Karyn hung up in a hurry. Kiana placed her phone on the bar. She stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. The New Orleans humidity frizzed the ends of her thick, kinky hair, creating a halo of dark coils and curls around her head. She looked tired, her eyes dull and strained, but she had no bags or dark circles underneath them. She shook her head. She needed a jolt, something to shake her senses.
“Can I get shot of Maker’s?” she said when the bartender finally made his way over to her.
The bartender poured her up and asked her if she wanted another beer. Kiana shook her head. She slammed the shot then chased it with the last of her beer.
“Just charge it all to my room,” she said. “Four thirty-eight.” She slid off the barstool, grabbed her phone, and pulled her small tin of Altoids from her front pocket. She popped one mint, crunched it, and inhaled through the tingling coolness. She placed a second mint on her tongue and rolled it around in her mouth as she walked toward the couches across from the check-in counters.
Genevieve walked through the glass doors of the hotel and into the lobby at exactly 11:59. She looked cool and comfortable in short khaki shorts and white tank top, her small messenger bag across her shoulder. She waved at Kiana and smiled. Although Genevieve hadn’t hinted toward what they were going to do, it seemed Kiana had the right idea with her jeans and orange T-shirt. She walked to meet Genevieve in the middle of the lobby.
“Ready?” Genevieve asked.
Kiana crunched up the last of her Altoid. “Yeah. Let’s go.” She slid her phone into her back pocket along with her wallet, her flask filling the opposite pocket. She pushed the small flask down instinctively, hoping the silver twist cap wasn’t protruding too much.
Instead of a bike ride, Genevieve and Kiana rode the streetcar through the city, talking about New Orleans architecture and culture. Genevieve told Kiana stories about growing up in the city and how hard it was to leave when she went to college in North Carolina. She talked about Katrina, her voice cracking when she described watching the horror on the news and not being able to do anything about it.
“I ’bout fell out when my grandmother finally called to say she was all right,” Genevieve said, her eyes watering. “She made it through the hurricane just to have a stroke a year later. I found her. In the kitchen of our old house, on the floor. Rushed her to the hospital and they tried, but she just wouldn’t wake back up.” She wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Kiana said, pushing down memories of her mother. They bubbled up like acid in the back of her throat. She swallowed. “I’m really sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Genevieve gave a wry laugh. “Being a downer.” She looked out the window then reached up to yank the cord for the next stop. “Come on,” she said, grabbing Kiana’s hand.
They exited the streetcar and walked across the street and up the block. They stopped at the wide entrance to Oak Grove Cemetery.
“So, about being a downer…” Kiana said. She looked at Genevieve, who curled her lightly-glossed lips into a grin. The sunlight caught her eyes just right, flecks of gold twinkled in the soft brown, and Kiana felt herself smiling too.
“I know, I know,” Genevieve said. “To be honest, our trip is part errand, part sight-seeing. I usually go visit Nana, my grandmother, every Sunday, but yesterday, I had an unexpected guest.” She smiled. “So, I’m thinking I can show you the mysterious wonder of a N’Awlins cemetery and get my weekly visit in. We can leave here and go to the more famous ones, see Marie Laveau and Homer Plessy. Then, we can head to Jackson Square to get you a beignet. We’ll do all the touristy things. What you say to that?”
“I’m not really here as a tourist,” Kiana said then stopped. She was there on a mission. A love mission that she was failing miserably. It didn’t feel right to tell Genevieve the truth though. She seemed nice, and Kiana liked her energy. The shot of Maker’s and beer had warmed her nicely, and without a real plan to deal with Michelle, she figured she’d let it ride. No sense spoiling a good afternoon. She shrugged. “I mean, not officially.”
“Yeah, you right. But, baby, you can’t come to N’Awlins and not check out at least one cemetery,” Genevieve said.
Kiana looked across the busy street. A streetcar headed in the opposite direction slowed to a stop. “Well, let’s go. I am curious about the graves. We bury folks deep in the ground where I come from.” She held her arm for Genevieve to take. They linked arms and walked through the wrought iron gates.
Even in the daylight, it was spooky. The graves, old and waist level, made Kiana uneasy. Something about the dead being on the same ground with her, on the earth instead of inside it, on top rather than below, made her question her existence, made her feel in-between.
“See those ferns?” Genevieve said, pointing a long, slender finger at the leafy plants growing along the crooked, low branches and thick, lined trunks of the oak trees standing guard between the crypts. “They’re called resurrection ferns. They live for a long time, even when there ain’t any water.”
“How can a plant survive without water?” Kiana asked. She stepped to a fern trail that ran down the side of a tree they passed. She touched the pale, leathery fronds, plucking one of the oblong leaves.
“When there ain’t no water, it curls up and turns brown just like that. Looks just like it deaded right on the tree. Then, when the rain comes, it unfurls, green and full. Resurrected. Alive again.”
Kiana looked back at the ferns as they continued walking. There was more life than she expected in the cemetery. Plants with tiny white blossoms peeked out from cracks in the tombs and hung down from the eaves of crypts. Vines wound around statues and columns. Rocks crunched underneath their feet, patches of thick, wide-bladed grass surrounded the graves and spotted the paths. Genevieve came to a stop in front of a long, rectangular cement grave flanked by two large tombs separated by a rusted iron gate. She stood in silence.
“So this is where your grandmother is buried?” Kiana asked the unnecessary question just to hear her own voice.
“Yes,” Genevieve said. “She rests here.” Genevieve took Kiana’s hand and led her around the side of the grave. She knelt beside her grandmother’s resting place, and Kiana swallowed hard, looking around.
She read the names on the nearby crypts, noticing the water lines that ran around the length and width of them. Some graves were marked with just last names in hard, serious fonts. Herbert, Bordelon, Pedarre. Others had names and sayings, “No work began in life shall pause for death,” and, “I pass but shall not die.” Kiana shuddered. She wandered around to get a closer look at the tomb to the right of Genevieve’s grandmother. The large, wide stone structure boasted a crest crossed with two swords with a flame in the center but no names. Off to the side and pushed back, Kiana found a winged woman, on a pedestal and at least six feet tall, crafted in cracked and stained stone. Wings unfurled behind her, she held her hands out in supplication. The base of the statue held several names, all of them with dates that ranged between two and five years apart; the last name in the list didn’t even span that. The last addition, Angelique Devereux, marked a life that lasted only seven days.
A chill ran through Kiana, goose bumps instantly covering her shoulders and arms. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket. She thought of her flask, a libation for the week-old baby, a slow burn of whiskey to still her heart. She swallowed hard and walked back over to Genevieve.
Genevieve had moved to the opposite side of her grandmother’s grave. Dried splotches of wax and melted down stumps of red and white candles sat in clumps near crinkled flower petals and sunken in fruit. Kiana looked away from the side of the grave and stepped around to the front. She read the name displayed on the iron plate, stained green with age and water damage, at the foot of the crypt.
“Emeline Durand,” Kiana whispered.
Genevieve nodded. “That’s my Nana.”
There were two other names: Bernard Durand and Xavier Durand.
“Her brot
hers are buried there, too. My uncles,” Genevieve said. “I didn’t know them very well, can barely remember them, but my Nana talked about them all the time.”
“The years aren’t listed,” Kiana said, pointing at the plate then quickly lowering her hand. It felt wrong to point.
“Nope,” Genevieve said. “She didn’t want them listed. She just wanted this.” She grabbed Kiana’s hand and gently tugged her back over to the side of the tomb. She nodded toward the stumps of spent candles at the base of the stone grave. Nearly hidden by the wax were the words: I AM NOT GONE.
Kiana stiffened. She shivered and rubbed at her arms. Genevieve noticed Kiana shifting and looking around.
“You all right?” she asked. “You want to go?”
Kiana did want to leave. She was spooked, but embarrassed. She wished she’d had two shots of whiskey instead of one. She might’ve been less affected, more numb to it all.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.” She yanked nervously at the bottom of her shirt. She remembered a gold necklace Karyn had given her when she turned eleven. It was a cross, thin and delicate with a cubic zirconium in the center. She hadn’t thought of it in years, but suddenly she wished she had it. She clutched at the neck of her T-shirt. She wished she had kept the necklace, wondered where it was. It had been her mother’s, the only thing of hers left. Karyn had given it to her as a way to remember. Kiana bit the inside of her cheek and finger-picked the back of her afro. She didn’t want to think of her mother. She didn’t want to think of anything. Fidgety and restless, she slid her hand toward her back pocket, touching the top of her flask with her fingertips. Her phone vibrated again, and it made her jump.
“You sure you all right?” Genevieve asked.
“Yes,” Kiana snapped. “Stop asking me that.”
“Okay. We’ll go soon, all right? I have to do something first.” She went into the small leather messenger bag she wore and pulled out a small bottle half full of water. Near the headstone of the grave sat a small, water-stained ceramic bowl, the hand-painted flowers on the front faded by the sun. Genevieve poured water from the bottle into the bowl and set the bottle on the grass beside the grave.
Kiana wanted to ask Genevieve what she was doing, but her lips wouldn’t move. She felt stuck, everything around her on pause—the light wind, the traffic outside the gates.
“It’s like an offering,” Genevieve said as if reading her mind. She dug into her bag and took out a small brown pear and a plum so deep purple it looked black. She held the fruit then stepped back from the tomb. “I’ve officially scared you,” she said.
“No,” Kiana said. “People put flowers down and…” She frowned. “I guess I’ve only known people to put down flowers. This is…”
“Crazy? Spooky?”
“Different,” Kiana said. “Definitely different. You’re definitely different. And…” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking away because her eyes stung with tears and she didn’t want Genevieve to see. She read the words along the bottom of the tomb, moving her lips but not making a sound. I am not gone.
“And what?” Genevieve asked, stretching to place the fruit atop the crypt, as far away from the edge as possible. She exhaled and stepped closer to Kiana. “And what?”
“And it makes me want to be different,” Kiana said softly. She glanced at her feet; her face flushed with heat, her eyes still burning.
“Baby,” Genevieve said. “You seem just fine to me.”
Kiana forced a smile that she hoped didn’t look too awkward. Her lips trembled. “Can we leave now?”
“Yeah. We can go.” Genevieve frowned, her lips a straight line of concern. “We’ll go to Jackson Square and—”
“I actually just want to go back to the hotel,” Kiana interrupted. “I’ve got some phone calls to return, and I should probably see what’s going on with the wedding stuff.”
Genevieve nodded. “You don’t have to explain,” she said. She grabbed Kiana’s arm. “Let’s go.”
When they arrived back at the hotel, Kiana damn near ran to the bar. She caught herself and turned to Genevieve.
“Thank you for today,” she said.
“My pleasure,” Genevieve said. She adjusted her bag. “I hope I didn’t…”
“No, you didn’t,” Kiana said.
“Why don’t you come over for dinner?” Genevieve said. “Baby, you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted my gumbo.”
Kiana looked over her shoulder to the hotel restaurant and bar. She sighed and reached around to her back pocket, then pulled out her phone. She glanced down at it, swiping the screen to display several missed calls and pending voice and text messages. Just looking at the alerts made her head ache.
Genevieve nodded. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her shorts. “Okay. Right. I don’t mean to keep you.”
“No,” Kiana said. “I mean, I do have a couple things to do, but dinner sounds nice.” She smiled. Spending time with Genevieve meant ignoring more calls, avoiding the inevitable conversation with Karyn, and stalling another confrontation with Michelle. It also meant spending more time with Genevieve, which was refreshing and challenging in a way Kiana hadn’t felt in a long while. As much as it was counterproductive, it was attractive and exciting. “Let’s do it,” she said.
“Great,” Genevieve said. She took her phone out of her bag and they exchanged numbers.
“I’ll text you my address,” Genevieve said, “and you can come by around…nine?”
“Perfect.” Kiana grinned. “I’ll see you later. I can’t wait.”
Genevieve blushed and spun on her heels. Kiana, unable to resist, watched her tight ass and long legs as she walked toward the glass doors. Genevieve looked over her shoulder and waved at Kiana before pushing herself through the revolving door.
Kiana shook her head and exhaled loudly. Instead of heading to the bar, she walked to the elevators. She scrolled through her missed calls while in the elevator. Two total from Karyn, five from Michelle, and one from her manager at New Horizons. She stuffed her phone into her pocket and pulled out her flask. She drained it before the elevator dinged, signaling her floor.
*
Showered and dressed in jeans and a simple blue button up, which she wore open over a white tank top, Kiana made her way down to the lobby. While in the elevator, she listened to her messages while absent-mindedly yanking at random locks of her thick, unruly hair. Her manager, his voice nasally and flat, announced that a “no call, no show” was grounds for dismissal. She needed to call him as soon as possible if she had any intentions of keeping her job. Karyn, frustrated and angry at another broken promise, left long messages where she alternately begged Kiana to come home and cursed her out, finally asking at the end of the second message: “When will you get tired of lying?” Michelle’s messages were short: “Call me,” “Tell me where you’re staying,” and “I need to see you.” The last message, the need, made Kiana’s breath catch, a tightness in her throat and flutter in the lowest part of her stomach. She stepped out of the elevator and eyed the bar. Shaking her head against the urge to stop for a drink, she walked out to the street to hail a cab. When one pulled up, she stepped toward it then stopped. She waved her hand and smiled, sending the car away. She walked up the street to the liquor store and picked up two bottles of wine. A red and a white. She wasn’t sure which went best with gumbo.
When she arrived at Genevieve’s place, she turned her phone off. She knocked on the door, nervous and hesitant. A barefooted Genevieve opened the door dressed in a black tank top and leggings that matched the deep red polish on her toes. She smiled; a white apron was cinched around her waist and splotched with brownish-red sauce and faded yellow stains.
“I didn’t picture you for the apron type,” Kiana said as she stepped into the small carriage house. She narrowed her eyes and added a playful frown as she tried to figure out exactly what she meant. She hadn’t really pictured Genevieve at all. She pushed through the fog of her memory and reca
lled Genevieve’s casual sexiness as she leaned against the doorway the first morning they met. She was thin and graceful, but not at all delicate. Her strength was obvious in her voice, the husky lilt in her rolling sentences, the confident, sexy laugh that chased away shadows.
Genevieve did a slight curtsy. “My gumbo is serious business. Besides, I said I was cooking for you, so I wanted to dress the part.” She closed the door behind Kiana and walked into the kitchen.
“It smells amazing in here.” Kiana grinned. She held up the two bottles of wine, one in each hand. “Red or white?”
Genevieve stood at the counter slicing a half loaf of warm, crusty bread. “Whichever you prefer.” She spun around, went into a cabinet above the counter, and retrieved a stemless wine glass. She placed it on the breakfast bar then went into a drawer for the wine key. She placed it next to the glass.
“One glass?”
Genevieve nodded. “I’m not having any,” she said.
Kiana scrunched her eyebrows. “Wait a minute.” She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at Genevieve as she grabbed the wine key. “Why not?” she challenged.
Genevieve took a deep breath. “I don’t drink.” She shrugged and placed the pieces of bread in a small wooden bowl. “And after the other night, I don’t suppose you need to go too hard yourself.”
Kiana scoffed then went silent, concentrating on opening the Merlot. She screwed the wine key into the bottle and yanked up. The soft, wet pop of the cork broke the silence between them. Kiana poured herself a large glass of wine. She stared into the wine, the light from the kitchen casting through the liquid, making it look like blood. She looked into Genevieve’s eyes as she drank from the glass. She took two sips.
“You don’t drink ever?” Kiana asked. She drank from her wine glass.
“Nope,” Genevieve said. She turned from Kiana and picked up a large spoon to stir the bubbling contents of the tall, stainless pot atop the stove.
Kiana shook her head. “Why not?”
Genevieve didn’t answer. She scooped up a little gumbo into the spoon and held her hand under it. She stepped toward Kiana, blowing at the small bit of stew on the spoon. She leaned over the breakfast bar.
Let the Lover Be Page 5