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When Zillah’s mom finds out that Zillah and Joy are dating, she’s inconsolable. It’s the twenty-first century, everyone says. Chill out. But Zillah’s mom is just nuts about that kind of thing. No one else cares. Even Zillah manages to get over herself. She finds out that the world doesn’t end when she gets up the nerve to kiss a girl. If anything, the opposite.
Zillah hides the Book in the bookcase, and for a long time it stays hidden. She decides that life is more interesting than stories in a book. Eventually, she forgets the Book altogether, and it gets truly lost, bought and sold and shipped overseas and back again. Zillah wouldn’t know the Book today if it landed in her lap.
Today, it ends like this.
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Storyville 1910
Jewelle Gomez
An unusual fog enveloped the city. It cushioned the cobblestones with its damp blanket; and the cast iron balconies that draped so many of the buildings became almost invisible. Gilda slipped into its folds as she watched the windows of the building that used to be her home—Woodard’s. It was late enough in the evening that lamps should have been burning inside. She expected to see movement—women fluttering together after supper, getting dressed or dallying. The piano player usually arrived in time to eat before warming his fingers in front of the parlour fire; by now a few soft notes of music should have been drifting through the amber-lit windows. But all was dark and silent, just as it had been the previous two nights she’d watched, concealed behind the fog and the tall gate of the house across Rue Carondelet.
Before she’d left Yerba Buena, Sorel and Anthony had tried to dissuade her from coming back; too many things had changed in New Orleans, they said. But things changed everywhere. She might never bring herself to return to Mississippi where she’d been a slave, where her life had begun seventy years earlier; even now a sense of terror gripped her chest when she considered it. But Gilda’s need to know it was possible to start fresh was too strong to keep her from New Orleans; it was a beginning of sorts.
Memory of Woodard’s and the house full of women who’d become her family sent a spray of warmth through her that almost dispelled the gloom of the fog. She knew she’d see no sign of Minna, Bertha or the others, but she could hear them in her head. Singing around the piano, clinking wine glasses, teasing each other like the children they were. She heard the seductive laughter that attracted the gentlemen; she also remembered the rustle of their skirts as they scurried away whenever other madams, especially Miss Lulu, arrived to visit the owner of Woodard’s. Miss Lulu and Woodard’s Madam would sit together in sipping coffee in the parlour’s late afternoon light; two more different women could be found nowhere. One was obsessed with hearth and home as if she was the old woman in the proverbial shoe; the other was a tough talking, showy entrepreneur. But both were making a world for themselves and the girls in their charge. However, Gilda knew that Woodard’s was a bordello of a different type; the women here learned how to live outside the confines of the roles they played. Their Madam and her partner, Bird, tutored and trained with the precision of cavalry officers; and many left Woodard’s to make their way in the world armed with the most significant valuables—self-worth and self-defense. One, Gilda, left with the gift of long life.
Woodard’s had two benefits—if was just far enough away from the Storyville District and its pleasure houses to suffer less scrutiny by pious citizens. It incurred a higher rate of payoffs—officials always needed their share—but the men of New Orleans knew the establishment was worth the extra carriage ride. Alongside the standard fare, Woodard’s vibrated with literate conversation and an aura of safety.
Miss Lulu’s Mahogany Palace, as it was called, was another place altogether. Certainly more sumptuous, it too was legendary. Miss Lulu was known less for her erudition or generosity, and more for her astute business sense and fearless bargaining with anyone in the District. When Gilda was a girl Miss Lulu wore the tignon decreed for all women of color and turned it into a crown which sprouted feathers and jewels of every caliber. Despite the obvious differences between them and their establishments Miss Lulu’s visits were regular. Woodard’s Madam was a small, plain, pale woman whose only adornment was the way her face changed from grim determination to total engagement when she smiled. It was a change that could warm a room or send shivers of terror.
Sitting in Woodard’s shadowed parlour, Miss Lulu’s pale, octoroon features were almost lost beneath the flappery of her adornments; she looked like an exotic animal that’d wandered into a country parlour and couldn’t find her way out. Yet when one listened to their voices together—the slightly accented Lulu and the carefully flat tones of Woodard’s Madam, it was clear the two women had forged a bond of friendship across Canal Street that was both personal and political. They kept track of new fashions as well as the trickery of politicians over the hot brews served up by Bertha the cook.
Gilda peered up at the windows again as if a lamp might be lit now. She knew Woodard’s Madam had gone to her true death and surely the girls and Miss Lulu had all gone to their natural rest by now too. It was Bird she was searching for. Bird, Woodard’s other Madam, had helped give Gilda long life. Now she needed to see her to restart this life with its endless road. She’d never shaken her sense of abandonment as she’d watched Bird’s narrow back atop the horse as she rode away from Woodard’s so many years ago.
Now she could feel Bird’s essence heavy in the fog surrounding her and emanating from the house itself. But faced with the dark windows and silence she was unsure of her next step. She’d been adamant in her need to come, if only to gaze at her former home. Sorel and Anthony were deliberately vague about the current occupants of the building, one of many they owned; they’d only say it still functioned as a benefit to young women.
Anxiety pierced Gilda’s woolen jacket and cap, more chilling than the fog. She turned away from Woodard’s and walked back toward the French Quarter wondering if they had been right—looking back was a waste of her time. But time was something she had more of than she could ever use. Gilda noted that her need for the blood was slowly gripping her chest and lungs. She’d been so focused on the past she’d ignored the other, more physical urging.
Gilda took several deep breaths, taking in the cool, damp air, letting it slow down her body’s needs. Long strides carried her away from Rue Carondelet and toward the establishments of Basin Street. There she stood in the shadow of an overhanging balcony, so still she was almost invisible. Any who might catch her movement would see only a young, dark-skinned boy in cap and trousers dusted with the dirt of the road. She held a thin cheroot as if waiting for a light and listened to the thoughts of the men who passed or lingered near the entrance to the saloon several yards away.
One hesitated and turned to her.
“Are you all right, boy?”
“Yes sir,” Gilda answered in her lower register. “I’m just hoping to get a light for this here.”
“Ahh…you looking to celebrate Jack Johnson?” the man said with a slow smile.
Now Gilda hesitated. The man seemed kind; he’d stopped to ask about her and there was no predatory sense in him. But the world had gone crazy since Jack Johnson won the heavyweight championship. White men wrapped up their worst hatred and insecurities in the black boxer’s win over his white opponent earlier in the year. Gilda didn’t want to engage with another one who blamed the world’s ills on a black man’s success.
“Hey, he won fair and square, I say. Let’s light up together.”
Gilda repressed her huge smile that might break her façade. Instead she proffered the cheroot and gazed into the man’s eyes as he searched his pockets for his own and a match. She quietly pulled his thoughts from him so she held his consciousness as well as his arm, guiding him away from the street into the alley behind them. Once in the deeper shadow she probed further and discovered the man was as thoughtful as she’d intuited. He did not have a heavy curtain between his whiteness and the many other c
olors of New Orleans’ citizenry. She deepened the veil over his mind and quickly pressed him against the wall of the saloon where the music from inside pulsated through the damp wood frame of the building. His breath slowed to an almost imperceptible rate as she sliced the side of his neck and pressed her lips gently to the blood as it rose to the surface. This was the true color of life and it continued to amaze her.
She drew the blood in and searched his mind for what she might leave in exchange as she had been taught. Except for a small worry about a business deal that lurked far in the back of his mind he was amazingly content; there was little Gilda found she might share in exchange. But she must leave something especially for one who seemed to be so kind. It was no small thing to not be consumed by pettiness and race hatred, each person who was devoid of these diseases made it easier for others to live. In her short life—less than a hundred years—Gilda had seen so many succumb she was infinitely grateful that this man was not one of them. So, in the final moment she left him with her sense of gratitude. It flooded his body, replacing the blood she’d consumed and created a fluid well-being that would course through his veins the rest of his days.
She sealed the wound on his neck; walked him back to the street and leaned against the wall still some way from the entry to the saloon. Gilda listened to his breath return to normal; in his head he heard the echo of Gilda’s voice: “Merci, mister,” as she slipped away. The fresh blood filled her with new life, making her earlier indecisiveness feel distant. She rounded the next corner onto Bourbon Street and followed it toward Canal where the area became less lively; she took her time and observed the subtle changes. Some buildings leaned slightly as if they were settling into the marshy landscape. Fewer of the small houses were open; their shutters were drawn against the night air. But the pulse of the city was much the same, laced with the remnants of French culture and the pervasive sound of syncopated pianos and mournful horns. Her earlier anxiety was drained away by each note that floated out to greet her so she kept an easy pace until she reached Carondelet.
Gilda imagined that making the transition from bordello to school should have been somewhat easier given the location outside the District but Anthony and Sorel were reluctant to talk of the past with Gilda, always urging her to look to her future. She stepped back into the shadow to gaze again at the building that had been her home, hoping she’d learn more soon. As she watched she recognized some of the changes: the heavy red drapery that should have hung at the parlour windows was replaced by more muted tones now. The upper windows were framed by white lace and now window shades.
One fluttered slightly.
Gilda blinked at the darkness. Yes, there was a very slight movement; more than could be assigned to a random breeze making its way through the seams of the building. A chill crossed her shoulders, supplanting that layered on her by the enveloping fog. She listened more closely and understood what she’d only sensed earlier—it was too quiet. There was no sound at all; nothing came from the house not even the natural whine of wood settling, mice scurrying or window glass loose in its sash.
Bird?! Was that possible? Bird inside cloaking the house so no one of their kind would know she was there? So Gilda wouldn’t know? She looked up and down the street again, now noting the emptiness. Clearly the street had been shielded, preventing random or unnecessary pedestrians from wandering onto the block. It had not held her back but she now understood why the fog was so unrelenting in this spot.
She lifted her gaze once more to scan all of the windows. Someone was there. If they refused to open the door, she’d go inside anyway. She’d come a long way from Yerba Buena to see the home that belonged to her family…Sorel, Anthony, Bird…no one could refuse her entry. Deep inside she understood that until she looked upon the place that had been her first refuge her heart would not be healed. And she wanted to feel whole again.
She moved out of the shadow, then stood on the step in front of the door, her hand raised to swing the door knocker on its brass plate. It too was new, less ornate than the one Gilda remembered. Before she could signal her presence the heavy door opened. Standing in the doorway was an imposing woman, of fair complexion, wearing a dark dress like she was mourning. Her head was wrapped—as if it were still 1850—in a black tignon adorned by one small expensive brooch.
“Finally you develop the courage to make yourself known!” The curl of her Creole voice was immediately familiar.
Gilda’s breath left her lungs is if she’d been punched. Even though she saw immediately it was not Bird, there was no mistaking who it was—Miss Lulu!
“Cat got your tongue?” Lulu said with a soft bayou lilt and a stern grin that did not evoke mirth. She then stepped back from the door, saying no more and walked into the parlour. She did not look back. Gilda came up the step and crossed the threshold of the house that had been her world after she escaped from her life of bondage on the plantation in Mississippi. She closed the door behind her and felt the loosening of the fog and the cloaking which had been used to prevent her sensing life within the house.
“Miss Lulu?” Gilda said with the voice of a child.
“Lulu will do just fine, girl. Or I say Gilda now, eh?”
Gilda understood at once that Lulu was one of them. But the mystery of it was overwhelming. How could Anthony and Sorel have kept this news from her? Why did they keep it from her?
“They didn’t want you dwelling so much in the past, child.” Lulu’s voice rang the same unmistakable haughtiness. “You’d chosen to abandon Woodard’s….”
“I did not abandon Woodard’s!” Gilda almost shouted, stung by the accusation. “I left it in Bertha’s charge, and her daughter’s.”
“Mortals! And what were they to do with it on their death beds? Someone had to step in.”
“But what of Mahogany Hall?”
“Things are changing around us, which you would know if you had kept us in mind rather than chasing after that ridiculously inappropriate woman you were warned against by Anthony.”
The wrenching inside her told Gilda this was true. She’d escaped from Woodard’s almost as she’d escaped from the plantation. She’d left behind her friends because her heart was broken…the ones who’d given her long life were gone—one for the true death, the other to take to the road alone. And in Yerba Buena she again had her heart broken. She’d become obsessed with one of their family who was more insidiously destructive than any of their kind she’d known. Her desire for the woman had made Gilda’s brain as foggy as the street outside was now.
Gilda was having a difficult time knowing how to put down roots in a life which required her to keep moving so the mortals didn’t discover her secret. Who was real? What was permanent? It was a life that assumed she’d outlive everyone she grew to care about and was filled each day with the calculated risk of heartbreak. Was it easier to not care?
“Would you like a tisane?” Lulu said in a gentler voice.
“Yes, I think so,” Gilda answered, sounding again like the child she’d been in this parlour decades earlier.
“Come.”
They walked through the dining room to the kitchen, which like the parlour felt so much smaller now. The rough, round wood table still stood at its center marked by years of chopping and hot pans.
As Lulu pulled the kettle from the back of the stove to a full flame Gilda sat on one of the stools at the table and looked around at the room. It was almost the same. One of the pots was new, the cups and saucers that Lulu took from the cabinet were new as well.
“From my kitchen,” Lulu answered Gilda’s internal question. “They were the only thing I brought with me from Mahogany. I didn’t need to be there any more. Too much noise…I was tired.”
“Sorel asked you to come to Woodard’s?”
“No. Anthony came to settle who would take over. I knew who…what he was. Those private conversations I had with your Madam revealed much over the years, especially toward the end as she understood her lifetime was over and
she would take the true death.”
“Anthony!” It was incomprehensible that her dear friend Anthony would have done these things in secret, all the while she was living with him and Sorel in Yerba Buena.
“He took many trips as you may recall. That is our way. And you were…preoccupied.”
Gilda noted that Lulu said “our.” She looked up at Lulu through the steam of the kettle as she poured hot water on the herbs in the pot. The steely strength of her shoulders was then apparent beneath the coal-black sateen of her dress. Her eyes, always a pale gray, had darkened somewhat and flecks of orange flickered behind her gaze.
“Anthony is smart and not sentimental. Unlike so many of our family.”
The chilliness that had always been at Lulu’s mortal core tinged her words with frost and made Gilda wonder if Anthony’s choice was as wise at all. Was Lulu a good choice for their family, could she uphold their principles of long life?
Lulu sighed deeply and sat across from Gilda and returned her stare without expression.
“Only time will tell, yes?”
“I wish you’d stop doing that. I prefer to have my conversations out loud and to keep my thoughts to myself.” The harshness of Gilda’s tone matched her memory of Lulu.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been alone here a long time. I….” For the first time Lulu seemed unsure of herself.
“Where are the girls…the students? I understood that this was now a school.”
“A home for destitute jeunes filles au coleur. It functions much as Woodard’s did without the drinking and gentlemen. Only reading, sewing, cooking and woodworking.
“Woodworking?”
“Of course, your Madam would be furious if we didn’t teach the girls all the arts…carpentry, shooting, fishing. They are as accomplished now as ever.”
“And where are they?” Gilda asked again.
Lulu’s voice dropped slightly, “I’ve sent them to the farmhouse. I knew you’d come; I thought it best we talk alone.” The room rang with the anxiety of her words.
Heiresses of Russ 2011 Page 3