around. It was almost like a picnic or the pirogue races over at Lafitte. Philomene sat in her chair, nodded and smiled.
The three Livaudais men—Eddie, Henry and Pete—went down together. Henry was in his pajama pants (he had been napping when Pete yelled the news up to him), and he hadn’t bothered changing. He didn’t even bother pulling the cord tighter, until the girls began to whistle.
Eddie said to his son Henry: “You got a girl, no? That why you don’t want to get cut up?”
“I ain’t turn chicken,” Henry said, “don’t you sweat about that.”
But just then Robby came running up and Eddie turned away to shadowbox with him. When his wife wasn’t around, he was always happy to see his bastard.
All that afternoon, until long past suppertime, Mamere Terrebonne hung around the grocery. It was hard to tell exactly what she was doing, but whenever anybody saw her she was busily walking around the building, or digging in the heap of glass on the front porch. She circled the building at least three times, moving slowly and carefully, looking at almost every board in the walls. Then she poked around with her cane in the heap of glass on the front porch, until she had sorted it all out into four piles, according to size.
During the afternoon there were plenty of people there, but around suppertime they left. And only the kids came back later.
But it wasn’t until about eight o’clock, just when it was getting good and dark, that Mamere Terrebonne pulled her hat down, low so that it almost covered her eyes, and started home.
Maybe it was all the excitement. Or maybe it was just the way things fall out. But that night Mamere Terrebonne had another one of her attacks. And the worst one yet.
She lived alone, in the same house she had lived in ever since she was married, in the cluster of houses that belonged to her relatives, her children’s children. (Her children had grown up and died, some of them, and her husband too, and even some of her grandchildren.) She cooked for herself—she ate very little now, and that mostly fish, like a seagull. And she cleaned house for herself, and she padded around in the little front-yard garden, not growing much, hardly doing more than stirring up the soil with a stick.
At night she would light the lamp (she had never had the house wired for electricity), and she would sit under it, making flowers of the fins of shrimptails, twisting the flowers into