The Witch of Bourbon Street

by Suzanne Palmieri

Danny didn’t want to think of losing Old Jim. He’d already lost too much.

  He wished he could have acted more like Old Jim. A Yankee fisherman, originally from a colder coast, an off-season trapper with nothin’ but love for Dida and the hot, humid air locking him to the Deep South. The father of a blind witch and husband to the finest healer these bayous had ever seen. He took care of his family, even when things got bad. He could have run, or ranted, but he never did.

  “I’m coming back,” Danny said aloud. “I’m ready now. I think.”

  “Good Lord, would you shut your mouth!” Old Jim shouted from belowdecks. “Romantic fool. Talk talk talk talk. You ever decide to act on those words, T-Dan, and I might just shit my pants.”

  10

  Frances and Her Daughter

  I let the girl sleep in. And I quietly made breakfast and then waited, not so patiently, on the porch. I fussed with the old wooden table, putting fruit on it, then candles and little glasses with flowers. I wanted it to be extra pretty. A part of me, that pesky instinct part I’d tried to ignore, knew from the start that this broken-up teenage girl was my daughter. My lost baby. My secret. Right age, right face, right demeanor. Besides, I’d asked for her, conjured her somehow. I’d felt more like a mother taking care of her that night than I’d ever felt when Jack was a baby. But the next morning, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to approach it. It was so simple. But also so damned complicated. And I just felt so guilty. Facts are facts, and this girl—my girl, oh Lord, my girl—clearly hadn’t had the life I’d wanted for her.

  Messy, is what it was. I was proud, though. She seemed such a mighty little thing.

  But I had to know for sure.

  That morning while she slept, Millie, JuneBug, and Mr. Craven had all waved to me on their way to prepare for Solstice Eve at Sorrow Hall. So I figured I’d take her on over, walk into that house I’d spent too many years avoiding, and just tell them she was mine. They would all be there, well … minus the three most important people. And I’d be able to tell from her reaction whether I was right or not. I know better than to trust any daughter of mine to come right out and say something. I sure as hell never tell anyone anything.

  And if she was mine, really mine, she’d appreciate the directness of my indirectness. If that makes sense.

  When she finally woke and joined me on the porch, I was fidgeting nervously.

  “Well, there she is, Sleeping Beauty. How do you feel today? You don’t look as banged up as I thought you would.”

  “I’m sore, but I think I’m okay,” she said.

  She looked just like I used to. All pride and sadness and hope for some real magic to happen that would heal her.

  “So, eat some breakfast and tell me how what I can sense is a smart girl allowed herself to get wound up with those pieces of Tivoli trash.” I pulled out a cigarette, trying to hide my shaking hands, striking a match against the table. Once it was lit, I inhaled deeply as she ate some tomatoes and cream I made for her. I love tomatoes in cream with sugar, and not a whole hell of a lot of people do, but she did.

  I smiled.

  “I was looking for you,” she said finally. “You’re Frances. Crow sent me.”

  Crow.

  “Are you talkin’ about my Crow?” I asked.

  “Crow be free. Crow don’t belong to no one. He used to be caged, but never again. He’s got doors in the universe that go places you and I could never go. Well, I get to go, sometimes. He’s the one who showed me how to find you.”

  “Well then, I think it’s time you tell me your name, sugar.” I took an orange from the bowl, bit it, rind and all, and offered one to her.

  She took the orange, drew her knees up to her chest, tucking them under the pretty white nightdress.

  “My name is Sippie Wallace. And I’m here to help you find Jack.”

  Wouldn’t Eight Track have given her his last name? Wouldn’t she be Sippie St. John? For a second, I thought I was wrong and wanted to weep. No, I told him to keep the secret, and Sippie Wallace was a blues singer, it fits.

  “You got parents?” I asked.

  “Of course I do. Everyone has parents. But that’s not the point. I’m here to help you find Jack.”

  She wasn’t going to give anything up so easily. Now I was almost damned sure she was mine. But, I’d play anyway.

  “But Jack’s not lost,” I said.

  “Crow clearly said, Find Jack.”

  “He clearly said? You talk to Crow, Miss Sippie?”

  Sippie laughed, wiping orange juice from her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Yes and no. I’m not really sure. Since I was little, whenever I got to make some kind of change, he comes to me, and I fall into this sleep or somethin’. And then I’m flying with him, and when I’m with him like that, I can hear what he thinks.”

  “How do you know you’re not dreaming?”

  “I don’t. But I’m here, right? I just know that more than once he’s shown me things I couldn’t know if I wasn’t seein’ them some other way.”

  “Well, our Crow must be getting real old, because Jack ain’t lost. Come with me, let me show you something.”

  I walked around my cottage, through the line of oaks that made a crescent around the whole property and into the cypress grove.

  “Be real quiet, Sippie, and watch your step. The ground gets soft and wet here and there,” I said. Then, without getting too close, I pointed through the trees toward the back of Sorrow Hall and the bay.

  “If you look close, you’ll see someone moving around in that little shack back there. My Jack, he thinks he’s so clever. I saw him set his whole camp up. He must be having some kind of adventure or somethin’. He’s almost thirteen now, gonna spread his wings. But he sure stayed close to home. Now come on, before he sees us.” I beckoned, and we crept back through the trees.

  “Well, those terrible boys were on their way here with or without me. Maybe … maybe that’s what I was supposed to do. Go with them so they wouldn’t mess with him. Switch the fates up, or somethin’.”

  “Sounds like a good explanation to me. Crow, he always comes with change. And I’ve always found him to be a little … overprotective.”

  She shrugged, and we went back to our breakfast.

  And then the questions started.

  “So, you married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated, Sippie.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Danny.”

  “He handsome?”

  “The handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  “You still love him?”

  “I’m not talking about him anymore … okay?”

  She stopped, pausing for a beat, then started again.

  “So why don’t you have Jack all the time?” she asked, taking another bite of her tomatoes and cream.

  “Court said I wasn’t fit.”

  “That the truth?”

  “Almost. Maybe the whole truth is I didn’t think I was fit. You spend any time in the bayou, Sippie?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, I’m sure there are wild tales told all over that try to explain the convoluted nature of our bayous. Stories about alligators eating babies, hoodoo rituals, ghostly Civil War apparitions, racism, and a bunch of old folks sitting on rickety, ancient porches drinking homemade moonshine out of jelly jars while someone’s great-uncle ‘Beau’ plays the fiddle. And it’s all true. To an extent. Not that I know of any babies who got eaten, but I suppose if you’re a no-account parent and leave a baby out on the banks of a shallow, swampy area, well … last time I checked, alligators don’t discriminate when it comes to their menu. Thing is, Sippie … I know a lot of folks think I’m one of those no-account parents. But even I wouldn’t have left my baby out for the alligators to eat. What I did was much worse. I left Jack with ordinary people trying to fill his mind with ordinary thoughts. Death by alligator, or death by igno
rance. I can’t figure out what’s worse.”

  Sippie was quiet until a bunch of banging and yelling over at Sorrow Hall broke the silence.

  “What’s all that?” she asked.

  “It’s almost Solstice Eve. They always try to fix the place up this time of year. Doesn’t really work. My people are all over there. I watched Millie and JuneBug paddle up this morning. Mr. Craven too … he runs the Tivoli Parish Historical Society and can’t seem to get enough of us.”

  “But not Jack … or Danny, right?”

  “I said I wasn’t goin’ to be talkin’ about Danny.”

  “Fine.” She sighed, disappointed.

  “Old Jim isn’t there either, he’s your—” I caught myself. “My granddaddy. He’s offshore shrimping with Danny. They’ll both be back next week.”

  “What’s this Solstice Eve you keep talking about?”

  “If we go over there, I’ll tell you all about it. Fascinating stuff. You want to meet my people?”

  “I guess so, if you want to.”

  “See that dock? How it curves down to the river and up the bank like a sidewalk? Right past are the gates to the big house, Sorrow Hall. Not so far, really.”

  “We could go, if you want. But I figure if you don’t live there, you must have a reason. So if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to go.”

  That girl was giving my plan a run for its money.

  “Let’s just take a walk up there, what do you say, cha?”

  As we walked the docks I wanted to hold her hand, hug her tight to my chest, whisper a belated “Happy Birthday” sixteen times. But I couldn’t. Not yet. When we finally reached the gates, Sippie had begun to ramble, distracting me. Almost like she knew what I was going to do.

  “These oyster shells must’ve been hard on bare feet back in the old days,” she said.

  From a distance, under the stately live oak canopy that lined the path, Sorrow Hall almost looked like it once did. If you squinted really hard.

  “You see them?” She pointed across the front lawns.

  “Who?”

  “Those girls in white dresses playing some sort of tennis. Spirits.”

  She really is mine.

  “I used to. Jack sees ’em, though. He says he even talks to them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Echoes of the generation that cursed us. I mean, my family. I’m sure you’ll get an earful up at the house.”

  The closer we got, the more apparent the damage to that once fine estate. The sagging rooftops and natural world pulling it back into a green embrace.

  “I kind of like the way it looks.” Sippie smiled.

  “Me, too, but when you wake up to a snake in your bed, it’s not quite so charming.”

  “But look at all the trees and flowers. It’s beautiful,” she said, breathing out.

  “The gardens grow wild everywhere. But closer to the house, they were planted. See the fig trees? And those trumpet vines growing up so orange? I love those. But over there, by the … hmmm … I never did figure out what to call that part of the house.… See, Helene Dupuis Sorrow, you probably saw her back there on the lawn somewhere … she was a little crazy. She tore down the side of the west wing and built a chapel, and that whole side of the house was stained glass, see the bits left behind? The group of trees near there are wild oleander, don’t touch any of them, or taste them … they’re poison, and the reason we can’t make our own honey here. Two things we can’t do for ourselves, honey and ice. And since we can’t process the wild cane, no molasses either. So sugar is out, too.”

  “That’s three things,” she murmured as we climbed the wide front steps of the lower gallery.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I took a big breath before opening those doors for the first time in too many years, just as swollen with damp as ever. We walked into the grand foyer. The winding staircase, like a giant’s cape rising in front of us, and the gallery’s windows were all open, and what little breeze there was flowed through the porticoes.

  “Frances! It’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw!” Sippie’s eyes bloomed with delight.

  “Look up. See all the birds darting around? So many of the ceilings are rotted through like the roof. ‘A Swiss cheese mansion with vines and flowers and bird nests living right alongside the Witches of Sorrow Hall,’ is what Craven wrote about it last year in the Tivoli Parish News. He did a ‘spotlight’ on the Sorrows. Insightful…,” I joked.

  “I don’t care about any of that,” said Sippie. “This is like a dream … better than a dream.” She was glowing as she walked up to the mural that filled the wall of the staircase.

  Seeing Sorrow Hall through Sippie’s eyes was like watching a film reel of my childhood.

  “When I was little, I never noticed how ramshackle Sorrow Hall was either. I’d run my fingers along that same curved wall. It was damp, and the longer I left my fingers there, the colder the damp grew. Once, right before I ran off to Thirteen Bourbon, I was running my hands along it and the paint started smearing, two-hundred-year-old paint smearing as if it was new. And my hand, it sunk right into the damn wall. I pulled it out quick. I was scared, really scared. I thought I was going crazy.”

  “You ran away?” she asked.

  “Who’s there?” Claudette suddenly yelled from the back gallery.

  Saved by my mama for once in my life.

  “It’s me, Mama!” I called, looking in on her.

  “Oh, I remember you! I’ll go get Dida, she’ll be as surprised as me. The queen graces us with her presence, Dida!” she yelled, laughing, reaching her arm up to find a piece of rope.

  “What are those for?” asked Sippie.

  “So she can make her way from place to place. She’s blind.”

  “Don’t look like rope at all covered in vines like that. They’re lovely,” said Sippie.

  “Aren’t they, though?”

  Claudette was making her way, too fast, across the long front parlor. Dida had emerged from the side door near the fireplace, wiping her hands on a dishrag.

  “She doesn’t look like you at all, your mama. With that blond thinness about her,” Sippie whispered.

  “I know … it always bothered me.”

  “Why?”

  “A girl wants to look like her mama…,” I said, trailing off, and glanced at her.

  Sippie opened her mouth to speak, but Dida and Claudette were already in front of us. I could tell she was nervous. Hell, I was nervous. I was about to find out, for sure, if this girl I already loved was mine.

  “Frances, who dis girl?” Dida asked suspiciously.

  “Be nice,” I said.

  “Doesn’t come on this side of the property for months, only yelling across the yard for some fabric, and now comes along unexpectedly askin’ us to be nice and all…,” mumbled Claudette.

  “You’re being rude, Mama. Now, call JuneBug and Millie, and what the hell, Craven … I got something to say.” Then I sat Sippie down on a couch inside the parlor. “Don’t worry, I think it was always green, it’s not moss or anything.”

  “What you planning on telling everyone—”

  “Hush,” I said.

  “Junie, Craven, Millie, you are wanted in the front parlor!” Dida called out in a way that was enough to wake the dead (if they weren’t already still hanging out, living life on repeat).

  “That’s one way to do it,” I said wryly. Sippie tried not to laugh. And my mama had placed herself right smack next to me on the couch.

  Millie came running down the stairs with Craven and JuneBug.

  She stopped short when she saw Sippie and looked at me. That’s when I knew she’d been keeping secrets. Millie looked caught. But then she smiled that childlike smile of hers.

  “What’s all this about, well … lookit. Frankie! Can it really be you?” She threw herself dramatically across me, Sippie, and Mama on the couch. “You’ve come home! Thank you, Jaysus!” she yelled. />
  I turned to Sippie. “This is Millie Bliss, the closest thing a girl ever had to a sister and my dearest friend.”

  “Oh my,” said Craven, wringing his hands. “We must finish the backdrop for the play … so much to do.”

  “Trust me, Craven, you’ll love this,” I said. JuneBug plopped onto the arm of the couch, placing his fingers just near enough to Mama’s ear so she’d swat at the air and then pulling them away.

  My heart gave a twinge. I’d missed them.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Okay, here goes. This is Sippie Wallace. Sippie, this is my family. Minus three. But it’ll have to do. See, because … well, there’s just no easy way … I have something to tell you. And if I’m wrong…” I turned to Sippie.

  “You ain’t wrong, Frances,” Sippie whispered.

  A door in my heart that was nailed shut shot wide open.

  She’s mine she’s mine she’s mine.

  “Sippie’s my daughter,” I said, happy that my voice stayed strong. “Now, all of you, no dramatics. I went to Bourbon Street, and I came back all torn up, less than myself. Because I left a whole part of myself back there … and here she is. Which means you all got me back whole, now, too. Like it or not. Plus this little bit of sunshine.”

  Mama climbed over me, moving in close to Sippie. Then she cradled Sippie’s face in her hands. Mama ran her fingers along Sippie’s cheeks, and her whole demeanor changed. She knew it was true.

  You could hear a pin drop.

  I never saw my people speechless, and it was a funny thing to see. But I hoped they weren’t going to get mean or bitter. I’d just decided to let them back in, after all.

  “Oh my!” Craven said, flapping his hands spastically.

  “Did anyone ever test you for a nervous condition, Craven?” asked Millie.

  Then she turned to me. She looked so wounded. But I thought she had known. Was I destined to be wrong about everything in my life?

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sippie! And nice to finally know what robbed us of Frankie all those years ago—Wait, I didn’t mean it like that! It’s the shock, is all.” Millie quickly added, “Junie, Craven, let’s get back to work and let these Sorrow ladies get acquainted. Frankie? You, me, the Voodoo, later, okay?” I nodded, but we both knew I wasn’t going to be there.