“Why don’t y’all go on up by the river, near the Butterfly? I’ll meet you there in about twenty minutes, when I get off.”
“Why you whispering?” Birdelia asked as she lit the cigarette.
A high-pitched voice called out from inside the barn, “Why isn’t my horse saddled yet?”
Annabelle Friedrichs sauntered out of the stables, dressed in tight black riding pants that barely contained her fat rear end.
“Well, who have we here?” Annabelle eyed Birdelia savagely before approaching Ibby. “You got a horse here?”
“I’m thinking about getting one,” Ibby shot back. “I wanted to check out the stables before I decided.”
It was a lie of course, but Ibby was determined not to let Annabelle get the best of her.
“Well, you can’t keep it here—the stables are full,” she said smugly before turning toward T-Bone. “Hurry up and saddle my horse. I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, Miss Annabelle,” T-Bone said as he walked into the barn.
“Why don’t you go and help get my horse ready?” Annabelle said to Birdelia.
“I don’t work here,” Birdelia said.
“She’s with me,” Ibby said defiantly.
Annabelle tapped the side of her leg with her riding stick. “Oh, I forgot. Ibby Bell always was a nigger lover.”
T-Bone must have heard Annabelle’s comment because he came out of the barn looking so angry, Ibby thought he might smack Annabelle. Instead, he led her horse out calmly and handed her the reins.
“Here you go, miss.”
“Aren’t you going to help me up on the saddle?”
T-Bone gave Annabelle a lift up. After she trotted off, he headed back inside the barn without a word.
Birdelia turned to Ibby. “My grandma has a saying: ‘Ugly is as ugly does.’ That Annabelle one big fat ugly.”
They walked to the back of the park toward the river, where they passed the zoo and the public swimming pool with the padlocked gates. When they crossed over the levee, they came upon a big open field. At the far end, near the river, was a concession stand that looked like a butterfly, with wings jutting out on either side. Birdelia stopped to buy a snowball.
“You want one?” She licked the red syrup off the side of the paper cup.
“No thanks,” Ibby said. She was still thinking about the way Annabelle had spoken to T-Bone. It had left a sour taste in her mouth.
Birdelia led Ibby to some steps that went down to the batture of the river. They sat on large boulders the Army Corps of Engineers had placed around the river’s edge to keep erosion at bay. Beyond the rocks was a small beach of river mud littered with garbage where pigeons were scavenging. The water lapped against the rocks as a tugboat pushing a grain barge let out a whistle as it passed under the Mississippi River Bridge, scaring up the pelicans perched in the rafters.
After a while, T-Bone came down to the batture to join them. He lit a cigarette.
“I’m sorry about the way Annabelle acted just now,” Ibby said.
T-Bone gave her a small sideways glance. “Used to it.”
Everyone sat in their own thoughts, watching the river. Ibby could tell T-Bone was angry, even if he tried to pretend he wasn’t. Birdelia stood up on the boulder and began throwing pebbles at the pigeons. When they scattered, she skimmed a stone across the water, where it skipped several times before disappearing beneath the surface.
“We got company.” Birdelia pointed behind T-Bone.
Three colored boys about T-Bone’s age approached. One of them had on a jacket with the hood pulled up over his head, even though it was at least ninety degrees outside.
“Hey, man,” the boy said to T-Bone as the two other boys hovered behind him.
“What you want, Peanut?” T-Bone said.
Peanut narrowed his eyes. “Say, what you doin’ with that cracker?”
T-Bone shook his head. “She ain’t with me, man. That’s Birdelia’s friend.”
Birdelia whispered to Ibby, “They nervous ’cause they not used to being around no white girl, that’s all. To them, all white folks is trouble. Just don’t say nothing, or they might pick a fight with T-Bone.”
The boy pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “Got me some bitching weed. Twenty for the lid.”
T-Bone shook his head.
“Hey, man, got to sell this shit. You don’t want a whole lid, how about half?” Peanut pulled a joint from his pocket and handed it to T-Bone. “Try it.”
“How I know it’s the same shit that’s in the bag?” T-Bone asked.
Peanut took out a pack of rolling papers from his pocket. He handed the bag to one of his companions, who held it open for him while he pulled out some weed. He was about to roll a joint when they heard a whistle. Ibby looked up to find a policeman standing on the retaining wall, pointing down at them with a billy club.
“You, down there in the jacket—what’s that in your hand?” the policeman yelled.
The boy dropped the bag as if it were on fire. “Nothing.”
Ibby felt a tug on her sleeve. Everyone began to run.
“I know her,” Ibby heard someone say.
It was that voice again.
Annabelle Friedrichs was sitting high up on her horse, looking over the edge, pointing down at Ibby with her riding stick.
Ibby ran as fast as her feet would carry her, up over the seawall, past the railroad tracks, through the park, but somewhere along the way, she lost Birdelia. At Prytania Street, she stopped and bent over, trying to get rid of the stitch in her side. She glanced around, out of breath. When she was sure no one was chasing her, she walked the rest of the way.
By the time Ibby got to Fannie’s, Birdelia was standing by the back door as if she were afraid to go in. Crow was standing just inside the door. Ibby could see Doll in the kitchen with her arm around Queenie’s shoulder.
“What happened?” Ibby whispered to Birdelia.
“My uncle, Purnell. Poppy says he’s been shot.”
Fannie came into the kitchen and placed a hand on Crow’s shoulder and handed him an envelope. “This should take care of it. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Thank you kindly, Miss Fannie,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
Doll tried to rouse Queenie from the stool. “Come on now, Mama—we got to go to the hospital.”
Crow went over to Queenie and slid his arm around her middle.
Doll tried to lift her up by her arms. “Come on, Mama.”
Birdelia went in and grabbed her grandmother’s hand and tugged at it. “Come on, Mee-maw, we got to go.”
“My baby, my baby, my baby,” was all Queenie was saying, over and over.
T-Bone appeared at the back door, sweating. “What’s going on?”
“Come on over here and help Mama get to the car,” Doll said.
Birdelia whispered to T-Bone, “Purnell.”
That was all Birdelia had to say.
Chapter Thirty-Two
After the Trouts left, Ibby stood by the kitchen door, listening to Fannie on the phone in the hall.
“I’d like to place an order for delivery on Elysian Fields Avenue,” she said, puffing on a cigarette. “No, not in the Marigny—closer to the lake. . . . What do you mean, you don’t deliver to that neighborhood?” Fannie slammed the phone down, fuming. Her hand remained on the receiver, as if she were trying to decide what to do.
She picked it up again. “Leah, this is Fannie Bell. I need some food sent over to the Trout family. . . . That’s right, Queenie and Crow. . . . What happened? Their boy Purnell was shot. . . . No, they just left to go over to the hospital, don’t know the arrangements yet. I need your help in telling me what I should send over. . . . What’s the usual?” She repeated the order. “Fried chicken, gumbo, fried
catfish, bread pudding, and sweet potato pie. What about booze? . . . You’ll take care of that? Whatever you think, you know better than me. . . . Wonderful. Just let me know how much it is, and I’ll send the cash over later. . . . My number? Twinbrook seven four three five one. Bye-bye now.” Fannie hung up, stormed into her bedroom, and slammed the door.
Ibby remained in the kitchen, waiting to see if Fannie was going to come out of her room, when she smelled something burning. Queenie had been in such a state earlier that she’d left the burner on under the pot on the stove. As Ibby turned the burner off and put the spoon in the sink, it dawned on her that she couldn’t remember being in the kitchen when Queenie wasn’t there.
“Ibby darling, are you in the kitchen? Come on out here,” Fannie called from the dining room.
Fannie was sitting at the table. “Listen, honey, Queenie and Doll won’t be around for a few days, so we’ll just have to make do. Purnell was”—she paused—“such a nice kid before he got mixed up with that crowd. He used to come around here when he was a teenager, do odd jobs, tend the lawn.”
“How’d he get shot?” Ibby asked.
“They didn’t say—I’m sure Kennedy will fill me in later. But I expect it had something to do with his Black Panther friends. Such a tragedy.” She tapped her finger on the table thoughtfully. “Kids get in trouble sometimes—no matter how much you love them.”
“Purnell . . . is he dead?” Ibby asked.
“Crow said Purnell was shot in the head, something about a scuffle downtown with the police. I’m not holding out much hope for his survival, dear. I expect there’ll be a wake as soon as the body is released to the funeral home.”
“What’s a wake?” Ibby asked.
“Oh, sometimes I forget you’re not from around here. It’s an old custom—they lay the body out so people can come and pay their last respects.”
“Where everybody can see it?” Ibby was aghast.
“Out in the open on full display, dressed in their Sunday finest.” Fannie pointed a finger at Ibby. “Listen to me. When I die, promise me you won’t let them do that to me, put me in an open casket to be gawked at. I want a closed-coffin funeral—remember that.” She paused to light a cigarette. “The one thing the Negroes really know how to do is throw a funeral. Goes on for days, with lots of food and drinking and carrying on. Then they have another party, where there’s dancing and singing. And then they throw yet another party after the funeral, to give the departed a good send-off.”
“I’ve never been to a funeral,” Ibby replied. “I didn’t know it could be like that.”
“That’s right. Your mama saw to that, didn’t she? Saw to it that your daddy was cremated. Never was a funeral. Which reminds me”—she pointed at Ibby again—“don’t let them go cremating me when I die. The departed should have proper burials. Otherwise their souls wander around the earth all agitated. And do you know why else they have funerals?”
Ibby shook her head, afraid to interrupt her tirade.
“They have funerals so the living can say goodbye for the last time, so every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the street doesn’t stop to say ‘I’m so sorry about so-and-so’ for the umpteenth time. It’s worse when you go and cremate somebody, because there’s not even a grave to visit. Then suppose the worker at the crematorium got the dead bodies all out of order—then what? How do you know you have the right ashes? You know what I mean? How would you know?”
Ibby twirled her hair, upset by what Fannie was saying. She still thought of her daddy as her daddy, not as just some ashes in a jar.
Fannie said, “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away—funerals always do that to me.”
Ibby sat up in her chair. “Are we going to the funeral?”
“Of course! They’re family.” Fannie got up from the table. “You can wear the Indian-looking dress Doll made for you.”
After Fannie left, Ibby went into her father’s room to find the urn. When she opened the armoire, it wasn’t in its usual spot between the sneakers and the loafers. Ibby searched under the neatly stacked shirts and pushed the hanging clothes aside. After a while, she sat back on her heels. The urn was nowhere to be found.
Ibby took one last look around the room. She hadn’t realized how much comfort the urn had given her, just knowing it was safe in the armoire. Now that her father was missing, she felt a part of her was missing, too. Why would someone move it?
The house was noticeably quiet except for the sound of the oak tree in the front yard scraping against the house. It was an eerie sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Ibby listened. She felt sure that the old tree was trying to tell her something.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The screened door creaked as Doll held it open for Crow, T-Bone, and two neighbors who were carrying Purnell’s body into the house. All the furniture in the front room had been removed, save for the heavy Naugahyde sofa, to make room for the makeshift waking table, consisting of two sawhorses topped with a piece of plywood draped with a cloth.
“If you don’t mind, we be taking our leave now,” one of the men said after they’d settled Purnell onto the waking table.
“We got a houseful of food,” Crow said, “thanks to all of you, and Miss Fannie was kind enough to send over three whole cases of Old Crow. Come by later, take a drink.”
“Be honored,” the man said as he tipped his hat, and the other man followed him out the door.
Doll and T-Bone stood by their father. They were all staring down at Purnell, who was dressed in his finest suit. He looked as if he were asleep, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed. Doll thought she could even detect a slight smile across his lips. She was amazed at how well the undertakers had been able to disguise the bullet hole to his head.
“The undertakers done a right fine job on Purnell,” Crow said as he touched Purnell’s hand with such tenderness it brought tears to Doll’s eyes.
Doll put her arms around her father’s shoulders. “Yep, Daddy. They done a mighty fine job.”
“Purnell looks like he could get up and walk right out of here at any moment. Wake right up, and walk right out. Like nothing ever happened,” T-Bone added.
“Sure do. Sure do.” Crow nodded. “How’s your mama doing?” He looked at Doll with those dark eyes rimmed in yellow that had always made her heart melt.
“She’s taking a rest, lying on her bed with a pillow over her face. Been that way awhile.”
“She taking this mighty hard. Third boy to pass on. Don’t get no easier,” Crow said.
“Nope, don’t get no easier,” Doll repeated.
At a knock on the door, Crow looked up. “Not even sundown yet, and we already got our first visitor. Come on, T-Bone. You gone tend the bar.”
“Birdelia!” Doll screamed. “I need you!”
Birdelia came down the hall and stood in front of her mother. “No need to yell. I’m right here, Mama.”
“Sorry, baby. I didn’t see you. Better start putting the food out. We already got visitors.” She waved her hand toward the kitchen and went over to answer the door.
“Am I the first one here?” a pudgy woman carrying a tray asked. “I brought you some deviled eggs.”
“Yes, you is, Leola, but you always the first one to come.” And the last one to leave, too, Doll muttered under her breath.
“I am not,” Leola protested.
“Yes, you is, and you know it, but it don’t matter none. Come on in.” She took the tray of deviled eggs from Leola.
Leola followed Doll to the kitchen. “Birdelia, find a place for Leola’s eggs, then prop the front door open with one of them plastic chairs on the front porch. People can let themselves in. Sure they find the bar soon enough. I’m gone go back and check on Mama.”
“I’ll help Birdelia,” Leola said, shooing Doll away with her hand. “You go on back and tend to your mama. Go
od thing I came when I did.”
“Uh-huh.” Doll headed toward Queenie’s room at the back of the house. When she opened the door, her mother wasn’t in the bed.
“Mama?”
There was no answer.
She called out again, “Mama?”
The door to the bathroom was ajar. When she crossed the room, she spotted her mother sprawled on the floor on the other side of the bed.
“Mama, what are you doing?” Doll knelt down beside her. “Why you on the floor?”
Queenie was staring up at the ceiling.
“I know you can hear me, Mama. No use playing possum.” She grabbed Queenie’s arm and pulled her up into a sitting position. “What you doing lying on the floor like that?”
Queenie sighed. “Fell out a bed. Didn’t have the strength to get up.”
“Now come on. Get back in bed. Leola is already here. Expect all the other folks be by shortly.” She took her mother’s hands and pulled her up, then settled her on the bed, tucking the covers around her.
“Purnell here?” Queenie asked.
Her mother’s eyes held so much sadness that Doll had trouble keeping her composure. “Yes, Mama.”
“How he look?”
“Just fine,” Doll said. “Undertakers done a fine job on him.”
“I want to go see.” Queenie threw back the covers.
“You got plenty of time for that. You just rest awhile,” Doll said, patting her shoulder.
Queenie slumped back down on the bed and threw her arm over her forehead.
“You want visitors?” Doll asked.
Queenie turned her head and looked at Doll. “I want to talk to you first.”
Doll sat on the bed next to her. “About what? I already got all the food set on platters. Birdelia’s putting it out for the guests, and Daddy and T-Bone, they out back setting up the bar.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Queenie took Doll’s hand.
“What you mean then?”
“You sorry?” Queenie asked.
“Mama, them pills the doctor gave you, I believe they making you all funny.”
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