Impressed, Miles said, “Your aunt is beyond awesome. How long will you be staying with her?”
“Like I said the other day, my plans are a bit up in the air.”
“Well, however long you stay, you’re going to eat well, that’s for sure,” said Miles, finishing the last of his repast. “The guys will be way happy to see homemade cookies! Since we don’t have much of a snack budget, our food supplies are always a bit slim. Your aunt is going to spoil us.” Miles looked at his watch. “We have a little time, are you up to a guided tour?”
“Bring it on!”
Miles led me out of the shade and off the site. We walked up the remains of what used to be a sidewalk. We made our way farther up the block, moving away from the most desolate part of the neighborhood where Angel lived and closer to a brand-new housing development.
“These houses up here are part of the Make It Right project. Brad Pitt brought in twenty architects to design eco-friendly housing to replace the homes lost to Katrina. They have more than half of the hundred and fifty homes completed so far.”
I was impressed by the lovely new homes. They all had different designs, there was nothing cookie-cutter or rudimentary or cheap-looking about any of them. Most were built above ground, some with enough room underneath to park cars.
“Look up there,” said Miles, pointing to a roof. “See that square? That’s an escape hatch. Most people in the Ninth Ward kept an ax in the attic, so they could chop their way out in case of a flood. Now, if it happens again, all they need to do is open the hatch, climb out and wait to be rescued.”
“What? It can’t happen again, can it? The government repaired the levees, didn’t they?”
“I know they’ve spent billions rebuilding and upgrading to guard against another failure. Only time and the kindness of Mother Nature will tell.”
“Why are there still so many uninhabitable homes?” I asked, eyeing the other side of the block, seeing nothing but weeds and more dilapidated structures.
“I think a lot of people couldn’t afford to rebuild. Either they didn’t have any insurance, or enough insurance, or they didn’t qualify for government assistance because they couldn’t provide proof of ownership. Whatever the reason for abandonment, I can’t begin to imagine how hard it was for them.”
My resolve was absolute. “Let’s get to work. Show me where to start.”
Even as hot as it was, my energy was unfailing. The afternoon passed quickly. I got tools, I stacked lumber, I brought water to the guys; wherever I could help, I did. At break, I brought out the cookies and iced coffee. Miles was right about Kate’s homemade cookies—they were a huge hit with the guys and were perfect with the iced coffee. Miles might be right about Kate. I wouldn’t say she’s beyond awesome like he says, but she does know her way around a kitchen. That didn’t mean I wanted her as my guardian, though.
I didn’t need a guardian. I could take care of myself.
Chapter Sixteen
“You look done in,” said Miles as the Jeep rolled to a stop in front of Kate’s house.
“How observant of you,” I said wiping the sweat from my face with a tissue. My shirt was filthy, I could only read VOLUN because dirt covered the balance of the word TEER. My arms and legs were streaked with more dirt and my hair was a fright wig after driving in the ragtop Jeep.
“I’m surprised you let me back in your car the way I look!”
“You look amazing,” said Miles, blushing.
I waited a beat. “I had a nice time with you today. You took me out of myself. Thank you. It felt good to do something worthwhile.”
“Maybe we can do this again sometime? Maybe a real date next time?” Miles asked.
“Maybe we could,” I replied, slowly getting out of the Jeep.
Miles honked, gave a backward wave, and pulled away from the curb.
I limped up the porch stairs, not sure which would be best, a hot bath to ease my aching muscles or a cold shower to relieve the heat. Maybe both. Definitely something cold to drink and some sort of anti-inflammatory were in order.
There was another note from Kate on the fridge.
I made a pitcher of fresh lemonade with mint for you. There’s plenty of food. Help yourself. I won’t be home for dinner, but I won’t be late. Hope you had a nice day! K.
I wondered what her game was. Is she honestly nice? Or is she just being overly polite? Trying to make up for all the lost years, make up for her disinterest in me? Whatever. It doesn’t matter to me either way.
I took my lemonade upstairs, undressed, and removed my watch and earrings. I placed them on the dresser next to the photo of the woman in the turban, which I’d forgotten to ask Kate about. Note to self: ask her tonight when she gets home. It’s probably nothing mysterious, just the cook or the housekeeper, somebody like that. I stood under the cold, stinging shower and let my mind drift. Miles was something special: smart, handsome, kind, funny, and talented. Did I mention handsome? And, those muscles—what could a girl say about his biceps except WOW!
I toweled off and reached for the container of lavender body powder. With the unrelenting heat and humidity, Kate must have to buy this stuff in bulk. I wondered briefly if I should thank her for leaving it for me, but decided against it. I wasn’t ready for any sort of bonding.
Famished, I headed to the kitchen, bringing two of the Voodoo books with me for a little light reading during dinner. I refilled my glass with lemonade and loaded a plate with last night’s roast chicken and potato salad. I sat at the kitchen table and dug in. Flipping through the first book, I stopped mid-chew. Taken aback by a portrait, I dropped my fork, ran to get the photograph out of my room. Racing back to the kitchen, my heart was pounding.
I compared the two pictures side by side. It’s her! What on earth? Why is this picture of Angel’s great, great, great, great grandmother in our house? Who put this picture with our family photographs? Does Angel know that her great granny was a Voodoo queen? Does Kate know anything? What is she hiding from me?
No longer hungry, I threw my meal in the trash. Hoping to find some answers, I scanned the chapter titled “The Voodoo Queen: Marie Laveau” in The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook. My brain processed only bits and pieces of information as I skimmed the pages:
Born in 1801. Grew up in the Treme suburb. First husband, Jacques Paris disappeared. Died? Returned to Haiti? Nobody knew. The two children she bore by Paris died from yellow fever. She called herself “Widow Paris.” She worked as a hairdresser. She captured the heart of an aristocrat, a white Frenchman named Christophe Glapion. She bore him between seven and fifteen mulatto children. Nobody could verify how many.
Summer, 1859, the local newspaper, The Crescent, referred to her as “the notorious hag who reigns over the ignorant and superstitious as the Queen of Voodoos.” A neighbor complained about “the hellish observance of mysterious rites of Voodou.”
The wind picked up again, branches raked the house, thunder rumbled in the distance; another storm was on the way. The house, dark except for the overhead light, began to creak and moan again. What was with all this creaking and moaning? This house, the hot, humid, unpredictable weather, everything was getting on my nerves. I am so over New Orleans! Restless, I got up, refilled my glass with lemonade, sat back down at the table, and continued to read, still only processing bits and pieces:
Officiating at public dances at Congo Square . . . Laveau’s home was filled with candles, statues and images of various saints. St. John’s Eve (June 23) ceremonies at Lake Pontchartrain. Once semisecret gatherings . . .
Lightning flashed, thunder shook the house. I screamed when something touched my shoulder.
“I guess you didn’t hear me come in.”
“Shit! Don’t ever sneak up on me again! You scared the crap out of me!” I shrugged her hand away.
“Watch your mouth!”
I stood and shoved the photograph in front of her face. “Who is this?”
Kate paled. “What are you doing wit
h that?”
“You asked me to help you with the pictures, remember? Family history, good for me and all that. Remember? Who is this?” I demanded.
Kate pulled a chair away from the table and sat. “Sit down and be quiet! We need to talk.”
“No! I’m not sitting.”
“Get something straight, April. You live in my house, you don’t get to demand anything. You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t want to be here. Fine. Guess what? None of this is easy for me, either. I never wanted to have children. Now I’m stuck. Stuck with you!”
I dragged a chair across the hardwood floor, as far away from Kate as I could get. I sat, crossed my arms tightly against my chest and glared at her.
“You are so much like your mother, feisty, full of fire. And, you absolutely inherited her ability to piss people off.”
Kate picked up the Voodoo books. She narrowed her eyes and stared directly into mine. “Where did you get these?”
“Not relevant.” I waved the photograph at her once more. “Tell me about her! Put an end to the secrets and the lies. Lay the family skeletons to rest!”
Kate sat vibrating with anger.
“Who is this woman?” I roared.
“She is your great, great, great, great grandmother.”
Chapter Seventeen
“What?”
Kate didn’t answer.
“This woman is family?” I threw the photograph at her. “You didn’t think that was something I should know? Are you kidding me?”
Kate’s steely gaze chilled me; her voice was low, controlled. “What was I supposed to say when you arrived, April? Welcome to New Orleans! I’m your aunt Kate and oh, by the way, your great, great, great, great grandmother was a high priestess of Voodoo, a free woman of color? Seriously?”
“My life just keeps getting better and better. Every day is such a joy for me.” I paced, unable to be still. I stopped in front of the ancient kitchen mirror. My skin was a startling shade of white in the glare from the overhead kitchen lights.
“Why do you have to be the one to tell me? Why didn’t my own mother talk to me about any of this? I wouldn’t have cared! She’s my mother! I’m her daughter! I’m supposed to be family. I should have been told!”
“And what a family we are! Self-righteous parents, a runaway sister, and a bratty niece . . . For what it’s worth, I planned to talk to you about everything eventually. You needed to get acclimated first. You needed time to grieve for your father. You needed time to adjust to a life with me. God knows, I needed to adjust to having you in my life. Still do . . . Honestly, I’m surprised this photo was packed away with the others. Our parents did their level best to bury Mother’s heritage.”
“If they kept everything so well hidden, how did you find out?” I asked, pacing faster now.
“Ironically, the same way you did. I found this photograph and wanted to know who she was. My mother, who was more than one mint julep over the line, told me in a moment of unapologetic candor. She was neither proud, nor ashamed, just matter-of-fact. The shame, well, that was all on our father. He was a dyed-in-the wool racist. I doubt he would have married her if he had known. He lived by the one-drop rule.”
“What’s that?”
“It was a law which stated that if a person had one drop of black blood in their family, they were considered legally black.”
“Why don’t I look black? Or you, your skin is as fair as mine. We couldn’t be more white. I don’t understand any of this.”
“It’s simple genetics. Dominant characteristics of race can disappear after only three or four generations. Look it up on the Internet if you don’t believe me. Read up on Thomas Jefferson and his slave Sally Hemings. Marie Laveau had as many as fifteen mixed-race children. Even if she had only half as many, that’s still a lot of opportunity for interracial relationships over the years.”
“What about the Voodoo? Is that inherited, too? Is that why the lady in the shop . . . ?”
“What lady in what shop?” asked Kate.
“Nothing, never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“What lady? Answer me!”
“Everything about my life just sucks! I hate New Orleans! I hate living with you! I’m done.” I headed for the door.
“You know what? I don’t much care for you. Or your bad attitude. I don’t want to live with you either,” Kate shot back.
I stomped out of the kitchen, watching as Kate picked up one of the Voodoo books and threw it across the room. When it hit the wall, her grandmother’s beautiful antique mirror fell to the floor, shattering into a million pieces.
I grabbed my purse from the hall table and flew out of the house. The wind was almost gale force, the rain came down in sheets. Streets were empty, no carriages or cabs were in sight. Perfect, just perfect, I thought, slogging my way up the sidewalk fighting against the high winds and heavy rain.
I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know how far I’d gone until I arrived at the Voodoo shop. The storm raged all around me. Soaked to the skin and in need of shelter, I turned the knob. The door was locked. A razor thin stream of light shined at the back of the shop; somebody had to be inside. I rapped on the door, but nobody answered. Finding an unlocked gate next to the building, I went through and followed a muddy path to the back porch. I stopped before knocking. Is this what I really want to do? When the back door swung open, the decision was made.
“Welcome, Miss April. Come in out of the storm before you catch your death.”
Chapter Eighteen
The wind gusted, blowing stinging rain into the back porch. I scuttled through the doorway like a drowning rat in search of a dry hole. I couldn’t get any wetter, but I could get dry. The woman disappeared into a small room and returned with a stack of fluffy towels.
“Dry yourself. I will find you something to wear.”
I rubbed my face and toweled my hair, worked my way down my arms and legs, kicked off my sandals, and dried my feet.
“Here, put this on,” she said, handing me a long multicolored dress.
“Is there somewhere I can change?”
“In there,” she said, pointing to the bathroom door. “I will go fix some tea for us.”
Closing the door behind me, I looked in the tiny mirror, thought about the crash I heard after I left Kate's kitchen, and wondered briefly if she was okay.
I am a mess, no doubt about it. My life is in shambles. I have no friends except maybe Miles, if I haven’t scared him off. I have no family except Kate, if I haven’t scared her off. Seems to me that at this point in my life, the only ally I have is this Voodoo woman. What does that say about me?
There was a rap at the door.
“Are you all right, Miss April?”
“Coming,” I said, slipping the soft, flowing fabric over my head. I opened the door.
“Let’s have some tea; you can tell me what brought you to my doorstep this night. But first, wrap your hair, it will dry faster,” she said, handing me a thin, brightly colored towel.
Gathering my curls into a knot, I wrapped the turban tightly and was freaked out by my reflection. I looked exactly like a white Marie Laveau. Queasy and lightheaded, I glanced in the mirror again. I didn’t look anything like her, it was only this outfit and my overactive imagination. I removed the head wrap, left it on the counter, and followed the woman. Sliding the woven fabric aside, the shopkeeper guided me through the door. The dimly lit room was filled floor to ceiling with all things Voodoo: statues, draped fabrics, and hand-crafted dolls were scattered everywhere. Candles shimmered in crystal votive holders, the stale scent of long-extinguished incense lingered in the air. If there was a window anywhere, it was hidden. Large cushions for devotees surrounded an altar littered with offerings, like the ones I’d seen at Marie Laveau’s crypt. A china teapot and two delicate cups had been placed on a table near the altar. The woman motioned for me to sit down.
“I have tea cakes if you are hungry.”
“No thank you,” I said, settling onto a soft, oversized cushion.
Pouring the tea she said, “I hope you like chamomile.”
“I do.”
“I added a few herbs of my own. I hope you find it pleasant,” she said, handing me the steaming cup.
“Do you own this place?”
“Yes. I own the building; I live upstairs and have the shop down here.”
“What is this room?” I asked, taking in my surroundings.
“This room is used for private events. Please tell me what brings you to me this stormy night, Miss April.”
“I don’t know. I just came.”
“For what purpose?”
“I have questions.”
Marguerite studied me and smiled. “I had a daughter about your age, very much like you. Oh, did she have a mind of her own! So smart, so inquisitive. She very much wanted to go to college, to study cultural anthropology as I had done. She wanted to go to Africa, to do good works.”
She paused, lost in her past. “She was taken from me, in a car crash, my husband, too. Life can be so fleeting, so devastating.”
I nodded my head in understanding.
“But you know that already, for you have suffered a great loss, n’est-ce pas?”
I nodded again.
“You have questions, my child?”
“I looked you up on the Internet. You’re not an ordinary shopkeeper. You’re a Voodoo high priestess, aren’t you?”
She tilted her head, but did not answer.
“Can you tell me if after someone dies, it’s possible to contact them? Is that what Voodoo does? Like a séance or something?”
Marguerite searched my face before replying. “Is that what you want, to contact someone who has died?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I was just thinking that . . . Yes, I do. I need to contact someone.”
“In Voodoo, we can make contact with spirits, the Loa, through ritual.”
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