"A little," Paul lied.
"Paul Tate, you'd better practice more if you're going to try to deceive me," I said. "You're no harder to see through than a clean windowpane."
He laughed.
"He'll be all right. Too many people around him," Paul assured me, but no sooner had he uttered the words than we heard the shouting from below.
"Don't you tell me what to do and what not to do in my own house!" Grandpere raved. "You may run the pants off your men at your homes, but you ain't running off mine. Now just get your butts on outta here and make it quick. Go on, get!"
That was followed by a chorus of uproars and more shouting.
"Help me go down, Paul. I've got to see what he's doing," I said. I got out of bed, slipped into my shoes, and went down to the kitchen where Grandpere had a jug of whiskey in his hands and was already swaying as he glared at the small crowd of mourners in the doorway.
"Whatcha all gapin' at, huh? You never seen a man in mourning? You never seen a man who just buried his wife? Quit your gapin' and go about your business," he cried, took another swig, swayed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were blazing. "Go on!" he shouted again, when no one moved.
"Grandpere!" I cried. He gazed at me with those bleary eyes. Then he swung the jug against the sink, smashing it and its contents all over the kitchen. The women shrieked and he howled. He was terrible in his anger, frightening as he whumped around with an energy too great to confine in such a small space.
Paul embraced me and pulled me back up the stairs.
"Wait until he calms down," he said. We heard Grandpere scream again and then we heard the mourners flee the house, the women who had brought their families, grabbing up their children and getting into their trucks and cars with their husbands to hightail it away.
Grandpere ranted and raved awhile longer. Paul sat beside me on my bed and held my hand. We listened until it grew very quiet downstairs.
"He's settled down," I said. "I'd better go down and start cleaning up."
"I'll help," Paul said.
We found Grandpere collapsed in a rocker on the galerie, snoring. I mopped up the kitchen and cleared away the pieces of broken jug while Paul wiped down our table and straightened up the furniture.
"You'd better go home now, Paul," I said as soon as we were finished. "Your parents are probably wondering where you are so long."
"I hate to leave you here with that . . . that drunk. They ought to lock him up and throw the key away for doing what he did this time. It's not right that Grandmere Catherine's gone and he's still around, and it's not safe for you."
"I'll be all right. You know how he gets after he has his tantrum. He'll just sleep it off and then wake up hungry and sorry for what he did."
Paul smiled, shook his head, and then reached to caress my cheek, his eyes soft and warm.
"My Ruby, always optimistic."
"Not always, Paul," I said sadly. "Not anymore."
"I'll stop by in the morning," he promised. "To see how things are."
I nodded.
"Ruby, I . ."
"You had better go, Paul," I said. "I don't want any more nasty scenes today."
"All right." He kissed me quickly on the cheek before rising. "I'm going to talk to my father," he promised. "I'm going to get at the truth of things."
I tried to smile, but my face was like dry, brittle china from all the tears and sadness. I was afraid I might simply shatter to pieces right before his eyes.
"I will," Paul pledged at the doorway. Then he was gone.
I sighed deeply, put some of the food away, and walked upstairs to lie down again. I had never felt so tired. I did sleep through a good part of the rest of the day. If anyone came to the house, I didn't hear them. But early in the evening, I heard pots clanking and furniture being shoved around. I sat up, for a moment, very confused. Then, my wits returning, I got out of bed quickly and went downstairs to find Grandpere on his hands and knees tugging at some loose
floorboards. Every cabinet door was thrown wide open and all of our pots and pans had been taken out of the cabinets and lay strewn about.