“No, dear. She’s just a little different,” Fannie said, watching Lucy skate away and disappear around the corner.
“How do you know her again?” Ibby asked.
“I told you, sweetheart. Everyone knows Lucy.”
“Yes, but how does Lucy know you?”
Fannie gave her a sideways glance. “I used to live in the French Quarter when I first came to New Orleans. It was a long time ago. She was around even back then.”
Ibby noticed that Fannie’s hand had begun to tremble. Ibby grabbed it and squeezed.
Fannie shook her hand free. “What is keeping Madame Doussan?”
“I’m right here.” She came up and presented Fannie with a small box tied nicely with ribbon.
She handed Ibby a separate package. “This is for you, young lady. This is your own special scent that we are going to call Wild Orchid Number Seven. Anytime you need more, that’s all you have to say. And I threw in some talc and body lotion as a little lagniappe.”
Ibby took the package from her. “Thank you.”
“Just make sure your grandmother comes back to see me soon. I’m not getting any younger.” She winked.
When they were in the car, Ibby pulled the stopper out of the perfume bottle and sniffed.
“Wild Orchid Number Seven. I like the sound of that,” Ibby said, and applied some to her neck, the way Madame Doussan had shown her.
“Don’t overdo it. A little goes a long way,” Fannie said. “We can always get more.”
“Thank you for the perfume, Fannie. Daddy was the only one that used to give me presents. Mama says presents are a waste of money.”
“Well, young lady, now that you’re with me, things are going to be a little different. We’ll see to that.”
When they got to Canal Street, they saw that the police had put up a barricade in front of the Woolworth and were escorting a number of colored folks out in handcuffs. Instead of going around the mayhem, Fannie drove her car right up to one of the barricades. She flagged down an officer.
He leaned in and put his elbow on her door. “Why, Fannie. I haven’t seen you out in a while.”
“What’s going on, Kennedy?” she asked.
“Another sit-in at the lunch counter.”
Fannie shook her head. “Another one? Anyone I know in there?”
“Not at the moment,” he said before he patted the door and walked off toward the commotion.
“Thank God,” Fannie said.
As they drove off, Ibby wondered how Fannie knew so many people. Where she was from, everyone kept to themselves. It was true, Fannie had lived in New Orleans for a long time, but it still seemed curious how people like Lucy the duck lady knew Fannie. She was itching to ask Fannie about it, but she kept her mouth shut.
Rule Number One. Don’t ask Fannie about her past.
Chapter Ten
Between arriving yesterday with her father in a jar, Fannie fainting, and her mother and Fannie having words, Ibby didn’t know what to expect the next day when she went down for breakfast. She was pleasantly surprised to find Fannie sitting at the dining room table sipping a Coca-Cola from a bottle and reading the morning paper as if nothing had happened.
Queenie came out of the kitchen as Ibby took a seat at the table. “Yes, Miss Fannie?”
“Make Ibby some breakfast, will you please?”
“Sure enough. What you usually take for breakfast, Miss Ibby?”
“I usually have cereal,” Ibby replied. “And maybe some Tang?”
Queenie scrunched up her face. “Tang? You ain’t no astronaut, Miss Ibby. We gone feed you real people food. How about some pain perdu with syrup and fresh-squeezed orange juice?”
“Pan what?” Ibby said.
“You know. Pain perdu. It’s like French toast,” Queenie said.
Fannie cleared her throat. “Here’s the word of the day, Queenie. Oxymoron.”
“Oxymoron. That’s a right funny-sounding word. What it mean?” Queenie asked, looking over Fannie’s shoulder.
“It means contradictory words that come together to form an incongruous meaning. For example, ‘a deafening silence’ or ‘even odds.’ ‘Pretty ugly,’ how about that one?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Pretty ugly,’ I can relate to that one.” Queenie winked, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Fannie was now concentrating hard on something else in the newspaper. She squinted between drags of her cigarette. Finally, Fannie put the paper down and stubbed out her cigarette. “How’d you sleep?” Fannie asked.
“I could have sworn I heard a tiger.” Ibby shrugged. “I must have been dreaming.”
“No, dear, you weren’t dreaming. The Audubon Zoo’s only a couple of blocks from here.” Fannie pointed behind her. “When the wind blows north toward the lake, you can hear the foghorns from the ships on the Mississippi River and smell the molasses coming from the plant next to Audubon Park.” Fannie leaned in and said in a much lower voice, “And on still nights, over the din of the attic fan, you can sometimes hear the screams from the nuthouse over on Henry Clay Avenue.” Fannie closed one eye as she lit another cigarette. “Found one walking up the street just the other day.”
“A tiger?” Ibby asked.
“No, dear, a woman from the nuthouse.”
“Did they catch her?”
“I’m not sure.” Fannie smiled ruefully.
Ibby looked around for the urn she’d left on the table.
“Something wrong, dear?” Fannie asked.
“Uh, no ma’am,” Ibby answered, not wanting to upset her. She fiddled with the napkin in her lap, praying that Doll hadn’t disposed of the urn in her haste to calm Fannie down yesterday.
The kitchen door swung open, and Queenie set a large tray of food on the table. Ibby had never seen so much food—scrambled eggs and bacon, a plate of pain perdu drizzled with syrup and powdered sugar, and a bowl full of white mush with yellow liquid floating in the middle of it.
“What’s that white stuff?” Ibby pointed.
“Grits, baby. Just stir the butter in with your spoon.”
A few moments later Queenie appeared again. “Yes, Miss Fannie?”
“Can you bring me a pencil so I can mark today’s horses?”
“Got one right here in my pocket.”
A few minutes later Queenie was back again. “Yes, Miss Fannie?”
Ibby piped up. “Grandma Fannie, how does Queenie always seem to know when you want something?”
Queenie heaved up her bosom. “I guess I been working here so long, I just know.”
“Look under the table.” Fannie pointed at her foot. “There’s a button in the floor. Every time I press it, a bell rings in the kitchen. Something left over from the olden days, when people had servants.”
“Yeah, left over. When people had servants,” Queenie said as she left the room.
Two seconds later she was back again. “What you want now?”
“You left before I could tell you,” Fannie said.
“Oh, guess I did. What you want?”
“Look at this. The paper says there was a scuffle down at the Woolworth’s, and there’s a picture of a woman sprawled on the floor . . .”
Queenie peered over her shoulder, her eyes wide. She grabbed the paper from Fannie and hid it behind her back.
“What’d you do that for?” Fannie asked.
Queenie thought hard for an answer. “Got a recipe in there I wanted to try today.”
“I didn’t see a recipe.”
“Oh, it’s there all right,” Queenie said.
“Let me see. Which one?” Fannie held her hand up.
“It’s gone be a surprise.” Queenie winked at Ibby.
Fannie turned to Ibby. “Queenie’s full of surprises. So tell me, Queenie, what do we have planned for Ib
by today?”
“We? Thought you might have some ideas of your own.” Queenie put her hand on her hip as she shoved the newspaper into the pocket of her apron.
“Why don’t you take her over to the swimming pool at Audubon Park? She might like that.”
“Can’t do that, Miss Fannie.”
“Why not?” Fannie asked.
“You know why not.” Queenie crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, Miss Fannie, you do.”
“Remind me.”
“’Cause, Miss Fannie, you know darn well they closed the pool last summer.”
“It was a nice pool,” Fannie sighed.
Queenie narrowed her eyes. “Sure it was. I wouldn’t know.”
“Then why’d they close it, for God’s sake?”
Queenie was beginning to look put out. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Just tell me, please. I’m getting a headache.”
“The city closed it ’cause they didn’t want colored folks in the water mixing with the white folks, dirtying it all up. So rather than integrate like they supposed to, they closed the pool.”
Miss Fannie closed her eyes. “I guess I just haven’t been paying attention.”
“Guess you haven’t,” Queenie said as she went back to the kitchen.
Fannie turned to Ibby. “So what are we going to do with you today?”
Queenie came back into the dining room, looking a little exasperated. This time she just crossed her arms and waited.
“Why don’t you take Ibby on down to Honey Friedrichs’s house? She’s got a daughter about Ibby’s age, Annabelle, I think her name is.”
“I’ll have Doll walk her down soon as she finished the ironing.” Queenie gave Ibby a nod and left the room.
About a minute later Queenie pushed the kitchen door open and looked into the dining room.
“I didn’t call you,” Fannie said.
“I know, Miss Fannie, but Mr. Henry already here with the groceries.”
“Tell him I’ll just be a minute.” Fannie stubbed her cigarette out and left the table hurriedly.
“Run on up and put some clothes on, baby,” Queenie said to Ibby as she picked up the empty plates. Then she mumbled to herself, “I sure hope Annabelle Friedrichs don’t bite Miss Ibby’s head off. She’s about as stuck-up as they come.”
When Ibby got to the second floor, she noticed the bedroom door to the left of the stairs was open a crack. There was an intermittent sound of a machine being turned on and off. She peered in to find sewing patterns and fabric strewn across the floor. Doll was sitting behind an old black Singer sewing machine, as the breeze from a ceiling fan riffled the edges of the pattern she was sewing. She stopped to inspect her work, then pressed the pedal on the floor as she guided the material through the machine. She didn’t have her wig on today. Her hair was ironed flat against her head and hung straight down just below her chin. She was singing softly to the song on the radio, as if she were trying not to awaken anyone.
When Ibby opened the door a little wider, it let out a screech.
Doll looked up, startled. “What you doing in here?” She yanked her sewing from the machine and hid it behind her back.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” Ibby didn’t finish the sentence, wondering why Doll looked so nervous.
Doll got up from the sewing machine and gently guided her out of the room.
As she shut the door, Ibby asked, “What’s in there that you don’t want me to see?”
“Normally, you welcome in my sewing room anytime, but I’m working on a project for Miss Fannie. Something for you.”
Ibby gave Doll a sideways glance, hoping it wasn’t another Shirley Temple dress.
“Don’t tell Miss Fannie you know, or she’ll get right mad.”
“Don’t worry,” Ibby said, looking past Doll.
“What’s wrong, baby? You missing something?”
“My daddy’s urn. Do you know where it is?”
“Oh, Miss Ibby, I had to move it. Miss Fannie’s not able to get past the fact that Mr. Graham is just a bunch of ashes in a jar, so I brought the urn up to Mr. Graham’s room for safekeeping.” She put her hands on her hips.
“I was afraid you’d thrown him away,” Ibby said.
Doll tapped the side of her face with her finger. “Come on, then—I’ll let you have a peek. But don’t tell no one I let you in there, understand? Not a word.” She stuck a key in the door directly across the hall from her sewing room. “This was your daddy’s room. He was a few years younger than you when he got sent away to boarding school over in Mississippi. Don’t think it’s changed much since then.”
In the center of the blue linoleum floor was a beautiful compass rose with long spikes of white and silver marking north, east, south, and west. A four-poster bed with a patchwork quilt was pushed against the wall, and next to it, a bookcase held an army of tin soldiers, just as Fannie had said. On the far wall, a large armoire took up the wall between two windows covered with blue plaid curtains. A stack of comic books was piled neatly in a corner.
“I put the urn in the armoire.” Doll pointed to the other side of the room. “If you want, I can leave the door unlocked—that way you can come visit whenever you want. But it’ll be our little secret. Understand?”
To Ibby’s surprise, the armoire was still full of her father’s clothes—T-shirts neatly stacked on the shelf, a few jackets and collared shirts, and a green Tulane sweatshirt hanging from the rod. Several pairs of shoes lined the bottom of the armoire. Doll had placed the urn between a pair of worn tennis shoes and brown penny loafers.
“I’ll leave you alone with your daddy.” Doll closed the door softly.
Ibby sat on her knees and stared at the brass urn for a good long while. She tried to envision her daddy’s eyes, the way they crinkled up at the edges when he told her how much he loved her. She missed hearing the sound of his voice. The cold linoleum floor only reminded her of how lonely she felt. She wondered if he had felt the same way when he lived here. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for causing his bicycle to slip on the wet pavement that day. She tried to find the words, but none would come. She bent her head and closed her eyes. The room was so quiet she could hear herself breathing.
“I’ll take care of you, I promise,” she said.
She placed the urn back in the armoire, then went over to the bookshelf where the tin soldiers were lined up. She searched until she found one she thought would have been his favorite, a soldier mounted on a stallion with his sword raised high in the air. She stuck it in her pocket and closed the door behind her.
Chapter Eleven
Ibby changed her clothes and came back down to find a dozen women dressed in maids’ uniforms buzzing around the picnic table on the back porch. Queenie was out there with them, standing off to the side, waving her hands around like a referee. Doll was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms across her chest, watching them.
“Who are all those people?” Ibby asked.
Doll twisted her mouth to the side. “You know that newspaper Miss Fannie was looking at this morning? Sometimes she spends all day with her nose stuck in that paper, figuring the odds, working the numbers. This afternoon she’ll be in her favorite chair in the front room, glued to the TV, just to make sure her team won.”
“I don’t understand.”
“See all those women out there shoving their way toward the picnic table? Their employers wouldn’t be caught dead coming down here themselves. The women who live in these big old houses on Prytania Street send their maids down here a couple of times a week just to place their bets with Mr. Henry.” Doll pointed to the only man on the porch, who was busy scribbling on a notepad. “Mr. Henry works for Mr. Salvatore, who owns the little grocery over t
here on Garfield Street. Besides delivering the groceries, Mr. Henry brings line sheets with him every day so all the women in the neighborhood can place their bets. He’s kind a like a bookie.”
“Is that bad?” Ibby asked.
“No, baby. That’s a good thing, especially where Miss Fannie is concerned. You see, Miss Fannie, she’s got a good track record, she do her homework, knows what to bet on. She made a lot a money that way. People found out. Started coming around, asking Miss Fannie for advice.”
“What do they bet on?”
“Lawd, child, all sorts of things. Horses. Dogs. Football. Who’s gone win the next election. When the first hurricane’s gone hit. Right now, they betting on horses, baseball, Wimbledon, the Olympic trials, and a few golf tournaments. Your grandmother, she can recite the odds right off the top of her head. So almost every morning, the second Mr. Henry shows up in our driveway on his red bicycle, it’s like a stampede to the back door. That’s why Miss Fannie jumped up and got dressed so quick-like. She knew what was coming.”
Ibby pointed at the mob of women. “Fannie’s out there?”
“Sure is. Smack dab in the middle, settin’ at the picnic table yelling out her picks to Mr. Henry. It’s a little game she like to play.” Doll shook her head.
“Baltimore over New York, three to one,” Fannie said.
“What she say?” one of the women asked.
“Philly,” another one answered.
“No, Baltimore,” another said.
“Miss Fannie won’t write her picks down for nobody but Mr. Henry, so he don’t get confused,” Doll went on. “But the women, they have to listen close, see if they can figure out what she telling Mr. Henry. They get it wrong half the time, but still, they do pretty good.”
Fannie let the women argue among themselves before she threw out another bet. “Emerson over Stolle, three sets to one in the finals.”
“Who?” one of the women asked.
“Shhhh. I can’t hear if you keep talking, Millie,” another said.
Doll shook her head. “The ladies of the house, they happy with the extra money they make off betting, helps buy them pretty dresses or that extra pair of shoes they been wanting but their husbands won’t pay for. And all those women out there in those maid uniforms? They like it ’cause they make a few extra bucks each week on account they get to place their own bets when they come. Makes everybody happy.”
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