by Paula Morris
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in New Orleans. Stay away from the cemetery. It was the place Rebecca had come to associate with the two people she really cared about here, Lisette and Anton. And she couldn't trust either of them anymore. In fact, she'd been a fool to trust them at all. This place had brought her nothing but secrets and sadness and confusion. Rebecca was sick of it. Today, she decided, would be her last visit to Lafayette Cemetery.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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Although septimus did not roll until seven p.m. on Friday night, Rebecca couldn't go to school at all that day: There was too much to do. Miss Karen waved away Aunt Claudia's objections, telling her Principal Vale wouldn't mind one bit, and of course Miss Karen was right. The Krewe of Septimus took precedence over the teaching staff of Temple Mead. And anyway, Rebecca and Marianne weren't the only ones who needed to get ready. The school's dance team -- the Temple Mead Tappers -- and majorette squad were marching in that night's parade, leading out the St. Simeon's band, so they didn't have to come to school, either.
Rebecca was told to arrive at the Suttons' house by eleven, to get her hair sprayed and backcombed into giant geisha-like rolls, after which layers of thick, theatrical makeup would be applied by a guy in paisley pajamas and velvet slippers who called himself Mr. Stevie Jay.
In Marianne's serene, sky blue bedroom -- its walk-in closet as big as Rebecca's room on Sixth Street, decorated
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with Audubon bird prints rather than voodoo talismans -- Rebecca changed into her leotard, black with red-sequined flames hand sewn down each sleeve. The bodice of her maid's costume would be pinned to this on the float itself; the vast, glittering skirt was transported in the back of a van that afternoon. Once she was lowered into the dress, Rebecca would not be able to move at all.
"Remember, girls -- no potty breaks!" Miss Karen trilled: She was overseeing the preparations with an unnecessary amount of nervous energy, Rebecca thought, darting in and out of the impromptu hair salon set up in the guest bedroom, pausing only to pat Marianne's now-huge blonde pillow of hair, or confer with Mr. Stevie Jay about the right shade of orange for Rebecca's eye makeup. "Once you leave the house, that's it! And don't drink too much water today -- you're on the float a long time."
Aunt Claudia raised a sardonic eyebrow. She was sitting in a corner, reading her book. Miss Karen had told Aunt Claudia that she didn't have to stay at the Suttons' all day. In fact, she'd been adamant that there was no need at all for Aunt Claudia to do anything more than drop Rebecca off. Although Miss Karen was smiling like a beauty pageant contestant the whole time she was talking to Aunt Claudia, Rebecca caught the looks she was exchanging with Marianne and the hairdresser -- as though Aunt Claudia's caftan and bangles and knotted gypsy head scarf were more ridiculous than the over-the-top costumes Rebecca and Marianne were about to get swallowed up in.
This made Rebecca feel tense and uncomfortable. Today was her one chance to play the role of Garden District
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insider, honored -- to the consternation of Amy and the entire Roman class system at Temple Mead -- by getting asked to ride in Septimus. She couldn't help wishing that her aunt would just go home, or go to work down on Jackson Square, or go anywhere that wasn't this house.
But then Rebecca was ashamed of herself. Her aunt was here for a very good reason, she knew: to watch out for Rebecca, and make sure nothing stopped her from getting on that float this afternoon. She wouldn't leave Rebecca's side until the float lurched up Napoleon Avenue, beginning its long and winding progress past the thousands of people lining the route. And eventually, hours later, when the floats and marching bands reached Louisiana Avenue, Aunt Claudia would be waiting for Rebecca, to extricate her from her elaborate feathered headdress and acres of spangled skirt, and then to walk her home. And the very next day, Aunt Claudia had promised, Rebecca would be able to see her father.
In Marianne's bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror, the girls stared at their transformed appearances.
"You look amazing," Marianne told Rebecca. In fact, Rebecca could barely recognize herself. A mask of spiky flames, red and gold and orange, was painted around her eyes; her lips were a sparkling gold. Her dark hair was piled so high, she felt taller than ever. She reached up a hand to pat it gingerly: It was stiff with hair spray.
"My hair feels so weird," she said. "And it looks even weirder."
"It has to act as a cushion for the headpiece," Marianne explained, her voice faint and tremulous. Maybe she was
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nervous about the parade. "But most of it gets hidden inside the cap, I think."
Marianne's hair had been sprayed with streaks of silver, and her eye makeup was a dramatic cloud of black and gray. Her false eyelashes, tipped with silver, kept sticking together, and Rebecca was glad she didn't have to wear them as well.
"I'm worried about throwing the beads and everything," Rebecca said. She was excited about the parade, and this made her want to chatter about anything and everything. "I'm glad you're in front of me on the float -- I can just copy you."
"Yes." Marianne's blue eyes were glazed; she was staring into the mirror, Rebecca thought, but not really looking. "I'll be in front of you. The whole time."
"Good," said Rebecca. She picked at the sequins on her leotard, wondering if Miss Karen wanted them to try on the long evening gloves they had to wear. "I'm trying to get my head around throwing beads for four hours. Won't our arms get tired?"
"You'll be exhausted," Marianne replied, frowning at her own grotesque reflection. She turned away abruptly and stalked out of the room. This had to be hard for her, Rebecca decided. Tonight's parade was supposed to be this exciting experience she shared with her best friend, Helena, and instead she was stuck with a near stranger, Rebecca.
But after they pulled up in Miss Karen's Porsche Cayenne at the assembly point, the sprawling parking lot of a supermarket right on the river, Rebecca discovered there'd been a change in plans. She would be riding in the front of the float, with Marianne on the pedestal behind her: That was
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where their respective skirts and giant headdresses had been positioned, and nobody wanted to change that now. Because her movement would be so restricted, Rebecca wouldn't be able to take her cues from Marianne. The only person she could rely on was her steward, who wore a black tuxedo and -- incongruously -- a sinister, expressionless mask; his job was to hand her beads and make sure she, and the feat of engineering that was her costume, didn't topple over.
"I know it feels cold now," Aunt Claudia was saying to her, walking behind Rebecca up the steps of the float. "But you'll be hot inside that costume."
"I hope so!" Rebecca was wearing nothing but her leotard, a pair of khaki shorts, and her Converse sneakers, clutching her pair of gold lame evening gloves. The weather forecast for this evening was for true winter cold, and the wind gusting off the river was bitter.
The two stewards on their float were busy lifting Marianne into her tentlike skirt, one of them grasping for the cord to secure around her waist. Rebecca stood gazing around the scene in the parking lot, which was clogged with giant floats. Some were two stories high and as long as a truck, all decorated with brightly colored papier-mâché shapes -- she could see birds, flowers, waves, flames. Men in satin tunics and pantaloons, either holding or already wearing those same blank masks, bustled on and off the floats, shouting to each other and loading bags of beads and other throws, as well as boxes of beer. Some were already drinking from cans or out of plastic cups, their masks tilted back a little. Rebecca didn't recognize any of the men, of course, but she suspected the Suttons' father was here, and Anton's father, and maybe even
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Helena's father. Rebecca's uncle. Her father's brother. Now that was a weird thought. Rebecca wondered where her own father was.
The green tractors that would pull each float were backing into position. The floats were named and n
umbered: Nearby was number 17, Blowing in the Wind, decorated in whorls of blues and grays; and behind it was number 18, Burning Down the House, its fake flames rising like lurid spikes. Rebecca glanced at Aunt Claudia to see if she'd noticed this particular float, and by the look on her face -- something between relief and anxiety -- Rebecca thought she must have. Her aunt was right: Miss Celia's vision would be realized, in every detail, during tonight's parade.
The queen's float was parked nearby as well, swarming with little girls in blonde wigs and white dresses, the teen-aged queen herself a fairy-tale vision in a bridal ball gown. She was a Temple Mead graduate, Rebecca had heard, some sort of cousin of Julie Casworth Young's; she'd transferred to LSU this year from the College of Charleston so she could be closer to New Orleans and take part in all the required social events. Rebecca had missed the special "queen's luncheon" and wondered if they'd get to talk at all -- probably at the end of the parade. Right now everything was too crazy.
Yellow school buses parked along Tchoupitoulas off-loaded band members in their faux-military uniforms. Dozens of schools had to be taking part in this parade -- some all white, some all black -- and many had sent their cheerleaders or majorettes as well. The luckier girls were in shining Lycra bodysuits, protected a little against the cold night air, but most were in short pleated skirts, with only thick pantyhose
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to keep their legs warm. Some girls practiced routines in a corner of the parking lot, or twirled their batons high in the air; drummers knocked out an ad hoc rhythm, while musicians warmed up by blowing random notes on their tubas or flutes. It was all costume and cacophony, whichever way Rebecca looked. She felt as though she were taking part in some kind of circus, especially when some tortured note erupted from a nearby trumpet: It sounded like an elephant, getting ready to charge.
Anton had to be here, she thought. Didn't he say he always got to ride on one of the floats? In their masks and costumes, all the men looked more or less the same. Sure, some were more rotund than others, but it was impossible to tell who was young and who was old. The sallow masks made them all look equally sinister and anonymous. Some men, in velvetlike breeches and dark capes, were climbing onto horses; they wore cocked hats as well as face masks, heavy gloves obscuring their hands.
These were the captain and the dukes, the most important men in the Septimus organization, Rebecca knew; they were among the richest and most powerful people in New Orleans. The decision about who was admitted to the krewe, who was chosen as that year's king, whose daughters were chosen to be the queen and her maids -- that decision was theirs to make. They must have approved her stepping in for Helena, she thought, just as they'd approved Claire's godfather riding for the first time, after years of paying his dues -- though he was stuck way back, Aurelia had told her, in the very last float. For the first time, Rebecca truly realized
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how prestigious, and how unprecedented, her invitation was. These were people who only looked after their own, people who spent large amounts of money and time and effort sticking together and keeping the riffraff out. Like Miss Karen had said, Rebecca was a lucky girl.
The saddlebags slung onto the horses were brimming with doubloons, fake coins embossed with the krewe's name and the parade theme. This week, despite all of Amy's loud sighs and sniffs, Jessica had spent one entire lunchtime explaining "throws" to Rebecca, even bringing in a handful of doubloons -- gold, silver, purple -- from previous years for her to examine. The special thing about this year, Jessica said, was that all the doubloons would be black.
"Your turn," the other steward told her, and the two tuxedoed men lifted her by the armpits -- a little roughly, she thought -- to maneuver her into the dress. She caught one last glimpse of Marianne, who was a dramatic pyramid of black and silver at the back of the float, but soon Rebecca couldn't look anywhere but straight ahead and, with effort, from side to side. Aunt Claudia fussed around her, helping her pull on the evening gloves, getting in the way when Rebecca was lassoed to her post.
The men known as flambeaux were assembling next to the maids' floats. They were all black, Rebecca noted, and dressed in T-shirts and jeans. They didn't wear masks, but several of them were shrugging on long black robes. The torches they carried, strapped on for support, were dangerous-looking, kerosene-fueled, metal contraptions that spewed flames and dripped oil. These men would light the
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way, dancing and dipping and collecting coins from appreciative people in the crowd, just as they had every year for nearly a century and a half.
"How does that feel?" Aunt Claudia was asking, and Rebecca realized that her headdress, mounted on the end of a pole, had been levered into place. She settled her head, with its ridiculous pile of hair, into the soft cap, glancing at the brilliant feathers curling down around her. With her towering feathered headdress in place, Rebecca felt almost seven feet tall.
"OK, I think," she told her aunt. The stewards had disappeared, and Aunt Claudia was busy pinning her sequined bodice to the leotard. Her aunt and Miss Karen were right: It was already hot inside the stiff casing of the dress. She tried turning her head from side to side and was relieved to discover that the pole pivoted with her. But there was no denying that this was going to be an uncomfortable ride, and a long one.
"Now, I'll be waiting for you on Jackson," Aunt Claudia told her. "I'll help you get out of all this."
"And where do I have to look for Aurelia?"
"She and Claire will be at Sixth Street and St. Charles, on the neutral-ground side. Claire's parents have ladders."
Most families, Rebecca had learned, lined the route with ladders, boxes hammered onto the tops to provide seats for their children. Aurelia and Claire made out like bandits at parades, easily catching the showers of beads, soft toys, plastic cups, and other throws that rained down from each float. Last Saturday night, when Rebecca had joined them, she'd been hit on the head over and over with plastic bounty,
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though she'd barely been able to see the floats at all through the wall of ladders.
"Now promise me," Aunt Claudia said in a low voice, leaning in close, "that you won't move from this spot until I come to get you."
"I can't move," Rebecca whispered back. This was true. For the next four hours or so, she was a prisoner of her costume.
"I'll be waiting," Aunt Claudia promised. "And I'll bring your jeans and coat, so you don't freeze to death. Though I think you'll find throwing beads is very hot work."
"I'll do my best." Rebecca grinned. She intended to fling beads as far and as fast as possible, especially if that meant making her steward work harder.
"And one other thing." Aunt Claudia wasn't smiling. "Remember to look. When you ... you know."
Rebecca nodded. She knew exactly what her aunt was talking about. When her float passed the Bowmans' house, she had to be sure to look up at the windows. That night the two girls would come face-to-face, lit by torchlight.
The flambeaux fired up their torches, shouting to each other. One of the dukes trotted past, calling to the captain that it was nearly time. The flashing blue light of a police car pulled into view; it would lead the parade onto Napoleon. Aunt Claudia, mindful of Rebecca's makeup, blew her a kiss and climbed down off the float.
Septimus was about to roll.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
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Hail, Septimus! hail, septimus!" Between the cacophony of the bands and the clamor of the people lining the streets, the parade felt as loud as a rock concert to Rebecca. All along the route, the citizens of New Orleans were screaming and waving and jumping in the air, pressing in toward the float from both sides. "Throw me something!" "Over here! Here!" "THROW - ME - SOMETHING!"
The steward passed her handfuls of plastic necklaces, and Rebecca hurled them into the crowd; but however fast she threw, it was never fast enough. The crowd roared and bellowed, always wanting more. Children perched on ladders,
hands outstretched, shrieked at her, and though she was looking out for Aurelia and Claire, Rebecca never saw them in the blur of faces and flailing arms.
In fact, before long she couldn't tell one cross street from the next: Between all the crowded balconies and porches, the thicket of people on the sidewalk, and the oak trees
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already festooned with wayward beads, the entire parade route was a chaotic carnival. The strings of beads she threw were every color of the rainbow, and in the crowd, many people were dressed in costume or in lurid nylon wigs, their faces painted and their necks swaddled in beads or fluorescent necklaces or garish plastic pendants.
Everyone on the street seemed to be having a great time, but to Rebecca the whole experience felt increasingly surreal, and at times almost sinister. Her float was both led and flanked by men on horseback, surveying the parade through their expressionless masks. The crowd greeted them with cries of "Hail, Septimus!" and the dukes tossed doubloons to them, splattering the street with the small, shining black discs. The way people scrambled onto hands and knees to pick up these fake coins made Rebecca think of medieval peasants, groveling at the feet of the high and mighty, grateful for any act of charity. There was something contemptuous in the casual way the doubloons were thrown, and something desperate and eager about the way they were grabbed up. It was as though these men were acting out, in pageant-style costume, the way they saw their role in the city: as smug lords and masters, generous only when they felt like it, socially superior to everyone else.