VIKING
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First published by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Laura Lane McNeal
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A Pamela Dorman Book / Viking
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
McNeal, Laura Lane.
Dollbaby : a novel / Laura Lane McNeal.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-101-61471-6
1. Families—Fiction. 2. Redemption—Fiction. 3. New Orleans (La.)—History—20th century—Fiction. 4. Louisiana—Race relations—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.C585937D65 2014
813'.6—dc23 2013048523
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
In loving memory of Fannie and Louise,
the grandmothers who shaped my life
in more ways than they could ever have imagined
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to literary agents Marly Rusoff and Michael Radulescu for recognizing the potential in my writing, for taking me on, and for championing me along the way. For your continued support and dedication, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To Clare Ferraro and Kathryn Court who have allowed me to become a member of the Viking/Penguin group, an honor I will always cherish. To my brilliant editor Pamela Dorman, whose insight and wisdom helped shape the novel, I am deeply grateful and thrilled to be published by Pamela Dorman Books. Thank you, Kiki Koroshetz, for your unwavering dedication to the project and for answering my every little question, and to Beena Kamlani, whose steadfast demeanor, lovely voice, and quiet perseverance helped polish and hone the final story. Thanks also to Carolyn Coleburn, Maureen Donnelly, Kristen Matzen, Patrick Nolan, and the dynamic Viking/Penguin marketing and sales force, including Nancy Sheppard, John Fagan, Dick Heffernan, and Norman Lidofsky for warmly embracing Dollbaby and me. To Roseanne Serra and Nancy Resnick for the beautiful cover and design of the book, and for all the wonderful people who took me under their wings at SIBA—Diana Van Vleck, Dave Kliegman, Kasey Pfaff, Mike McGroder, Diane Kierpa, and Michelle Malonzo.
I would also like to thank James Nolan and the members of his writing workshop who taught me not only the craft of fiction but how to laugh at myself, and in particular Aneela Shuja, whose friendship was key in helping me believe in myself. And to my family—Rob, Beattie, Will, Lou, Charlie, and Carol—who put up with me and supported me from the beginning, I love you all.
And to the people of New Orleans, without whom there never would have been a story.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Map
Author’s Note
Part One: 1964
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part Two: 1968
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Part Three: 1972
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Author’s Note
The sit-in at Woolworth’s on July 1, 1964, is fictitious, although several sit-ins had occurred at this location previously. The mood surrounding the impending passage of the Civil Rights Act was contentious, and while most of the civil-rights protests had taken the form of picketing businesses that wouldn’t comply with desegregation, a few days prior to July 1, a young black man was beaten up at the state capitol building in Baton Rouge for sitting at the cafeteria lunch counter. The black man was carted off to jail for his actions; the white perpetrators were never charged. Based on this scenario, I felt a final sit-in on Canal Street would have been feasible.
The band The Moody Blues was formed in 1964 but did not become popular in the United States until the following year.
New Orleans sits between two large bends in the Mississippi river that form a large U that virtually surrounds the city on three sides, which is the reason it’s often referred to as The Crescent City. The city conforms to these bends and curves, creating fan-shaped neighborhoods that often converge. Using compass points to indicate directions are confusing, so locals instead use the river as the main point of reference: Lakeside (away from the river toward Lake Pontchartrain to the north), Riverside (toward the river), Uptown (upriver from Downtown, even though it lies a bit south due to the bend in the river) and Downtown (meaning downriver).
Sadly, many of the neighborhood markets and pharmacies mentioned in the novel no longer exist, falling victim to a new concept called the supermarket. A few notable exceptions include Plum Street Snowballs, the Prytania Theatre, as well as the venerable Antoine’s Restaurant. The iconic Butterfly, which sat at the tip of Riverview Park overlooking the Mississippi, was hit by a barge one foggy morning in the 1980s and had to be bulldozed, although the park itself is still referred to as “The Fly” by the locals. Madame Doussan’s moved to Royal Street and is now called Bourbon French Parfums. Fannie’s house on Prytania is fictional, although you will find several examples of Queen Anne Victorians in the Uptown area. Likewise, Our Lady of the Celestial Realm Catholic School for Girls, the Starlight Jazz Club on Bourbon Street, the Ebony Lounge, and the True Love Baptist Church are fictional, although entities similar to the ones I describe in the novel exist throughout the city.
Part One
1964
Chapter One
There are times you wish you could change things, take things back, pretend they never existed. This was on
e of those times, Ibby Bell was thinking as she stared bug-eyed out the car window. Amid the double-galleried homes and brightly painted cottages on Prytania Street, there was one house that didn’t belong.
“Ibby?” Her mother turned down the radio and began drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.
Ibby ignored her, letting her mother’s words mingle with the buzz of the air conditioning and the drone of the idling car engine as she craned her neck, trying to get a better look at the house that was stubbornly obscured by the sprawling branches of a giant oak tree and the glare of the midmorning sun. She cupped her hands over her eyes and glanced up to find a weathervane shaped like a racehorse jutting high above the tallest branches of the tree. It was flapping to and fro in the tepid air, unable to quite make the total spin around the rusted stake, giving the poor horse the appearance of being tethered there against its will.
I know that feeling, Ibby thought.
The weathervane was perched atop a long spire attached to a cupola. Ibby’s eyes traveled to the second-floor balcony, then down to the front porch, where a pair of rocking chairs and a porch swing swayed gently beside mahogany doors inlaid with glass. Surrounded on all sides by a low iron fence, the house looked like an animal that had outgrown its cage.
Her mother had described it as a Queen Anne Victorian monstrosity that should have been bulldozed years ago. Ibby now understood what she meant. The old mansion was suffering from years of neglect. A thick layer of dirt muddied the blue paint, windows were boarded up, and the front yard was so overgrown with wild azaleas and unruly boxwoods that Ibby could barely make out the brick walkway that led up to the house.
“Liberty, are you listening to me?”
It was the way Vidrine Bell said Ibby’s real name, the way she said Li-bar-tee with a clear Southern drawl that she usually went to great lengths to hide, that got her attention.
Vidrine’s face was glistening with sweat despite the air conditioning tousling her well-lacquered hair. She patted the side of her mouth with her finger, trying to salvage the orange lipstick that was seeping into the creases and filling the car with the smell of melted wax.
“Damn humidity,” Vidrine huffed. “No one should have to live in a place hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.”
The heat, her mother claimed, was one of the reasons she and Ibby’s father had moved away from New Orleans just after they married. Far, far away. To a little town called Olympia, in the state of Washington. Where no one had a Southern accent. Except, on occasion, the Bell family.
“Whatever you do, Liberty Bell, don’t forget this.” Vidrine patted the double-handled brass urn sitting like a sentinel between them on the front seat. Her mouth curled up at the edges. “Be sure and tell your grandmother it’s a present from me.”
Ibby glanced down at the urn her mother was pushing her way. A week ago that urn didn’t exist. Now she was being told to give it to a grandmother she’d never met. Ibby turned and looked at the house again. She didn’t know which was worse, the sneer on her mother’s face, or the thought of having to go into that big ugly house to meet her grandmother for the first time.
She eyed her mother, wondering why no one had bothered to mention that she even had a grandmother until a few months ago. She’d learned about it by chance, when on a clear day in March, as her father went to pay for ice cream at the school fair, a faded photograph fell from his wallet and floated wearily to the ground. Ibby picked it up and studied the stone-faced woman in the picture for a moment before her daddy took it from her.
“Who is that?” Ibby asked.
“Oh, that’s your grandmother,” he said, hastily stuffing the photo back into his wallet in a way that made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
Later that week, while she and Vidrine were doing the dishes, Ibby got up enough gumption to ask her mother about the woman in the photograph. Vidrine glared at her with those big round eyes that looked like cue balls and threw the dish towel to the ground, slammed her fist on the counter, then launched into a lengthy tirade that made it clear that Frances Hadley Bell, otherwise known as Fannie, was the other reason they’d moved away from New Orleans right after she and Graham Bell were married.
And now here Ibby was, about to be dropped off at this woman’s house without any fanfare, and her mother acting as if it were no big deal.
“Why are you leaving me here? Can’t I come with you?” Ibby pleaded.
Her mother fell back against the seat, exasperated. “Now, Ibby, we’ve been through this a thousand times. Now that your father has passed away, I need some time away . . . to think.”
“Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?”
“That’s something you just don’t need to know,” Vidrine snapped.
“How long will you be gone?”
Vidrine frowned. “A few days. Maybe a week. It’s hard to tell. Your grandmother was kind enough to offer to keep you until I figure this whole thing out.”
Ibby’s ears perked up. Kind was not one of the words her mother had used to describe Fannie Bell.
In the background, she could hear the radio.
“This is WTIX Radio New Orleans,” the announcer said. “Up next, The Moody Blues . . .”
“Turn that up—that was one of Daddy’s favorite new bands,” Ibby said.
Vidrine turned off the radio. “Now go on. She won’t bite.” She poked Ibby in the ribs, causing the brass urn to teeter and fall over on the seat.
Ibby straightened it back up, letting her fingers linger on the cool brass handle. She swallowed hard, wondering why her mother was being so secretive. Now that her father was gone, she got the feeling that what her mother really wanted was to get away from her.
Vidrine leaned over and said in a soft voice, “Now listen, honey, I know it’s hard to understand why God takes some people from this earth before their time. But he took your daddy in a silly bicycle accident. And now . . . well, we just have to move on somehow.”
Ibby gave her mother a sideways glance. God was a word her mother had never uttered until her father died, and being left with someone she’d never met for an indefinite period of time wasn’t exactly Ibby’s idea of moving on. But she was just shy of twelve years old, and no one had bothered to ask her opinion on the matter.
She let her hand fall from the urn. “Aren’t you at least going to come in with me?” Ibby asked.
Vidrine crossed her arms. “Liberty Alice Bell, quit your whining and get on out of this car right now. I’ve got to go.”
“But Mom—”
“Now remember what I told you. Be a good girl. Don’t give your grandmother any trouble. And one more thing.” Her mother leaned in closer and wagged a finger. “Try not to pick up any of those awful expressions like y’all or ain’t. It’s just not ladylike. Understand me?”
Before Ibby could answer, Vidrine reached over, opened the door, and pushed her out of the car.
Chapter Two
Lawd,” Doll declared as she scratched the top of her head with a long red fingernail and held back the lace curtains in the front window with the other hand.
She’d expected to see the milkman, or the egg man, or maybe even the fish man, but the sight of a young girl standing on the sidewalk in front of the house took her by surprise. She let the curtains fall back into place, wondering what she should do.
“Girl, what you going on about?” came her mother’s voice behind her.
Doll turned to find Queenie standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, holding the swinging door open with her foot as she heaved her huge bosom up with her forearms.
“She here, Mama,” Doll said as she brushed off her uniform with a nervous sweep of her hand.
“Who’s here?” Queenie asked.
“Miss Fannie’s grandbaby,” Doll replied in a way that sounded as if she didn�
��t believe it herself.
Queenie stormed headfirst through the dining room to where Doll was standing. “What day is it?”
“Ironing day, Mama.”
Queenie shook her head. “No—the date, baby. What’s today’s date?”
“July fourth is this Saturday, so it must be coming up on the first of July. Why you want to know?”
Queenie huffed, “She can’t be here. Weren’t expecting her until tomorrow.”
“Well, she’s here, bright as day,” Doll said as a white Ford Galaxie sped off down the street.
“Miss Fannie—she gone have a fit!” Queenie stomped her foot.
Doll and Queenie stared out the window in a moment of silent bewilderment as they examined the young girl standing just outside the gate dressed in shorts, a striped T-shirt, and red sneakers, gazing at the house with a pained expression on her face.
Queenie mashed up her mouth. “Her mama don’t even know how to dress her proper for a plane ride.”
“How you know, Mama? You ain’t never been on a plane.”
Queenie put her hands on her hips. “On account I read Miss Fannie’s LIFE magazines. I know how them other folks live.” Then she turned and peered out the window again. “What’s she got in her hand?”
Doll leaned in to get a better look. “Looks like some kind of trophy. But bless her heart, she holding on to it for dear life.”
“Strange looking,” Queenie said.
“The girl?” Doll asked.
“No, baby.” Queenie slapped Doll’s arm. “That thing in her hand.”
“She got the same haircut as Miss Fannie,” Doll added.
“Sure enough.” Queenie gazed out the window. “Like Captain Kangaroo.”
Doll shook her head. “If everything else be like Miss Fannie, we gone have ourselves a heap of trouble.”
Queenie wagged a finger. “Now, don’t you go judging that poor child just yet.” Then she mumbled under her breath, “God Almighty, pray for a miracle.”
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