Ibby and Doll watched the women bickering with one another. Poor Mr. Henry was scribbling down what Fannie told him, but every once in a while, even he had to look up and ask her to repeat the bet.
“What was that you say?” Mr. Henry squinted.
“Broncos to pick up Billy Lott from the Patriots.”
Mr. Henry nodded and scribbled some more.
Doll sighed. “Miss Fannie has made a pretty penny on her picks. Everyone knows about it. Shucks, a few days, we even get the police coming around, asking Miss Fannie for tips. Used to scare the living daylights out of me when them blue uniforms would show up and knock on the door, but now I’m used to it. Most a the time, anyhow.”
Money was being shoved at Mr. Henry from all directions. He’d look around, trying to see who was doing the shoving, and each time he did, his head hit one of the plastic penny bags hanging from the rafters. It kept swinging around and hitting him in the face no matter how many times he swatted it away. Grab the money, swat, grab the money, swat the bag again. Ibby stifled a giggle.
Finally, Mr. Henry put his hand up in the air. “Please, ladies, one at a time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Doll pointed out toward the porch. “Like flies on flypaper whenever Mr. Henry comes by. Got some mighty big flies out there, too.” Doll chuckled. “Now come on. I’m supposed to take you over to Mrs. Friedrichs’s house so you can play with her girl.”
As they started down the sidewalk, Ibby asked, “How far is the Friedrichses’ house?”
“Just up the block,” Doll said, walking slowly, as if she were in no hurry to get there.
“You been working for my grandma a long time?” Ibby asked as they strolled along.
“Started coming by to do the ironing when I was about your age. Had to quit school. Mama said I didn’t need no more schooling anyway. Said all I needed was right there in that house.” Doll shook her head.
Ibby sensed regret in her voice.
“How long has Queenie been with Fannie?” Ibby asked.
Doll stopped and picked a flower from an azalea bush, studied it, then tossed it over the fence of the house they were standing in front of. “Long time, baby. She came with the house.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know, like the furniture, the rugs, the silver. It all came with the house.”
“And how long ago was that?” Ibby asked.
“The way Mama tells it, an old widow lady by the name of Miss Althea lived in that house before Miss Fannie. Miss Althea lost her husband when she was young. Never had any children. So when she died, the house went up for sale, lock, stock, and barrel. Mr. Norwood bought it for Miss Fannie right after they married. That first day when Miss Fannie and Mr. Norwood moved in, with nothing more than one little suitcase apiece, my mama was standing in the dining room like she did every morning. Mama say she remembers that day as if it were yesterday.”
The new owners of the house had just arrived. Queenie could hear the man talking in the hall as she stood nervously beside the dining room chair where she had waited for instructions from Miss Althea every day for the past fifteen years. Queenie brushed off her uniform and straightened her starched cap as she peered into the hall, trying to get a glimpse of the young couple. Gal can’t be no more than eighteen, Queenie thought.
The woman dropped her suitcase onto the ground. “We’re living here, in this old house?”
“Don’t you like it, Fannie darling?” her husband asked as he took off his hat and fingered it nervously.
“Norwood, it’s just that . . . it’s so big!” she cried. “Aren’t we in a depression? How can we afford it?”
“Sweetie, you don’t need to worry about that,” he said. “I told you when I married you that I’d take good care of you.”
Queenie didn’t quite know what to make of the couple. The young woman was all dolled up, wearing a tight-fitting skirt and a silk blouse that barely hid her ample bosom.
“You’ll get used to it, sugar,” Norwood said as he started up the stairs. “Now come on. Let’s check out the bedroom.” He gave Fannie a quick wink.
Fannie stood in the hall as if trying to decide what to do. Instead of following Norwood, she went into the front parlor and looked around. She tugged on the red velvet curtains, ran her fingers along the white marble fireplace, rubbed the fabric on the settee, then turned and walked into the dining room and began tracing the lines of the dining room table with her fingertips.
“How do, ma’am?” Queenie said when Fannie got to the end of the table, where she was standing.
Fannie jumped back. “Who are you?”
Queenie stood calmly, trying to hide her apprehension despite the tiny specks of sweat that had formed on her forehead. It was clear this young woman was nothing like old Miss Althea, a very proper lady full of manners and grace. This new woman was so rough around the edges that Queenie thought it might be in her best interest to find another position. On the other hand, did she really want to go to all that trouble when she already knew the house, the neighborhood, and the weekly routine? She had to make a decision, and she had to make it quickly.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? Get out!” Fannie ordered.
It took Queenie less than a second to figure out that this woman had never had a maid before. She was going to be a challenge, for sure. Queenie drew in a breath.
“I’m the maid, ma’am. My name’s Saphronia Trout. I comes with the house,” Queenie said, trying to sound as if she belonged.
“I never heard a no maid come with a house before,” Fannie said.
Lawd, listen how she talks. Working class—Queenie was sure of it now. And that accent, she ain’t from the city. Probably country folk, the way she draws out her words like they is taking their time getting out of her mouth. But one thing’s for sure. She gone live in this neighborhood, I’m gone have to teach her how to talk proper so she don’t stick out like a sore thumb. Lawd, all I need is for the other help to make fun. Can’t have none a that. Maybe start her on the word of the day in the newspaper, to improve her vocabulary. Gone try to make her more like Miss Althea. Now that lady, she had manners.
“And what kind of highfalutin’ name is Saphro . . . Saphro . . .”
“Saphronia, ma’am,” Queenie interjected.
“What kind of name is that anyway? Just who do you think you are? Queen of the Nile? Huh, Queenie?” Fannie put her hands on her hips. “Now go on home, like I told you.” She gave Queenie a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” Queenie left the dining room, grabbed her pocketbook from the kitchen drawer, and left.
The next morning, Queenie came back. And when Miss Fannie came down the stairs, Queenie was standing in the same spot as she had been the day before, beside the dining room chair.
“Queenie, what the hell you doing here?” Fannie huffed. “I thought I told you to go home and never come back.”
Queenie was afraid to look at her on account she had on a see-through nightie. Instead, she peered at her sideways, trying not to flinch. “What can I get you for breakfast, ma’am?”
“You cook?” Fannie folded her arms across her body, suddenly conscious she was standing there half-naked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a mighty fine cook, according to Miss Althea.”
“I don’t need no cook,” Fannie said, waving her hand at Queenie. “Now go on home, like I told you.”
For the next week, Queenie came back to that house on Prytania Street every day. And each morning she asked Miss Fannie what she wanted for breakfast. Finally, on the seventh day, Miss Fannie gave Queenie a different answer.
“You know how to make eggs benedict?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Queenie answered.
A little while later Queenie came back into the dining room and placed the eggs in front of Miss Fannie along
with a brandy milk punch, hoping the brandy might make her more palatable.
Fannie looked at the plate with wonder in her face. “I ain’t never had eggs benedict before.”
“Well,” Queenie said, hoisting up her bosom, “now you can have them every morning, if that’s what you want.”
Fannie cut a portion of the eggs benedict and tasted it.
“Why, this is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!” she declared.
“I got plenty more where that came from. Can make you gumbo, or grillades, or whatever else you like. I make me a mean crème brûlée.”
Fannie turned her steely blue eyes up at Queenie. “Really? You’ll stay? I’ll call you Saphro . . . Saphro—you know, your name—if that’s what you want.”
Queenie wasn’t quite sure what to make of her sentimentality. No employer had ever talked that way to her before, so intimate like. Maybe she not so bad after all.
“Queenie’ll do just fine, Miss Fannie.”
“Your grandma, she been calling her Queenie ever since. Been a good thirty years now,” Doll said.
“Did Fannie make up your name, too?” Ibby asked.
Doll shook her head. “No, child. The way Mama tells it, the day I came into this world, she said I looked like a little brown baby doll, the kind you find in a king cake. From that day on, she called me her little Dollbaby.”
“What’s a king cake?” Ibby asked.
Doll twisted her mouth. “I forget you ain’t from around here. You heard of Mardi Gras, ain’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“King cakes are an oval-shaped strudel they serve during the Mardi Gras season. I don’t really know why, but they stick a little naked doll the size of a half my pinkie in the middle of the cake. Sometimes it’s porcelain, sometimes plastic, but they always look the same—they got their little arms and legs sticking up in the air like they getting ready to pee.”
“Is Dollbaby your real name?”
“No. It’s Viola, but nobody calls me that, lessen we at church.”
Doll stopped in front of a large clapboard center-hall cottage painted the color of strawberry ice cream. A boxwood hedge led up to a raised front porch lined with columns. In the side yard, a towering pecan tree held a swing on its lower branches, the grass beneath it worn thin.
Doll bent over and whispered to Ibby, “Now, don’t you let little Miss Annabelle get under your skin. You hear me? She thinks she’s a real princess, just like her mama do. Don’t be put off by no airs she puts on, that’s all I’m saying.”
With that, Doll led Ibby up the stairs and rang the doorbell. Through the etched-glass paneling in the front door, Ibby could see a long-legged woman in uniform approaching.
“Fine morning to you, Doll.” The woman opened the door. “And who we got here?”
“Ernestine, this here is Miss Fannie’s grandchild. She visiting for a while. Miss Fannie thought Miss Ibby might be good company for Miss Annabelle.”
Ernestine waved them in. “Miss Annabelle’s out in the kitchen doing her best to finish off the batch of chocolate lace cookies I just made.”
“Miss Honey here?” Doll asked with a slight catch to her voice.
“She’s out shopping.”
Doll sighed with relief. In the kitchen, a little girl with beribboned pigtails was perched on a stool, eating a large lace cookie. Her kinky hair was the color of a brand-new penny, and her face was covered in freckles of almost the same hue.
“Cookies just came out of the oven. Want one?” Ernestine asked Ibby, picking up a plate of cookies.
“Yes, please,” Ibby said politely as she placed a cookie on the napkin Ernestine held out for her.
Annabelle jumped down from the stool and looked at Ibby. She had chocolate smeared on the side of her face. Ibby took an instant dislike to her. And from the nasty look on Annabelle’s face, the feeling was mutual.
“Who are you?” Annabelle demanded, her mouth falling open to reveal a gap in her front teeth large enough to fit a number-two pencil.
Ibby thought Annabelle looked like a cross between Howdy Doody and Raggedy Ann. It wasn’t a good combination.
“Be nice, Miss Annabelle,” Ernestine said. “This here is Miss Fannie down the street’s granddaughter. She come to visit a spell.”
Ibby took a bite of the cookie and watched Annabelle. Annabelle in turn cocked her head as if she smelled something awful.
“You two run on outside and busy yourself in the backyard,” Ernestine said.
Annabelle licked the chocolate off her fingers and opened the back door. “You coming or not? I don’t have all day.”
Ibby looked up at Doll with pleading eyes.
“You go on now, Miss Ibby. It’ll be all right.” Doll nudged Ibby forward and whispered in her ear. “You just remember what I told you.”
Chapter Twelve
Not an hour later, Doll peered out the back window to find Ernestine walking up the driveway wearing a nervous face, with Ibby trudging along beside her.
“Look like we got a little problem,” Doll said, pinching her mouth to one side.
Queenie wiped her hands on her apron and went to the window just as Ernestine came to the back door.
“What happened?” Doll propped the screened door open with her foot.
“Ibby and Annabelle, they got into a fight. I’ll let her tell you about it.” Ernestine nodded at Ibby.
Queenie grabbed Ibby’s chin as she came up the back steps. “God Almighty. What happened to you? You got one doozy of a black eye.”
“Her knee, it’s kind of scraped up, too.” Ernestine looked up at Doll from the bottom of the steps. “Miss Honey says Miss Ibby ain’t welcome at their house no more for beating up her Annabelle.” She leaned closer to Doll and Queenie. “Been a long time coming, far as I’m concerned. Looked like a catfight in the backyard until I got the garden hose and sprayed ’em down. Just sorry Miss Ibby here got hurt.”
“Thank you kindly for bringing her home,” Queenie said as she closed the screened door.
Ernestine turned to go.
A second later Queenie opened the door and called after her. “If that be the case, might want to let Miss Honey know that Miss Fannie won’t be able to help her out no more when Mr. Henry come around, if you know what I mean.” Queenie smiled real big.
Ernestine’s shoulders heaved with laughter. “I understand. Certainly do. I’ll be sure and pass that on to Miss Honey.”
Queenie pointed to a bush at the bottom of the steps next to where Ibby was standing. “Child, reach down and pick me a leaf off that bush.”
Ibby picked a leaf and handed it to Queenie. Queenie crushed the leaf in her hands and handed it back to her.
“Here, press this up against your eye. Geranium leaf will calm it down a bit.” She turned to Doll. “Where’s Miss Fannie at?”
“She’s taking a nap, resting up before the big game on the TV this afternoon,” Doll answered.
“Good. Give me some time to think about how to handle this. Miss Ibby, come on over here and sit on this stool so I can get a better look.” Queenie scoured the kitchen. “One around here somewhere. Just saw it.”
“If you looking for that spiderweb, saw one out on the porch,” Doll said. “Noticed it when Mr. Henry came by earlier.”
Doll climbed onto the picnic table and removed a large web from the corner. She came back into the kitchen and handed it to Queenie, who gently folded it over several times and placed it on top of Ibby’s skinned-up knee.
“No need to buy no gauze when we got spiderwebs do just as good.” Queenie winked at Ibby. “Just hold it in place a spell. It’ll get that knee to quit bleeding.” She motioned toward the refrigerator. “Now, Doll, go fetch me one of them tallow candles, the ones I keep in the icebox in case Miss Fannie hurts herself.”
Doll han
ded the candle to Queenie, who placed it against Ibby’s eye, which was now a splotchy mess of purple and red where Annabelle had punched her.
Queenie’s forehead crinkled up. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“Is it true?” Ibby asked.
“Is what true?” Queenie asked.
“That my grandma was a stripper on Bourbon Street?” Ibby said with eyes so wide they looked as if they might pop.
Doll shook her head. What had that devil child been telling Miss Ibby?
“Now, tell me, Miss Ibby, how on earth something like that ever come up?” Queenie asked.
“Annabelle said her mama told her that the lady who lived in the haunted house down the street was nothing but trash, a stripper from Bourbon Street.”
“Miss Annabelle said that?” Queenie asked.
Ibby nodded. “I got mad, so I pushed the swing and it accidentally hit her in the head. She started screaming bloody murder.”
“Bet she did,” Doll said. “She’s one big drama queen.”
“Then Annabelle came over and raised her fist at me, said she was gonna beat me up until I saw stars coming out of my eyes.”
Doll pulled up a stool next to Ibby and handed Queenie another cold candle.
“Bet that’s not the first time Miss Annabelle been in a fight.” Queenie changed out the candle and held the new one up against Ibby’s eye.
“Then what happened?” Doll prodded, wondering how much Miss Annabelle had told Miss Ibby.
“Annabelle punched me, so I kicked her. Next thing I know she’s pushed me down on the driveway, so I yanked her down by the ankle. We were rolling around on the ground when Ernestine came out and turned the hose on us.” Ibby’s words were coming out so fast she could barely catch her breath.
“Calm down, Miss Ibby. We ain’t going nowhere,” Queenie said.
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