Color Blind

by Sobel, Sheila;

  “Me neither, not until after Dad died.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Mom had liver cancer; Dad died a year later from lung cancer. Too bad you’ll never get to know them. Then again, you’re probably better off.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say they were good, God-fearing, churchgoing folks with strong opinions of right and wrong, who thought their morals were above reproach; forever judging others harshly, but never themselves.”

  “Self-righteous right-wingers from a red state. Perfect.”

  Kate’s face darkened; she turned inward. “What my parents failed to come to grips with is that every family, especially the judgmental, ultra-conservative ones, always has a skeleton or two in their closet.”

  Chapter Three

  “Skeletons? What skeletons?”

  “Our deep, dark family secrets, things that were never discussed, not in front of the children or polite company. Secrets and lies, lies and secrets,” answered Kate from a deep, dark place of her own.

  “What are you hiding from me?” I stood quickly, the chair legs scraping the hardwood floor.

  Kate snapped out of it, arched an eyebrow and stared at me. “I’ve said too much already.”

  “So, you’re just going to leave me hanging?”

  She loaded the last dish and closed the dishwasher. “Go unpack. Get settled in. Get some rest. You need it more than you realize.”

  “I can’t rest. You loaded me up with too much caffeine,” I accused.

  “The coffee was decaf. If you let yourself unwind, even a little bit, you’ll crash. Here’s your house key and my cell and work numbers. I’ll be back tonight around nine,” said Kate, collecting her handbag, car keys, and chef’s jacket.

  “You’re leaving me alone?”

  “It’s what you wanted isn’t it?” Kate softened. “April, listen to me. You need time to process everything that’s happened. Be nice to yourself. Take a shower. Take a nap. Read. Surf the Net. Do whatever you can to relax. I’ve gotta go.”

  I watched Kate drive away. Now what? Barely 9 A.M. and the house was already stifling. Kate had opened the windows and turned on the ceiling fans downstairs, but it wasn’t helping. I looked around for an air conditioning control, found none. Who updates a house and doesn’t add central A/C? Lame, really lame.

  With nothing else to do, I wandered from one immaculate room to the next, checking out Kate’s house. The living room, shaded by the porch, gave the appearance of being cooler than it was. The floor-to-ceiling walk-through windows were draped in a soft ivory fabric that matched the sofa and chairs. A gold-framed mirror over the fireplace added light to the room. Muted but expensive-looking antique rugs covered gleaming hardwood floors.

  The absence of family photographs screamed issues.

  I flipped the switch in the formal dining room. Soft light from a crystal chandelier danced in another gold-framed mirror over another fireplace. A polished mahogany table for eight, a matching marble-topped sideboard, silver candelabras, and vases with silk flowers filled the room. No wonder she doesn’t eat in here, it’s as stiff as a funeral parlor. I studied a small Impressionist painting hanging over the sideboard. The signature looked like Renoir. Judging from the rest of the house, I doubted it was a knock-off.

  The house felt like old money. It also felt like . . . I couldn’t quite describe it. Empty? Staged? Everything felt displayed, ready for its close-up. Weird. Either Kate didn’t use any room besides the kitchen or she was OCD and couldn’t live with anything out of order. Or maybe a little of both. I opened doors, snooped through the downstairs closets, found nothing out of the ordinary. A powder room off the entry hall had hand towels that were so flat and straight, I wondered if she ironed them.

  Circling back to the kitchen, I opened a door to a butler’s pantry. The glass-fronted cabinets held a collection of silver serving pieces and china dinnerware. A ring with a spare set of Kate’s car key, house key, and a small flashlight hung from a hook by the light switch. In the sunroom, another ceiling fan drew air in through the screened windows; it was much cooler out here. A basket filled with cooking magazines sat next to the loveseat; no People or Cosmopolitan for Kate. This room was more comfortable, more inviting. I pictured Kate hanging out here, cozied up on the overstuffed sofa cushions reading her magazines, while something simmered on the stove.

  In the private courtyard, bright green grass peeked out between the uneven, worn bricks of the centuries-old floor and dark green ivy crept up the high brick walls. A single, large magnolia tree sheltered the entire area. I could feel history here in the quiet solitude of this, this . . . sanctuary. I didn’t know what else to call it. It was so beautiful, so serene. Except for the addition of brightly colored cushions on the ancient black wrought iron furniture, nothing had changed here for a very long time. I felt oddly comforted and sat, decompressing, until the tiredness hit me like an oncoming Metro car. It was way beyond time to go lie down.

  I took a bottle of water from the fridge and climbed the stairs to my room. It didn’t take long to unpack my stuff. I slid the suitcases under the bed, removed my laptop from the backpack and plugged it in to charge, ditto my phone. I flopped down on the bed and watched the ceiling fan spin. If I hadn’t been in such a foul mood, I would’ve thought this was a pretty nice bedroom. I’d never had a room this elegant before. It was a tasteful, feminine room with antique mahogany furniture, pastel floral fabrics, and white lace draping the windows and the four-poster bed. There was no trace of its former occupant, which, for some reason, made me sad.

  I tried to picture my mother growing up in this room. What kind of toys did she have as a little girl? Did she have posters on the wall when she got older? Did she study herself in the mirror, playing with hairstyles or trying out new dance steps? Did she have a phone of her own, or a television?

  What was she like as a pregnant teenager in this room, in this bed, at my age, with me on the way? Folding my hands over my own abdomen, I wondered what life was really like for her. Was she happy? Was she angry? Was she frightened? Did she love my father? Was I nothing more than a mistake? Am I the booby prize in a contest between raging hormones and religious beliefs? I never got the full story from either my father or my mother. They always said we would talk about it when I got older, when I was better equipped to understand. What a load of nonsense. Now it’s too late. I will never understand her. I will never forgive her.

  Long-buried resentment surged through my soul, threatening to sink me even further than I already was. I shut my eyes to the pain and before long, fell into a deep, fitful sleep. Skeletons laughing and singing “Secrets and lies, lies and secrets” danced in my head. I slept the sleep of the miserable, tossing, turning, tossing some more.

  Around half past five, I awoke disoriented, drenched in sweat, desperately thirsty, and with a pounding headache. I reached for the bottle of water. It was warm, almost hot; barely drinkable. The air was so thick with humidity, I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get out of the house. Thirty minutes and a stinging cold shower later, I dressed in loose clothing, slipped into my sandals and headed out the door. At the gate, I stopped dead in my tracks. Where on earth was I going? I didn’t even know where I was. Right or left? Left or right? I decided to follow a group of tourists passing in front of Kate’s house.

  I shadowed the tour group as they made their way up Royal Street. I tried to pay attention to my surroundings, noting street signs as we shuffled along. I needed to be able to find my way back before Kate got home. The group halted at a small Victorian-style hotel surrounded by a cornstalk wrought iron fence. As the out-of-towners snapped their photos, the guide gathered everyone close and began to weave her story.

  “The Cornstalk Hotel was built in 1816 as the home of our first Chief Justice of the Louisiana Supreme Court ’n’ author of the first history of Louisiana, Judge Francois Xavier-Martin.

  “Later on, Harriet Beecher Stowe, a guest at the house, was inspired to writ
e Uncle Tom’s Cabin after seein’ the nearby slave markets. In 1840, the home’s new owner added the cornstalk fence as a gift for his homesick wife who wanted to return to Iowa. Isn’t that just the most romantic thing?” she giggled.

  “One of the most notable things about this bed-and-breakfast are the ghosts of the children who haunt the hallways. They can be heard laughin’ and runnin’ up ’n’ down the stairs, all around the hotel. They love cameras, so don’t be afraid when y’all look at your pictures, ’cause you may not be the only ones waving in the photographs!”

  There were light murmurings as the crowd moved away from the hotel, some inspecting their digital displays looking for ghostly children, like what the guide said was actually real.

  Must be a haunted history tour, I thought as I trailed behind, pretending to window shop, since I hadn’t paid to join the tour.

  Everyone stopped again. The guide continued, “Here we are at one of our most haunted houses, the Lalaurie House, formerly owned by the high society couple, Dr. Louis Lalaurie ’n’ his lovely wife, Delphine. Once celebrated for their grand balls and charitable work, the dark side of their souls came to light after a fire broke out in their home. Behind a locked door on the third floor, firemen discovered a number of dead or dying slaves, many of whom had been used in the doctor’s experiments. It is believed that the cook, who they kept chained to her stove, started the fire. In the midst of the chaos, the good doctor and his wife escaped into the night, never to be heard from again.”

  “Chained to the stove?” said one of the group as we moved away from the building.

  “Our final stop tonight is the Hotel Monteleone, where dozens of former guests and employees are rumored to have taken up residence for all eternity. If any of y’all are staying here, think twice about opening your door tonight, it might not be room service that’s come a knockin’ . . . Thank you kindly for joining me this evening for a tour of this great haunted city of mine. Now go on in and check out the hotel bar, the Carousel. Get yourself a Hurricane or Sazerac or something to settle your jangled nerves.”

  My stomach rumbled; I was famished, it had been a long time since breakfast. Up ahead, a cafe advertised soups and sandwiches. I broke away from the group and went inside.

  Chapter Four

  The café was empty, except for a heavily tattooed waitress and the short-order cook. I took a table near the window and watched as a young, skinny musician dressed in black set up his street corner stage. He plugged in his speaker, hooked up his violin, lay down his case for tips, and began to play something jumpy. Cajun? He was quite talented. Soon a crowd gathered around, clapping and tapping their feet to the rhythm. I heard the clink of coins as tips dropped into the case.

  “What can I get for you, hon?”

  I read the chalkboard menu. The special sandwich of the day was “Oyster Po’ Boy”; the very thought of it made me queasy. I ordered a turkey on wheat and some sweet tea. While waiting for my food, I listened to the music and watched the world go by, trying hard not to think about my life. But it was all I could think about.

  Why did Dad have to die? Where is my mother? What does Kate mean by secrets and lies? What did I do to deserve any of this? What am I supposed to do now? Why can’t I just have a normal life like every other teenager? Like maybe divorced parents, with me shuttling back and forth between homes every other weekend, each parent trying to win my affection by showering me with clothes, gifts, and too much freedom? Maybe even a dog? But noooo! I’ve been swept into this miserable life like Dorothy in the tornado.

  I’ve heard that children choose their parents before they are born. If that’s true, what could I possibly have been thinking? What’s next for me? Who knew? Whatever it is, I doubted it would be good.

  My head was spinning. I searched my bag for aspirin and took two. Like my favorite movie heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, I’d think about it tomorrow.

  My food was served quickly; I dove in. Food and music—it was exactly what I needed. After another glass of sweet tea, with enough sugar to over-amp anyone, I paid my tab and headed up Royal Street, but not before tipping the hardworking, talented street musician.

  Since I didn’t know New Orleans at all and had no particular destination in mind, I just walked. I passed the police station, noticed a crowd gathering in front of a place called Café Beignet. Everyone was talking excitedly about the Voodoo and Cemetery Tour that started soon. With no real thought, I bought a ticket, took a brochure, and got in line to wait for the tour bus. Cemeteries and Voodoo temples suited me just fine. I’ll just go look at someone else’s skeletons for a while.

  The van rolled to a stop. The doors opened. A tall, hunky young guy with his oh-so-stylish stubble appeared in the doorway. When his gaze fell on me, I stopped breathing. One hand flew to my head to try to smooth down my frizzy curls, the other hand worked to straighten my clingy skirt. Darned humidity!

  He came down the steps, smiled warmly, and greeted the tourists—“How’re y’all doin’ tonight? Y’all ready to be spooked? I’m Miles, I’ll be your guide this evenin’ as we explore the dark history of N’awlins”—his accent a little bit of France and a little bit of . . . Brooklyn? “Now, if y’all can’t understand somethin’ I say, let me know and I’ll repeat. I never knew I had an accent until some Yankees complained they couldn’t understand a word I said. Imagine that!” He laughed. “I speak Yat, a dialect born from the melting pot of Europeans which settled this great city.

  “We’ll be headin’ out to Saint Louis Cemetery Number One, Congo Square, and Magique et Medecine, a Voodoo emporium and apothecary. Anyone here know anythin’ about our cemeteries or our Voodoo?” he asked. Nobody raised a hand.

  “Okay, then, let’s get started. All aboard! Watch your step, now, heah?”

  Miles collected the tickets while everyone settled in, their cameras at the ready. I took an empty seat by a window at the back of the bus and watched Miles watching me in the rearview mirror. He smiled and winked. With a whoosh, the door closed and the van rolled away from the curb.

  Miles began his spiel. “Saint Louis Cemetery Number One is the oldest and most famous of the New Orleans cemeteries, opening for business in 1789. Today, the cemetery is no longer open to the general public, it is open only for tours or to family members who own tombs. Spanning one square block and housing over 10,000 deceased, it is truly a city of the dead. The dearly departed are entombed in above-ground vaults, either because of the high water table of N’awlins or the traditions of the French and Spanish settlers. Now y’all pay attention. This is not a place to wander about alone! When we arrive, DO NOT stray from the group.”

  Miles continued, “Many famous Louisiana folks are buried in Number One. Probably our most famous resident of Number One is Marie Laveau, the infamous high priestess of Voodoo. She’s interred in the Glapion family crypt, along with many of her fifteen children. Legend has it, if you mark her tomb with three Xs made from a soft brick she will either grant your desire or come to visit you in your dreams with solutions to your problems, after which you are to return to her tomb with an offerin’ for her spirit. Does anyone have any desires they want granted tonight?” Miles grinned, looking in the rearview mirror directly at me.

  Miles had his audience, including me, spellbound. I listened and watched as he charmed and informed our tour group. He didn’t look much older than me. No apparent piercings or tattoos, which worked for me. I wasn’t big on tats. He was tall, dark, and handsome and if I had a “type,” he would be it. Those dark eyes, the “come hither” look, the crooked grin, the whole package must work well on the ladies, both young and old. I was betting he had a huge tip jar.

  The van slowed to a stop. “We have arrived!”

  I looked out my window, stared into the cemetery, and was struck by the enormous city of the dead. There were hundreds of decaying crypts, a stark contrast to my father’s manicured, evergreen final resting place. The tombs sat close together in a macabre urban sprawl, littered with broken
walkways and dirt paths. A black cat ran stealthily past the open wrought iron gate. Was it really bad luck to have a black cat cross your path? I hoped not. No longer sure I’d done the right thing by taking this tour, I lingered in my seat while the rest of the group descended the stairs. Miles gave each guest a souvenir, a small red bag with the tour company information on its tag. He called it a gris-gris, a magic bag that should (but didn’t guarantee to) keep us safe. I doubted a little bag would keep anyone safe in this frightful neighborhood.

  Miles climbed aboard the van, handed one to me, and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” I lied. “Let’s go.”

  “Listen up, everyone! I’ll guide you through the cemetery. However, please do be careful. The ground is uneven and the cracked sidewalks are a bit of a hazard. The ancient tree roots can sneak up on you if you aren’t paying attention. Once again, we need to stay together. DO NOT wander from the group. This is a very dangerous place to be alone.”

  The group, not wanting to get separated in the evening shadows, drew closer together and moved as one behind Miles through the cemetery towards the Glapion family crypt.

  Miles continued, “Marie Laveau was both a Catholic and a Voodoo queen, sometimes practicing her Voodoo rituals in the Saint Louis Cathedral. She was a free woman of color who worked as a hairdresser to the upper class. Many believed she was all powerful, that her spirit still is. She was someone to be feared, either because of her Voodoo practices or her political influence. Either way, there is no denyin’, she left her mark on N’awlins society.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s explore a bit more before it gets too dark. Let’s all go check out the pyramid mausoleum, built to be the final restin’ place of the Hollywood superstar, Nicolas Cage.”

  The crowd, led by Miles, moved away without me. I knelt to inspect the offerings scattered in the dirt. Candles, flowers, neon-colored strands of Mardi Gras beads, handwritten notes; a variety of trinkets were left by believers in hope that the spirit of Marie Laveau would help rid them of their problems or, possibly, to hurt someone. Entranced, I touched the cool, rough surface of the ancient crypt, lightly tracing the Xs left by those seeking help. From somewhere deep within, Marie’s energy pulled, compelling me to mark three Xs myself. I looked around for something to use, found a fragment of red chalk. Wild gusts of hot air whipped through the graveyard; gunmetal gray clouds gathered overhead, obscuring the rising moon. Chilled to the bone, I shivered in the silent cemetery, as if someone were dancing on my grave. Not sensing the presence behind me, I yelped when a hand grabbed my arm.