“I bet I can guess who’s who.” Miss Henderson looks to me for backup.
I nod and play along. “My mother used to say Beth was born to be a preacher’s wife. Even way back when we were kids.”
“Half step from a politician’s wife,” Raelynn snips. “You’ll never crack that polished surface.”
I smile, remembering Mom’s admiration for Beth, the poised spirit of our trio.
“What’s Preacher Broussard’s real name?” Miss Henderson asks, letting Raelynn’s comment slide.
“Humphrey Jr.,” I say, smiling.
“See why we call him Preacher?” Raelynn draws laughter all around. We’ve got friends by the likes of Coon Dog, Crazy Horse, Turtle, and Twirly Earl. Not to mention our bus driver, Gator. If anyone called Preacher by his real name, we’d know they weren’t one of us. It’s a secret code of sorts, an admission ticket to the inner circles of Livingston Parish, or LP, as locals proudly call it.
“What’d she say about me? Your mom?” Raelynn has a glint in her eye, ready to cause trouble.
“She said you’d do pretty much anything for a party.”
“True dat!” Raelynn exaggerates her bayou accent, and I’m glad to see her coming back to good.
“And let me guess.” Miss Henderson looks at me and says, “Your mom would say you hold the center of the fleur-de-lis. The steady, stable, sure thing that keeps Raelynn from going overboard and Beth from drying up into an old prune.”
“You got it!” I say, wrapping my arm around Raelynn, who is laughing. “Truth is, I wouldn’t want to do life without them.”
The rain is still nothing more than mist by the time Gator pulls the yellow school bus around for boarding. As the kids climb the steps, they greet the friendly driver with high fives and hellos.
“Gator!” Nate skips the middle step, singing the driver’s name. “When you gonna bring your snakes back to school?”
“When you want me?” Gator asks, enjoying the fame he’s earned for carting critters into the classrooms and sharing everything he knows about wildlife—which is a heck of a lot.
“Every day,” Nate yells. He has already moved to the back of the bus, where he steals a seat next to a girl who seems too shy to stay beside him. She bumps up a couple rows as the rear section fills with boys.
Before we know it, the kids are all seated and we’ve rounded the block to the New Orleans ferry.
“Perfect timing,” Miss Henderson says, grabbing an ice chest as we climb off the bus. “If we hurry, we’ll catch the eleven fifteen and have time for a picnic once we reach Algiers.”
As we head toward the Canal Street landing, Miss Henderson eyes a paddle-wheeler, docked for afternoon tourists. “I opted for the ferry,” she explains. “Figured we’d save both time and money while still getting a ride across the Mississippi.”
As we board, the ferry attendant frowns and points to a place for our ice chests. “Over there.” His eyes are tired from too many back-and-forths across the water, and it’s clear he has spent a lot of time on this boat. Heavy. Slow. Loud.
“Has this ferry ever seen the rest of the river?” I ask. He stares at me, hollow and confused. When I realize he will grant me no answer, we leave our coolers on the lower deck and lead the kids upstairs.
Miss Henderson rounds the bend, pointing to our state flag as it flaps from a dockside pole. The image of the pelican sets a close match to the ones who prowl the waters near the boat. Just as she begins to explain the symbol of motherly sacrifice, the horn sounds. The students scatter to the perimeter of the slick deck. They lean over the handrails as muddy waters churn against the sunken hull.
Raelynn takes a seat in a fiery orange chair. I choose a faded pink one beside her. Along the east bank, high-rises stand in rows like a troop of uniformed sentinels watching our departure. With the fog still blanketing us, our view is haunting. “Looks more like something from an old Sherlock Holmes episode,” I say. In the distance the dark spires of St. Louis Cathedral contrast with the hazy white horizon, as if the faithful hope to claim a higher piece of the heavens while others lurk below, concealed in smoke and shadows.
Our trip is brief. Before Raelynn can finish a story about Nate’s latest hunting victory, the engine grinds and the boat spins into position, parallel to the west bank. The crewmen toss thick yellow ropes around the oversized posts, securing the craft against the dock which, with its industrial gray piping and heavy-duty weld-work, reminds me of the offshore oil rig where Carl is working another fourteen-and-fourteen.
Just beyond the landing, our group gathers around a bronze statue of jazz trumpeter Louis Armstrong. Miss Henderson begins doling out a few facts about Algiers. As I pass out the brown-bag lunches, she shares stories of floods and a fire that nearly destroyed this rowdy railroad community.
Behind us the quiet streets dispute her tales of seedy juke joints and organized crime. Tree-lined boulevards hold Greek revival cottages, family-run grocery stores, and Gothic-style churches, all anchored by pastel houses and coffee shops. Despite the city’s rough past, we see no signs of mobsters in today’s Algiers.
While the kids enjoy their sandwiches, Miss Henderson shifts gears. “In class we’ve been talking about slavery.”
Ellie gives me a wounded look, setting down her sandwich. “Her heart’s too big for this topic,” I whisper to Raelynn, who nods.
“We’ve learned that in slave times, people were bought and sold. Some were taken away from their families and shipped far away from their homes. And many of them were brought right here to Algiers Point, where they were held in what they called slave pens.”
Miss Henderson looks around, as if the scene is clear in her own mind.
“They were crowded together, sometimes as many as a thousand people. Men. Women. Even children. All forced to stay behind brick walls where they had to sleep on the ground.”
The students, all of whom identify themselves as white, squirm uncomfortably. We live in one of the Florida parishes, a unique zone of Louisiana that has about as much diversity as a can of white beans. The South’s history of slavery is a topic we tend to avoid.
The gentle teacher continues, refusing to sugarcoat the lesson. “Can you imagine the sounds? What might we be hearing if the slave pens were still here today?”
“Crying,” Ellie says, her hand over her heart.
The teacher nods. Others shout out answers: “yelling,” “screaming,” “praying.”
“Try to think how scared you’d be if someone came and took you away from your family. Locked you up. Sold you to a stranger who was now your owner. Your master.”
Raelynn shakes her head. “Why is she telling us this stuff? Can’t we just talk about Mardi Gras?” The other parents groan in agreement.
Miss Henderson eyes Raelynn. “It’s not pretty stuff.” Now she turns to her students. “But it is important to know the facts, even the bad ones. Otherwise, how can we learn from our mistakes? Look around Algiers today. There’s no trace of this dark history. Just a statue of a famous musician. If we didn’t talk about these things, we’d never know slaves once stood right here, shackled and beaten, waiting to be shipped across the river and sold.”
“Who bought them?” Sarah asks. There’s a pain in her voice that pinches me.
“That’s a very good question. They were sold to a slave trader or to a new master. And for a time, those buyers could have been white or black. A man or a woman. Sitting over there, sipping coffee and placing bids, as if they were buying cotton.”
“Or cows,” Sarah says indignantly.
“Yes, Sarah.” Miss Henderson continues. “And the sad thing is, this happened right out there on the streets. In the lobbies of the fanciest hotels. If people weren’t buying or selling slaves, they were ignoring it completely. As if it were a normal way to behave.”
Ellie crosses her arms and says, “So mean.” I pull my daughter into a half hug, hoping her spirit can stay this sweet.
“What would you have
done if you walked by a slave pen?” Miss Henderson continues to challenge us all. “What if you saw a child on an auction block? Or you heard a person calling out that he had a big, strong man for sale? And behind him stood someone the age of your dad? His hands and feet chained? Or a woman with brown eyes like your mom, only hers are sad and looking to you for help?”
The children shift and gaze anywhere but at their teacher.
“What would you do if you saw a slave today?”
“Call the cops,” Ellie says, looking to me for approval. I soften my posture, letting her know I agree.
Sarah rubs her hand across the raised letters of Louis Armstrong’s plaque. “Thank goodness there aren’t slaves anymore.”
Miss Henderson echoes the thought. “Thank goodness.” Then she shifts her tone. “Now let’s take a quick walk along the levee before we get back on the ferry.”
As she leads the class toward the water, her voice carries in the wind. “Can you believe that in some parts of New Orleans, the land is actually below the sea? As much as six feet lower than the ocean!”
Eyes grow wide.
“It’s true!” She laughs, enjoying her role as a teacher. “These levees work pretty well, don’t you think?”
Students nod, looking out to the river.
“But sometimes the waters rise over the top or even break through the levee walls. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened here in a very long time. So what are you waiting for? Go stretch your legs!”
With this, the students dash full-speed, laughing and racing along the levee until they are hustled back onto the ferry for the return trip.
Beside us, an elderly man in a wheelchair waits to board. He stares at Ellie and Sarah, so I pull them to the side to grant him room. Chewing the end of her hair, a young girl, likely his granddaughter, follows as he maneuvers his electric chair into a slot against the lower deck wall.
“My knee has about had enough,” Raelynn says, finding a seat. “I’ll just wait down here.” She sits near the man and the girl, but neither bothers to look her way.
“I’ve probably got something.” I rifle through my backpack until I find the acetaminophen lodged between Band-Aids and Bactine. I pass Raelynn two pills and a bottle of water. Then I leave her on the lower level alongside the grumpy attendee, the old man in his wheelchair, and the girl, who stares sleepily out toward the east bank.
As I reach the upper deck, Sarah leans into the wind, spreads her arms like wings, and yells, “We’re free! We’re free!”
Chapter 3
BY THE TIME WE RETURN TO THE CANAL STREET LANDING, THE fog has lifted. Humidity remains heavy. With each student assigned a chaperone, we’ve had more than thirty minutes of free time to explore. Now I grip Ellie’s hand on one side, Sarah’s on the other, and like a three-piece segment from a recess round of red rover, we string our way through the French Quarter.
Despite the noon hour, the streets of New Orleans are filled with black-lipped vampires and one-eyed pirates, all rushing to a Halloween luncheon. It is sponsored by a local nonprofit, whose banner flies from the historic Presbytère. Werewolves, wizards, and witches stalk beneath the storm clouds, determined to reach their fancy fund-raiser before the sky opens wide with rain. Between them, a trio of priests scuffle through in their clerical garb and Roman collars, trying to make it to the cathedral, not looking all that different from the costumed socialites.
In the distance looms the riverfront stage where we’re supposed to meet Ellie’s teacher at one o’clock. Sharp. With minutes ticking, I pull the girls, spiraling through various vendors. We’ve almost made it to the greens of Jackson Square when a ragged fortune-teller reaches from her Bohemian stand and grabs Sarah’s arm.
“You look like the kind of girl who knows a little about a lot.” The woman eyes Sarah and turns her tiny palm skyward.
Sarah shifts uneasily, and I step in between them, smiling so as not to offend. I pull both girls a safe distance from the truth sayer. Nearby, a card-trick magician has drawn a mass of onlookers who now have us jammed, so despite Beth’s instructions to steer clear of the palm readers, there’s no quick escape.
The old woman continues the one-sided chat, talking directly to Sarah, as if Ellie and I are not here at all. “You on a school trip? Here to see the zoo? The aquarium? Maybe that bug museum?”
Sarah shakes her head and answers with confidence, “We went to Mardi Gras World and rode the ferry.”
“Over to Algiers?” The woman looks out toward the river, her gravelly voice haunting me in a way I cannot quite pin. I want to hear more, as if what she has to say is important. As if it matters.
“Yes, ma’am. You know slaves were sold here? And the levee is the only thing keeping us all from drowning?”
Sarah’s enthusiasm lights a spark in the woman’s eyes. She laughs, carrying a tint of mystic to her tone. Then she bends to pull a set of chicken bones from her stained knit bag, placing the oddities on the table near her tarot cards and half-melted candles.
Sensing Ellie’s interest, I place my hand on her shoulder, a sign of encouragement to help my timid daughter feel brave. It works. “What’s that?” She points toward a brightly painted birdcage.
“What, this?” The woman pulls an arched metal cage to the table, her many bangles clanging against her wrists. Inside, a sparrow perches on a twig.
As Sarah leans closer, a spark of sunlight catches the small gold cross attached to her T-shirt. It was a baptism present from her mother. An emblem of faith she wears every day.
The woman gazes at the bird with watery eyes. “He’s a sparrow. A Bachman’s sparrow is what they call him. My friend found him over on the Northshore. He had a broken wing. You see? Still on the mend.”
“Can I hold him?” Ellie asks, her love of nature overcoming any fear.
“Well, I guess so. Just be real gentle.” Then she lifts the latch and reaches into the colorful cage. Despite being wild, the sparrow hops onto the woman’s finger as if it were a branch. His tail is long and rounded at the tip, darker in color than the rest of his feathers, especially those on his pale white belly and his soft gray face.
Ellie cups her hands to hold him, and he obliges, resting his tiny pink feet against her palm.
“Will he ever fly again?” Sarah asks, strumming her fingers gently across his feathered head. It peeks out between Ellie’s thumbs as she holds him securely tucked between both hands.
“Of course,” the woman says. “What good is it to have feathers if you don’t fly?”
I pet the bird, reaching behind his flattened forehead. Wearing a brown crown, he has a dark line that arches back from his eyes. “He doesn’t peck?”
“Not so much now,” the woman says, her river accent coming through. “Oh, but when she first brought him to me. Not the case. These birds are kind of shy, like you.” She looks at Ellie, who turns hot-pepper red. “They stick low to the ground, even nest in the underbrush. We hardly know they’re out there. Except for their song. But now we do just fine. Don’t we, little man?”
Sarah takes the bird from Ellie, eager for a turn. “Hello, Sparrow,” she says. The bird sings in response.
“Ah, you hear that?” The woman grins. “He sounds good, don’t you think?” The sparrow’s tone is clear and smooth, a high-pitched call that draws a smile from both girls. And from me.
“The lady at the Mardi Gras place told us they used feathers to make corsets,” Sarah tells the truth sayer. “Featherbones, she called them.”
“That right?” The woman tugs at her long skirt. Her seat bows beneath her, straining nearly enough to break. “Here,” she says, pulling a loose brown feather from the bottom of the birdcage. “Which one of you wants this?” Sarah passes the bird back to Ellie and holds her hand outstretched.
“Your very own feathered bone.” The woman cackles, pressing the small wing feather into Sarah’s palm. “Take this. From the sparrow. Guard it.”
Sarah closes her fingers, clasping the fragile bro
wn feather in her hand. “Guard it?”
“Yes, yes.” The woman strokes her own twisted dreadlocks. Piled high as a hive upon her head, the graying weave is so dense I imagine it has been matted for years. “There are those among us who were born to fly. And you, sweet child, are one of those chosen few.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” Her deep-toned laughter causes steely gray pigeons to circle the ancient courtyard.
The crowd begins to thin as the black-hatted magician finishes his act. I nudge the girls, but they’re too enchanted to leave the table.
“You see,” the woman continues, “feathers—no matter what size or shape or color—are all the same, if you think about it. They’re soft. Delicate. But the secret thing about feathers is . . . they are very strong. Am I right?”
The girls both nod, captivated, and I capture the moment on film.
“Of course I’m right.” The woman laughs, tossing her head back in a grand gesture. “A feather may look weak. Vulnerable. But truth is, it’s a powerful little thing. Like you girls. And the most magical thing about feathers is . . .” She scoops the sparrow back into her hands. “When they get to do what they’re made for, they carry a soul right up into the sky. Set it free. So you see? My friend here is giving you his feather to remind you that you are more than just a pretty little girl. You are strong, a powerful soul. Do what you’re made for. Don’t believe the lies people tell you about yourself. Then you will fly free too.”
Both girls step closer, examining the feather, charmed by the woman’s strange message.
Above us the ornate clock of St. Louis Cathedral rings its series of melodic bells, followed by one deep chime that announces the hour. The sacred tone fills the square, spilling out from the triple steeples to roll beyond General Andrew Jackson atop his bronze horse before stretching across the Pontalba Buildings with their iron lace, then echoing above the historic Cabildo and Presbytère neighborhoods of old New Orleans.
In the distance, students gather at our designated meeting spot. I nudge Ellie, adding a quick thanks as I shuffle the girls away from the woman’s cluttered cart. I push down knots of guilt for not leaving a tip and focus instead on getting a safe distance before the palm reader convinces the girls they can jump from a rooftop and fly.
The Feathered Bone Page 3
