“Show me,” she prodded.
T-Bone looked down at the ladder, then back at Ibby. “Don’t know if I can do it on this ladder.” He tried to move his knees in a dance move but almost lost his balance. “Naw, can’t do it on this ladder.”
“Get off the ladder and come show me then,” she said, pointing over her shoulder toward her room.
He looked at her and shook his head. “You heard Doll. She say she catch me in your room again, we all gone be in trouble.”
“You scared of your big sister?” she teased.
“Well, no, not really, but she got a point.”
“Aw, come on, please? Come show me how to dance.” She held out her hand to him.
T-Bone looked around to make sure no one was watching. “Well, okay, maybe just for a minute. But don’t tell nobody.” He crawled in through the window. “Not much room in here. You’re gone have to step aside so I can show you how it’s done.”
“Okay.” She sat on the bed and pulled her knees to her chest. “Go ahead.”
T-Bone took off his hat and sunglasses and placed them on the bedside table. He stood back and started shuffling his feet around as he bowed his knees and stuck his elbows out. The next thing she knew, he put his heel out and did a 360 in place, before jumping to the ground in a half split.
Ibby’s jaw fell open. “Wow, you can really dance.” She hopped up from the bed. “Teach me how to do it.”
He jumped up from the floor. She was standing so close to him that the smell of his sweat mingled with paint was almost making her giddy.
“Okay, then, just follow me,” he said.
Ibby tried to mimic him, but when she attempted the 360, she fell backward. T-Bone caught her by her arms. She let out a laugh as she looked up at him.
“You got a right nice laugh, Miss Ibby. You should laugh more often. Makes your face light up.” He pulled her up until she was standing.
She turned to face him. “Mind if I ask you something?”
He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Sure, what you want to know?”
“What was Vietnam like?”
T-Bone let his head drop until his chin almost touched his chest, then looked up at the ceiling. “Sure was an ugly time. Gone haunt me the rest of my life. That’s all I can say about it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shook his head and glanced her way. “If there’s one thing Mama taught me, it’s that you got to dance even when there ain’t no music. You know what I’m saying?”
Ibby nodded sympathetically. “Is that why you play the trombone? Is it your way of escaping the pain?”
T-Bone took in a deep breath. “I’ve always liked to play, but after I came back from Vietnam, it took on a whole new meaning. They say music is good for the soul. It’s what saved me. When I play, I can just kind of crawl between the notes and forget.”
They stood in silence for a few moments. Ibby fought back the urge to hug him.
He looked up and caught her eye. “Maybe you should come hear me play sometime.”
“I’d like that.” She took his hand in hers.
“By the way, Miss Fannie hired me to play at your party. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No, she didn’t mention it.” Ibby shook her head. “I haven’t exactly had any input as far as the party goes.”
“Hope you don’t mind.”
“No. It’s probably the only thing about the party I’m happy about so far.”
Doll’s voice rang out. “Miss Ibby, we need you downstairs!”
T-Bone and Ibby looked at each other.
“Gotta go,” he whispered.
Before she could say goodbye, he’d scrambled out the window. A second later Doll opened the door to Ibby’s room.
“What’s going on in here? I thought I heard voices,” Doll said.
“Oh . . . that was my new Moody Blues album I was playing. Sometimes they talk instead of singing the songs.” Ibby pointed at the stereo.
“Talk instead of singing—now ain’t that something,” Doll said as she followed Ibby out the door, giving one last glance at the window. “You get some new sunglasses, too?”
When they got downstairs, they found Fannie in the front parlor, flipping through a pattern book.
“We need to pick out your dress for your party so Doll can get started on it,” Fannie said.
“Miss Ibby, come stand on this here coffee table,” said Doll. “This is a long dress, not like the short one I made you for Winnie’s party, and you growed so much I got to get all new measurements.”
When Ibby stepped onto the table, Doll took the measuring tape and placed one end on her waist and let the other end drop. “So Miss Fannie, what you’re telling me is that you want a full-length gown and not one, say, come up to here.” Doll pointed to just below Ibby’s knee.
“No, no,” Fannie said. “To the floor. This is a formal party. She should have a formal dress.”
“But Fannie,” Ibby protested, “I don’t think the other girls will be wearing long dresses.”
“This is a proper party, and you will wear a proper dress.”
Ibby picked up the LIFE magazine from the coffee table and flipped through it. “Look at all these women. They’re wearing dresses above the knee. Mod dresses. It’s the new style. Long dresses are so old-fashioned.”
“If it were a tea party, maybe. This is a formal party. After seven o’clock, you wear formal dress. End of argument,” Fannie said.
“Maybe fifty years ago,” Ibby shot back.
As Fannie and Doll argued about the dress, Ibby saw that The John Pela Show, a local Saturday show where teenagers from across the city came to dance to the latest music, was on television. Ibby watched the young women in miniskirts and go-go boots swing their hips around to “Tighten Up” by Archie Bell and the Drells. Trying to imitate them, she swiveled her hips, then slid easily into the dance move T-Bone had just taught her.
Fannie and Doll both stopped their bickering and looked at her.
“Why, Miss Ibby, where’d you learn how to dance like that?” Doll asked.
Ibby pointed over at the television. “From The John Pela Show.”
Doll eyed her. “That don’t look like no move I’ve seen on the Pela show.”
The phone rang in the hall.
“I’ll get it,” Doll said.
“I’m going to look like an idiot in a long dress,” Ibby complained to Fannie. “It’s my party. Let me dress the way I want. Look at those girls on the TV. They all have on short skirts.”
“Miss Ibby, it’s for you,” Doll said.
Ibby jumped down from the table and ran into the hall. She took the phone and placed her hand over the bottom of the receiver. “Go in there and reason with Fannie,” she urged Doll.
A few minutes later Ibby came back into the room. “Well?”
Doll was flipping through the pattern book again. “What about this one?”
“Don’t like the sleeves,” Fannie said.
Doll flipped a few more pages and held the book up. “This one?”
“I like it. Simple yet elegant,” Fannie said. “That’s the one.”
“Don’t I even get to choose the style of dress I’m wearing?” Ibby came over and stood next to Doll.
“Miss Fannie likes this one.” Doll pointed to a sleeveless empire dress with a sash.
“I told you. I don’t want a long dress.” Ibby stomped her foot on the floor.
“Then sort it out with your grandmother,” Doll said, rolling her eyes.
Ibby and Fannie went back and forth about the dress for a good while until the doorbell rang.
Fannie craned her neck toward the front window. “Who could that be?”
Doll pulled aside the lace curtain. “It’s your chubby friend with the fri
zzy hair.”
“I don’t have any chubby friends with frizzy hair,” Fannie said.
“It’s Miss Ibby’s friend,” Doll said.
“Winnie Waguespack and I are going downtown to shop for a party dress for her at D. H. Holmes Department Store. Why can’t I just buy one there?” Ibby asked.
“Because Doll can make you a better one,” Fannie snapped.
Ibby answered the door and came back into the front parlor with Winnie.
“How you, Miss Fannie?” Winnie said, smiling way too long.
“Why, just fine,” Fannie said, mocking her. “How you?”
Winnie dropped her smile.
Ibby piped up, “Winnie, what are you wearing to your sweet sixteen party—a long dress, or a cocktail dress?”
Winnie looked from Ibby to Fannie, then back to Ibby. “Why, probably whatever my mother wants me to wear, I’m sure.”
“I told you,” Fannie said.
“Miss Fannie’s always right.” Doll picked up the pattern book and left the room.
“Please, Fannie, let me buy a new dress,” Ibby said. “Just this once.”
“Now, if you girls will excuse me, I have some things to attend to,” Fannie said, making her way toward the hall.
When the girls got to Winnie’s car, Ibby asked, “Why didn’t you tell the truth, Winnie? You’re not wearing a long dress to your party, are you?”
Winnie opened the car door and looked over at Ibby. “Why, Miss Ibby Bell. That was the truth. If Mama had her way, I’d be wearing her old debutante dress from the nineteen-forties. There was an old trunk up in the attic with all her old party dresses. I made sure that trunk disappeared. Now I get to pick out my own dress at D. H. Holmes. You just have to be smart about these things.”
Ibby got into the car, thinking hard about what Winnie had just told her.
Winnie patted her on the knee. “It’ll be fine. Just you wait and see. I’m sure Doll will make you a right pretty dress.”
Ibby spent most of the afternoon watching Winnie wiggle into every dress at D. H. Holmes before she finally settled on five, all of which were to be sent to her house on approval.
“Mama’s probably going to be disappointed I didn’t bring home at least one formal gown,” Winnie explained on the way to the car. “I’ll just tell her they didn’t have my size.” She got into the driver’s seat and checked her watch. “Oh Lord, I told Mama I’d be back by three. It’s almost four.”
Ibby leaned in the window. “You go ahead. I need to run an errand.”
Winnie looked puzzled. “Why didn’t you say something before? I wouldn’t have dillydallied so long. Besides, it looks like rain. Don’t you want a ride home?”
“I can take the bus. Don’t worry about me.”
Winnie gave out an exasperated sigh. “Alrighty. I’ll see you at my party, if not before.” She waved a hand out the window and disappeared down Canal Street.
All afternoon Ibby had been thinking of something other than shopping. The building on Ursulines Street where the photo of Vidrine had been taken was only a few blocks away, in the French Quarter. And even though Birdelia had tried on several occasions to convince Ibby that Mr. Rainold had been mistaken, she couldn’t get the image of the woman in the photograph out of her mind.
Ibby hurried down Royal Street with the photo in her hand. The image was blurry, as if the woman had been fleeing from the photographer. Her head was turned to the side, leaving only a small portion of her face exposed to the camera, but something about the manic expression in the eyes reminded Ibby of her mother. Could it be her? And if it was, what exactly was Ibby going to say to her if she did find her?
Why did you leave me? Don’t you love me?
Deep down, Ibby wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer to that last question.
She passed a woman sitting huddled on a corner, her head covered by a scarf so that her face was concealed; the only thing showing was a bony hand holding out a tin cup. Ibby reached into her pocket and dropped a quarter. The woman let out a muffled thank-you but didn’t look up. Ibby bent down, trying to see her face. The woman flinched and pulled the scarf down, but not before Ibby saw that the woman was toothless and gray-haired. Ibby dropped another coin into the cup and walked off.
Birdelia had been right. Ever since Mr. Rainold told her that her mother might be in town, she’d been eyeing every stranger. She just couldn’t help herself.
Ibby noticed a woman coming out of a building up the street. She had her back to Ibby as she locked her door. She started off toward the back of the Quarter, in the direction Ibby was going. She had the same color hair as her mother and was about the same height. The woman glanced her way, then hurried on down the street. Ibby tried to catch up with her.
“Mama?” Ibby called out.
The woman kept going, then turned onto a side street.
“Vidrine, is that you?” Ibby yelled.
By the time Ibby reached the corner, there was no trace of her.
“Vidrine!” Ibby screamed in frustration.
What am I doing? Ibby thought as she stared down the empty sidewalk. My mother isn’t here. Why did Mr. Rainold lead me on like that? Why did he get my hopes up? She was about to turn back when she noticed the tiles embedded in the sidewalk at the next corner—Rue Ursulines, the street where Mr. Rainold said the photo had been taken. Ibby crossed the street, toward a trio of musicians playing on the corner. The sky rumbled overhead as one of the young men, with wire-rimmed glasses, held out his hat, asking for a contribution. Ibby waved him off.
She didn’t have to travel down Ursulines very far to find the building she was looking for. It was the second one on the left, a typical French Quarter town house with heavily shuttered windows and peeling plaster walls. She went over to the green door on the far side and rang the bell. When no one answered, she rang the bell again.
“You looking for somebody?” one of the musicians on the corner called out as he flipped his long hair behind his back.
“Is this the building owned by a woman named Avi?”
“Why you want to know?” he asked as he came over to where she was standing.
Ibby held out the picture of her mother and showed it to him. “Have you seen this woman?”
He took it from her, then shook his head and handed it back.
“Are you sure?”
“Who is she?” the man asked.
Ibby didn’t want to sound desperate. “A friend.”
The man called to his buddies. “Dudes, come on over here and take a look at this.”
One of the other fellows, with a long beard, came over. “Yeah, man?”
He took the picture from Ibby and showed them. “You seen this chick?”
The two men shook their heads. “No, man,” the bearded one said. “Not one of us.”
“Do you live here?” Ibby pointed to the building.
The bearded man put his hands into his jeans pocket, and gave her a funny grin. She could tell he was high on something.
“Can I take a look around?” Ibby took the photo back from the man with the glasses.
He shrugged. “You can go in. The door’s not locked. But no one’s there.”
Ibby pushed the heavy green door open and walked cautiously down a dark and dank carriageway.
“Hello—anybody home?” she called out.
When no one answered, Ibby went to the end of the carriageway. It opened onto a brick courtyard where several iron tables and chairs were haphazardly scattered about. Someone had been here recently because there were empty plates and cups left on some of the tables. At the far end of the courtyard, along a brick wall that must have been twenty feet high, a fountain of a lion spewed water. The smell of stale incense lingered in the air. On the upper galleries, sheets and clothing hung from the railings. The place had an ee
rie feeling. It looked as if everyone had left in a hurry.
“Hello! I’m looking for Vidrine Crump!” she hollered.
The man in the wire-rimmed glasses appeared behind her.
“You scared me,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Alone with the stranger, she became nervous and fled down the carriageway and back onto the street. It had begun to rain, a hard rain coming down in sheets. She stood underneath the gallery to the building, wondering what she should do, when water began dripping onto her head from a hole on the flooring above.
The man in the wire-rimmed glasses came out and stood next to her. “Why are you looking for that woman?”
She wiped the rain from her face. “She’s my mother.”
“Is she lost?” he asked.
She glanced at him sideways, unsure how to answer. “No, I am.” Then she trudged off down the street, muttering to herself as rain pounded her face, “This was a stupid idea.”
By the time she got to the stop on Canal Street, one of the buses was just leaving. Drenched and filled with disappointment, she decided to walk home. As she made her way down Tchoupitoulas Street near the edge of the river, she took the picture of her mother from her purse. She stared at it for a moment, then tore it up and tossed it into the gutter. She wiped the rain from her face as she watched the pieces float away like a shattered memory, until they eventually disappeared down the storm drain.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Doll was in the kitchen with Queenie when the doorbell rang.
Queenie looked up from the sink. “You expecting somebody?”
“No, Mama. Probably just Omar the Pie Man, or maybe one of them other street vendors who come by every week trying to sell us something. I’ll go see.”
When Doll answered the door, she found a woman sitting on the front steps, her back toward the door. Doll stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “Can I help you?”
A warm breeze passed across the lawn. The woman wrapped a tattered shawl around her shoulders as if she were chilly.
Doll tapped her on the back. “You need something?”
The woman glanced up. Doll could tell from the haggard face and bulging eyes that she was sick.
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