“What are you doin’?” asked Angel.
“Looking at this picture.”
“That one’s my great, great, great, great maw-maw,” she said, pointing to the small tintype of a woman with a turban wrapped around her head.
“Very nice. You look like her. Very pretty. You have her eyes . . . Let me take the tray, you bring the cookies, okay?”
After serving Kate and her mother, Angel and I sat on the porch steps. Gumbo lay down beside Angel.
“He’s a good dog,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Talking wasn’t a problem, though, as questions flew from Angel.
“Where did y’all find him? Was he hungry? Did he miss me? Was he hurt? I was scared I’d never see him agin. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said and threw her arms around me again.
“These cookies are quite good,” said Kate, taking another bite and analyzing the flavors.
“My take on a old family recipe; I call them Angel Crunch Cookies. Lots of cinnamon, molasses, and pecans. My baby’s favorite.”
When the glasses were empty and the cookies were gone, Kate looked at her watch, set down her glass and rose to leave. “Oh my, I didn’t realize it was so late. April, we should go now. I need to get ready for work.”
“Will y’all come back sometime to see me and Gumbo?” asked Angel, walking with me to the car, Gumbo at our heels.
Kate opened the car door. “It was nice to meet you and your mother and Gumbo. I’m glad it worked out. April, let’s go!”
Angel’s face fell.
“I’ll try to come back, I promise,” I said.
An impish grin split Angel’s face. “You have to come back. I wanna ride in that car!” I watched Angel run back to the house, laughing, Gumbo loping behind her.
Kate pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and we were on our way. I got out my cell and texted Miles: On our way back. Coffee?
“Well, that was different,” said Kate.
“Nice people . . . I feel sorta bad for not wanting to return their dog.”
“I can imagine. Clearly she loves her dog . . . By the way, April, I overheard you talking to Angel about their old family photos. There are two boxes of our family photographs stored in the attic. I intended to scan everything into digital albums but never got around to actually doing it. Is this something you can do for me? The photos might help familiarize you with some of your own family history. You know, fill in some of the blank spaces? It would be a great help to me.” Kate hesitated. “What do you think?”
“Paid position?”
“Free room and board not enough for you?” laughed Kate.
“Can I get a dog?”
“No!” said Kate, not laughing now.
We pulled up in front of Kate’s house. Miles was already waiting on the porch, lazily rocking back and forth in one of her white wicker rockers.
Kate greeted Miles warmly. “Thanks for taking care of April last night. You two go have a nice time.”
Kate turned to me. “You and I will talk later.”
We made our way up Royal to St. Ann Street, headed towards Café du Monde.
Miles slipped into his tour guide patter. “Café du Monde opened in the French Market in 1862. It’s open twenty-four/seven, except for Christmas Day and sometimes during hurricane season. Even though their property suffered only minor damage during Katrina, the owners closed for several months to renovate the dining areas and the kitchen. The café is famous for two things: French-style beignets, sort of like a donut only better, and their special café au lait, a slightly bitter coffee drink, half hot milk, half coffee with chicory. The only other menu items are fresh-squeezed orange juice, iced coffee, and milk, either white or chocolate.”
“What’s chicory?”
“It’s the root of the endive plant. During the Civil War it was roasted and blended with coffee to stretch their meager supplies.”
“You’re a walking Wikipedia!”
We approached the shaded, bustling patio. “Before we grab a table, let’s go around to the back of the building. I want you to see the kitchen at work.”
An enormous picture window was fitted into the back wall of the kitchen. A large man, wielding an oversized rolling pin, hands and arms covered in flour, flattened a massive piece of pastry dough on an old butcher-block counter. When the ancient wooden checkerboard-style cutter scored the smooth dough into small squares, the next batch of beignets was ready to fry. The cook stepped close to the fryer, turned around, and began to expertly flip the dough squares over his shoulder into the vat of bubbling oil.
“Look at this place! Look how fast everyone moves! Oh my gosh! I’ve never seen such a huge deep fryer! That oil looks pretty black—it’s not lard, is it?”
“Nah, it’s just plain ol’ Louisiana cottonseed oil.”
“Look how the dough puffs up when it hits the oil,” I said, pointing to the little pastry pillows.
“After they hit the oil, they get flipped over once by the guy with the long-handled strainer, then they’re ready to go.”
After they were drained and plated, the beignets were covered with a generous amount of powdered sugar and handed to waitresses, who practically ran them out to the customers.
“Shall we go in, partake of the fine fare this establishment has to offer?” asked Miles, using his silky tour guide voice.
“Well, yeah!”
When our order was delivered, I dove in. The first bite blanketed me with powdered sugar. Miles laughed and wiped my chin.
“Oh my God, that’s good!” I said, finishing the first one.
I wiped my fingers and looked at Miles. “Your dad seems pretty cool. Where’s your mom? Any brothers or sisters?”
“Hold on there. Slow down, little lady,” said Miles. “It’s just me, my dad, and our bloodhound, Nosey. Mom lives in Georgia with my stepdad; no brothers, no sisters. I don’t see them very often. I used to spend every school holiday and every summer with her, but now not so much. I don’t have the time, I work nights full-time during the summer. Most days I volunteer for construction work, rebuilding homes for people in need. Believe it or not, there’s still a lot of work to be done in the Ninth Ward.”
“I absolutely believe it. I was just there this morning to return the dog I told you about. This poor little girl and her mother, they need so much help! It was heartbreaking! I don’t get it.”
“Well, until things change, it’s up to the rest of us to do what we can to help . . . So, tell me, what’s the scoop on you? Are you staying at your aunt’s house for the summer? Are your folks on vacation or something? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No brothers, no sisters.” I hesitated. “My plans are a little up in the air. Can we talk about something else?”
“Ah, a woman of mystery!” Miles changed the subject. “Listen, would you like to spend tomorrow with me? I’m going out to work on one of the houses. You can tag along, if you like. Maybe you can help with food or something? Your aunt is probably busy anyway. I keep tee shirts in my car for volunteers, I’ll give you one to wear. What say you, my fair lady? Are you game?”
My mouth full, I mumbled, “Sure.”
Washing down the last of the beignet with café au lait, I said, “Laissez les bons temps rouler. I heard that in a movie once.”
“Let the good times roll! You’re sounding like a native already!” Miles checked his watch. “Would you like to take a carriage ride around the French Quarter?” he asked after paying our bill. “I promise to keep the running commentary to a maximum.”
“Will it take long? I told Kate I’d do something for her,” I fibbed, knowing what I really wanted to do was get rid of that creepy Voodoo doll.
“Maybe an hour or so, does that work for you?”
“That works.”
Mule-drawn carriages were lined up in front of Jackson Square, waiting for their next passengers. We walked across the street to the first one and while Miles paid the driver, I petted the mule’s
soft muzzle. The carriage squeaked and groaned under our weight as we climbed in and settled onto the worn red leather seats.
“Would you like to hear about Jackson Square? Or Jax Brewery?”
“No, I’d like to hear more about you.”
“Well, I just finished my first year in the Architecture program at Tulane. The rebuilding projects through their community outreach program is a win-win situation for me. I learn something new almost daily and I stay in shape from the physical labor.” When Miles flexed an impressive bicep, my heart skipped a beat.
“I get to give back to a community that desperately needs it and I get loads of practical experience in eco-friendly home building, which is my passion.”
“Why did you stay after Hurricane Katrina? So many people left and never came back.”
“My dad stayed. Mom and I moved to Georgia while New Orleans tried to pull itself together. The chaos here was unimaginable. Dad’s sense of responsibility kicked into overdrive. He wanted to stay to help maintain some semblance of law and order.”
“Wasn’t it really dangerous?”
“Well, yeah. That’s why they needed dedicated police officers like my dad. I’m not sure New Orleans will ever fully recover. But the good news is our community is working its way back and we’re proud of our efforts!”
“That’s great,” I murmured. I hesitated briefly before continuing, “Uh, Miles?”
“Yes?”
“What do you know about Voodoo?”
Chapter Ten
Miles, taken aback by the dramatic shift in subject matter, became wary. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, just curious. That shop we visited was kind of interesting.”
“I gave you most of what I know on last night’s tour. I know it isn’t something you want to be involved with.”
“Why not? Is Voodoo like witchcraft or something?”
“Personally, I think most of it is a lot of hype. Though from what I’ve heard, parts of it can be pretty gruesome. There have been rumors of ritualistic killing of animals as offerings to the gods or spirits or priestesses, whatever they’re called. It’s rarely talked about, and then only in whispers in certain neighborhoods. Black magic, spells, chanting—it’s all a little too ‘out there’ for me. Like a cult or something.”
“The shop you took us to didn’t look all that dangerous. It seemed like a place for tourists to do a little out of the norm souvenir shopping for their friends back home.”
“Looks can be deceiving. You saw only what they wanted you to see, the commercial side. Nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors after business hours.”
“Hmmm. Okay,” I said, remembering the locked door behind the African weaving.
I needed to give more thought to what Miles had said, but not now. All I wanted now was to lean back and enjoy the sights and Miles for the rest of the carriage ride. I could decide what to do with that stupid Voodoo doll later.
“You must not have gotten enough sleep last night,” said Miles.
I opened my eyes, looked up at Miles and realized that we were already back at Jackson Square, me with my head resting comfortably on his broad shoulder, him gazing down at me.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you snoozed for almost the entire carriage ride. Either you needed the rest or I was totally boring and I seriously doubt that. By the way, did you know you have the cutest little snore?”
My cheeks flushed all the way to my curls. “I don’t snore!”
Smiling, Miles helped me down from the carriage. “Touched a nerve, did I?” He tipped the driver and turned back to me, “Mademoiselle, it is time for me to return you safely to your home. I need to get ready for work.”
“Not to worry, I can find my own way back. Thanks though.” I turned to go.
Miles took my arm and rolled his eyes. “I don’t doubt that for a minute, but my car is still at your house. We might as well walk together.”
We walked through the French Quarter in shy silence. No matter where I looked, there was something interesting to see. Miles, sensing I wasn’t up to it, held off on further historical commentary. I could easily understand why this city was such a mecca for tourists. But a home for me? I simply couldn’t wrap my head around it. Didn’t want to. As we got closer to Kate’s place, I had to laugh when I spied a real estate sign that advertised APARTMENT FOR RENT, with a smaller sign hanging beneath that said NOT HAUNTED.
At the front gate, Miles bowed and kissed my hand. “Until tomorrow.”
Slightly embarrassed, but thoroughly enchanted, I said, “I had a nice time today.” I watched Miles drive away and whispered, “Thank you.”
Inside, I found a note from Kate hanging on the refrigerator door:
There’s cold roasted chicken, Cajun potato salad, and sweet tea for dinner. Fresh lemon cookies are in the jar in the pantry. I’ll be home between 9 and 10. K. P.S. The boxes of photos are on the floor next to my desk if you want to get started. Thanks. K.
That’s nervy! I never actually agreed to help with her family photos. It’s nice that she fixed dinner for me, though. I looked at my watch; it wasn’t even six o’clock yet. There was plenty of time to get the doll back to the Voodoo shop. But how would I explain to the shopkeeper why I was returning a Voodoo doll that I never paid for in the first place? Maybe she wouldn’t be working and I could just hand it over to whoever was manning the shop. That would be good, really good. That shopkeeper kind of creeped me out. I wouldn’t mind not seeing her again. I should go now, get it over with. Should I have something to eat first? No! I was stalling, I needed to just go! I climbed the stairs with leaden feet. I didn’t really want to go back to the Voodoo shop, but was too curious about the doll not to go.
I took the little black figure from its hiding place in the laptop case. I inspected it closely. Its rough black fabric and tiny button eyes held no sign of evil in the daylight. It wasn’t really something to be afraid of, right? I couldn’t tell what it was stuffed with, but it smelled faintly of sage and felt like straw. Isn’t sage what people burn to clear out evil spirits? Is this why I have it? To remove evil from my life? Are there evil spirits in my life? Does that woman sense something ominous in me, around me? I had to stop this. I was totally over-analyzing and freaking myself out. It was just an accident. The Voodoo doll fell into my pocket when I slammed into the shelving. Nothing more, nothing less. I needed to get over it already, get the darned thing out of here. I stuffed the doll into my bag, raced out of the house, and, hopefully, headed in the right direction to get to the shop.
After a few wrong turns, I approached the Voodoo shop with trepidation, unsure if I was doing the right thing by coming back. I should have just thrown the darned thing out. What is the matter with me? Where is my head? I slowed my pace, slowed my breathing. I needed rest. I needed to find peace. My mind buzzed like a busy beehive; too much sugar, too much caffeine, too much grief, too much change, too much unknown. My life was moving faster than I could process—“Warp Speed, Mr. Sulu,” said Captain Kirk in the recesses of my mind. What am I afraid of? The doll? The shopkeeper? Myself? Life? The future? Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. IT’S ONLY A STUPID DOLL! It’s only my life.
As if it had a mind of its own, my hand reached for the doorknob. The door creaked open.
“Welcome, Miss April,” said the shopkeeper with the pale gold eyes. “You are right on time.”
Chapter Eleven
“On time? For what? How do you know my name?” I asked, now thoroughly discomfited.
“Nothing mysterious. The shop is about to close. Your timing is good. You told that nice young man your name last night. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I’m not afraid!” I reached into my bag for the doll. “I’m only here to return this to you. It must have fallen into my pocket when I knocked all of the dolls off the shelf.” I shoved it at her, turned to go.
“Miss April, wait! I placed the doll in your pocket.”
I whipped around to face her. “How dare you! What for? Why me?”
“I sensed your pain. If you returned with the doll, I would have an opportunity to speak with you alone. I believe I can help you.”
“I’m fine! I don’t need any help! Especially your kind of help! Voodoo, hoodoo, what kind of fool do you think I am?”
“Not foolish, just hurting. My dear, you are angry. Very, very angry. Anger can eat you alive.” She moved closer to me. Her golden eyes looked deep into mine. “After you left last evening, Miss April, I put some things together for you. For when you returned.”
I stiffened. “Things? What things? How did you know I’d come back?”
“Please take this,” she said, reaching for a bag by the counter.
“Why give me anything? You don’t even know me,” I snarled, impatient, angry with myself for still being there.
The shopkeeper said nothing, just studied me with her peculiar gold eyes. It was nearly impossible to tear myself away from her gaze. Totally creeped out, I was ready to bolt. My mind said no, but my hand said yes. I took the heavy bag from her and backed slowly towards the exit.
“I’m not paying for this!” Running out the door, down the steps, still clutching the bag, I reached the sidewalk and looked back. The shopkeeper was gone, the lights were off, the shop now closed. The alligator head above the door laughed at me, sending shivers down my spine. The sky was filled with dark, puffy clouds; the smell of rain was in the air and the wind had kicked it up a notch. Like the night before, the street was empty. It was déjà vu all over again. I felt like some twisted Alice in Wonderland, who’d fallen into a black magic rabbit hole. My head said, Drop the bag! Leave it behind! But my hand wouldn’t listen. I raced through the French Quarter and after a few more wrong turns, arrived breathless at Kate’s house, my hand white-knuckled from gripping the bag. I unlocked the front door, climbed the stairs to my room, and dropped the Voodoo goodie bag on the bed. I paced the room, all the while staring at the bag.
Color Blind Page 5
