The Witch of Bourbon Street

by Suzanne Palmieri

  Mama was all over Sippie’s face again.

  “You really are blind, Miss Claudette,” said Sippie. “Like, really blind.”

  Damn girl. Just like her mama. Can’t hold her tongue to save her life.

  “What other kind of blind is there?” Claudette frowned, her fingers dropping.

  “Well, it could mean, like … not being able to see emotions or somethin’,” Sippie responded.

  “She’s blind that way, too,” I said.

  “She’s got to learn some manners, if we’re gonna keep her,” said Claudette.

  “She’s not a puppy, Mama.”

  Dida walked forward and took Sippie’s hands, pulling her up into a tight hug. Then she held her back by the shoulders so she could get a good look.

  “Well, ain’t you beautiful. I love you already. Come on, child, help me in the kitchen so you can catch me up on … what? Sixteen years? That’s right, ain’t it, Little Bit? All those lost years makes sense now, everything always makes sense if you give it enough time.”

  “You gonna be okay, Sippie?” I asked.

  “I am.”

  “You go on home, Frances,” said Dida. “Let us have some time with dis here girl of ours.”

  “Well, actually, I’d like to help with the celebration this year, so there are some things I could be doing in the garden.”

  Mama and Dida were both silent, but I could tell they were pleased.

  “You’ll find your way back later, Sippie?”

  “I know how to get there, the walk ain’t too far.”

  “That’s right, Sippie. You tell her. She’s been putting a million miles between us for years. Would have put up a damn wall if she could. Put all those wisteria trees in so they’d block out any view of this house. She’s spiteful,” said Claudette. Then she turned to me and added, “And I’m still too young to be a grandma.”

  Sippie piped up suddenly, “Ms. Claudette? Did you know that they got surgery now that might be able to fix those eyes of yours? They advertise it on TV. You should look into it. I mean, check it out! Sorry…”

  I was laughing on the inside so hard, I might burst. Sassy Sippie Sorrow would be her new name.

  “She really is yours, it seems,” said Claudette.

  “Ours.” Dida smiled, moving Sippie toward the kitchen, talking her ear off the whole way. “Old Jim, he gonna be so excited to have another child around … you want to be all grown? Or do you want to be little, it’s your choice, we ain’t got no rules like that here.…”

  I made my way to the hall. I felt so full and alive and … tired.

  Millie caught me before I left; she was twirling around on the first landing.

  “What a bat-shit crazy turn of events,” she said.

  “Millie, stop acting like you didn’t know. I’m not mad. I know you were helping me keep my secret. And I get it, when Simone died, you would have wanted to protect me then, too. I love you for it. Try to get to know her, Millie. She’s like us. Like both of us.”

  “You gonna take over the role of Serafina in the play again?” she asked, ignoring my speech.

  “I’m not taking over anything, I’m helping. You been asking me to help for years.”

  “Help is one thing, eclipsing everybody else is another. A secret child is so … ordinary. Taking the lead role in this pageant is another thing entirely,” Millie replied, an edge to her voice.

  “I don’t care, you decide…,” I said.

  Something wasn’t right with Millie. And I was scared it had more to do with me than her. I’d missed her. I’d let her in during those years, but it hadn’t been the same. Because I wasn’t the same.

  Guilt, another gift that keeps on giving.

  11

  Sippie at Sorrow Hall

  “You ever had a crawfish boil, Sippie?”

  “In town I have.”

  “Those places never do it right. You gotta have it out here on the bayou. The right way. With plenty of beer and old bay. We gonna have one come Solstice Eve. Just you wait. Today, though, we’re all gonna have some bread puddin’. Millie brought all this honey. Just look at it. Ain’t it fine?”

  Sippie followed Dida into a huge kitchen—at least it looked like what a kitchen might have back before the wheel was invented. Part of the roof was missing, so that it was as if they were outside with walls around them.

  “What do you do when it rains?” asked Sippie.

  “Well now, Old Jim, he’s handy. He got these tarps rolled up like sideways sails, and all we got to do is untie ’em. Got hooks to hitch ’em up on all over this fine hall. Why you ask, Cha? You think a roof would be better?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s like a secret garden, with jars,” Sippie whispered, looking at all the ledges and sills and bits of wood and stone that were lined with jars full of honey and jams and pickles and some things that weren’t meant to be eaten at all. Dark things.

  Dida went to a large, open fireplace and pulled a pan of steaming bread pudding out with a long wooden paddle. It smelled like every good thing should smell.

  “It might seem peculiar, us living this way, but it’s clean. It’s a good clean life. Simple and true. Which is the best kind of magic. We wash the floors and the windows with vinegar, and keep out the rot where we can. Let’s let this cool, and I’ll take you to meet the others.”

  “The others?” asked Sippie.

  “The dead ones…”

  “I think I already met some of them, out on the front lawn.”

  “You saw them? Well now, then you really do belong here, cha! So, now let’s go meet them proper like.”

  Dida took her out the side door of the kitchen, and Sippie noticed that Helene’s chapel glass hadn’t gone to waste. A dozen or so wind chimes and suncatchers had been fashioned from the shards. They clinked and glowed bright in the sun. Sippie heard whispers of them everywhere she turned.

  She followed Dida through the gardens toward the family plot, noticing that other bits of the colored glass made up strange mosaics on the broken saints in the cemetery. Lopsided, grouted crowns, dripping edges of robes, and St. Therese’s roses, the petals glued together with red glass.

  There was a black iron gate enclosing a series of marble tombs overgrown with wildflowers. Dida lovingly placed her hands across each one as she walked by.

  “Here they all are,” she said. “Helene, Edmond, all my sisters, and my baby brother, Egg. Cher bébé Egg.”

  “Dida, you that old?”

  “I am. It’s why the magic is so strong in our bloodline. And it’s why your very own mama was born to save the family, only … she refused. Denied her own self.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems she lost her faith. But maybe she just got it back, what do you think, cha?”

  Sippie didn’t know what to think. A lot had happened … fast, and it was hard work to catch up to this new family of hers.

  Dida turned to leave, lingering over one grave she hadn’t spoken of.

  ELSIE MAE SORROW

  “Who’s that?”

  “I’m not sure, I’ve always wondered,” Dida said softly, leading the way back. “I feel close to her, ça va? Dis the only grave makes me cry, sometimes. Think maybe I just feel bad no one knows who she is.”

  “You ever ask Mr. Craven?”

  “Dat fool? He thinks he knows things he simply do not know, child. I don’t trust one thing he says, but he sure does entertain us. I know this place seems like a wonderland, but it can get hollow feelin’, too. Craven thickens us up like a dark roux”

  “Do you miss your family all the time? You can see them, right? I think that would hurt too much, to see the ones we love, and not be able to touch them, feel them … to say things.”

  “I think you might be talking about yourself, Sippie. But in case you’re talking about me, a fever came and cleared everyone out and cleared my memory, too. So, it don’t hurt, the missing. I feel them all around me. And when it’s my turn for my soul to leave my body, I’ll
be with them again. And my memories, too.”

  “Ain’t you afraid to die?” Sippie asked.

  “Nah, I look forward to it, ça va? It’s part of the cycle. Think of the life span of a flower. Shorter than ours … but no less beautiful. Mais non. These gardens are as much about life and death as that cemetery.”

  “The gardens are like a fairy tale,” said Sippie.

  “That is a true thing, Sippie. A real true thing. You’ll love it in the fall when the spider lilies bloom. Such perfume and beauty. Those lilies wait underwater to bloom, then, as soon as the sun hits them and the waters are low, all you want to do is run into those boggy fields and throw yourself right on top of them, except that’s when the snakes and gators are at their most ornery … meaning’ you got to watch them, smell them, and love them from far away, so you won’t get bit. Reminds me of all of us.”

  “What do you mean? Beauty with a bite or being underwater till you bloom?” asked Sippie.

  “Clever girl. You belong right here where you washed. With us.” Dida squeezed her hand as they walked back into the kitchen.

  “No, no, no! That’s not it at all! Not at all, JuneBug!” yelled a voice from the east side of the house.

  “What’s all that about, Dida?”

  “That’s Craven. He’s helping JuneBug get the set ready for the pageant. Each year on summer solstice, we reenact the trials and tribulations of Serafina Sorrow, our original matriarch.”

  Craven huffed into the kitchen, hands aflutter, smoothing down his black hair and mustache. “That man is an imbecile. Oh my. Yes, he is,” he said, pumping water out into a large bucket and soaking a cloth. “He’s gotten the blue paints mixed up! Put the water where the sky should be. Come with me, won’t you, Sippie? I may need your help to fix this. And you can watch a rehearsal of the show.” He walked out.

  “It’s in the ballroom, cha,” Dida said, giving her a nudge toward the door. “You’ll love it. It has a complete roof, so we hang all the herbs in there to dry. Nice and earthy. Enjoy, ma chère! Learn a bit a your history.”

  * * *

  “You see, Sippie,” Craven said, walking upstairs to the east side of the house, “though there is much about this family that I believe is conjured out of thin air, I do suspect there are places on the earth that are ripe with unexplainable forces. And this is one of them. You see, time moves differently here. Or, at least, it has the possibilities of that type of shift. Some say older generations of Sorrows, even Serafina herself, moved through time. And that’s why I think”—he lowered his voice reverently—“that Serafina was a real witch. What a wonder that would be! To explore the world sideways like that.”

  “Or…,” said Millie, flinging open two enormous doors to the largest room Sippie had ever seen, “people could just stay home and see the wonders they got right in front of them. Wouldn’t that be magical? To see the magic in ordinary things … like love and sky and friendship?”

  Sippie followed Millie into the room that was even bigger once she was inside.

  Rows of mismatched chairs were lined up in front of a strange, colorful stage. Ancient sets leaned against the walls. Large, wooden waves of blue and white paint splashes; orange and red swirls as the fires that burned down much of Bourbon Street in 1788; and in the distance, a flat board ship could be seen resting behind deep red velvet curtains.

  “Let’s start! Places! Places, everyone!” cried Craven. “Take a seat up front, Sippie.”

  The waves began to move, a cityscape behind the stage rising to reveal a vast ocean expanse. Millie stood at the center of the waves as they shifted back and forth. She wore a handkerchief around her head.

  “When Serafina came across the sea, a casket girl of only ten and three … Ah, screw this, Frances is going to do it this year anyhow,” Millie grumbled.

  “She didn’t say that,” said Craven. “And this is by far our most important segment! At least stand there so we can get the ship positioned right.”

  So she stood there and decided to put on a little show of her own.

  “Sippie, you want to know what you just fell into? Here you go: When people from these parts mention ‘curse’ and ‘Sorrow’ in the same sentence, everyone thinks of the curse that began with that crazy killer nun taking down a whole generation of Sorrows.

  “But I’m going to tell you about a different curse—the lesser-known Frances Green Sorrow curse. The one she brought on herself.

  “Each summer solstice, we Sorrows dress in our traditional Serafina clothes and make our way with lanterns lit, around the Sorrow property, throughout the hall, then sail from the front docks to the back bayou, ending at the lighthouse. And this, this is the most important right of being a Serafina, because we believed one day, when the time was right, Serafina herself would speak to the ‘chosen witch’ and reveal a spell that would restore the Sorrows to their former glory. Imagine! Only she never did speak to Frances. Special, chosen Frances, did she, Dida?”

  Dida suddenly appeared by Sippie’s side. “Pay no mind to her, Sippie,” she said, moving them both toward the door. “She’s just a little … high-strung. She loves your mother so much, she don’t know where to put it all, ça va? Either way you and me should exit Toute de suite, I can feel a Nasty Millie Moment comin’ on.”

  “Simone had a voice like silk, didn’t she, Sippie?” Millie yelled after them. “Maybe you should take over the lead?”

  “Hush your damn mouth Millie,” said Dida who ushered Sippie back to the safety of the hallway.

  Sippie felt as if she’d been slapped. She turned around and narrowed her eyes at this “friend” of her mother’s, as a tide of curses came too close to bursting off her tongue.

  “Leave it be, child.” said Dida as she closed the ballroom doors.

  “Why is she so unhappy?”

  “That, Sippie, is because she wasn’t born a Sorrow. If she’d been born a Sorrow, nothing would have been able to hurt her because we’re already born into pools of it. Now, let’s go fix you up with some new clothes, what you say, cha?”

  “Got anything with leopard print?” asked Sippie.

  “Lordy, we got some work to do, don’t we,” said Dida.

  12

  Sippie and Frances Cast a Spell

  Frances

  I went to weed my garden. With my hands in the earth, everything began to sink down straight into my soul. I felt the pain coming, like a wave, and I wanted to fight it, shut down, sleep, be angry. But after all these years, I knew it was time to sift through all that pain. So I just let it come. In The Book of Sorrows there is a passage that states: “There are many ways to die, and many parts of us, dead already that need to be severed or we risk gangrene of the soul.”

  It’s the most terrifying thing, removing all the dead time and loss and anger. I knew it myself, the weakness of weeping. It might wash away the dead parts. So I cried.

  “I want to go back—” My voice broke, my mouth full of regret. “I want to choose differently! There’s this young girl inside of me sitting on a beach with this crazy fool of a boy, and it was the first and last time I was completely myself. No contrition, no past, no worries. And I walked away! Oh God, I walked away. I was never brave at all; I just walked away from everything.”

  I walked away. Me. Not Danny. Danny never walked away. Not even that first time. It was always me doing the running.

  My cries filled me until there were no more wails to be found and all that was left was my ragged breath breaking the silence.

  Sometimes you make a mistake so large, but so quiet, hidden inside a second, you forget to remember why you walk around with that terrible ache. The idea that everything happens for a reason is swell, until you realize you’re using that to hide behind your fuckup.

  Danny was my first mistake.

  All I had to do was wait; Exercise a little patience and see if he’d come back to me from that fancy college. Instead I created my own personal hell with my fear.

  The truth is compl
icated.

  I sat up, wiping the dirt from my hands. Exhausted, but full of lightness, I went back to my porch to wait for Sippie, remembering the time before the hope inside me died. Clearing away some of those dead parts set the best parts free.

  I always loved the way the sunshine poured in through the old lace curtains in the kitchen. They always smelled fresh and new, and Dida made them frame the lopsided windows so that they almost looked straight.

  Dida would put together the most beautiful outdoor dining rooms, entertaining on old china while shooing cats off the garden tables. Then, later, when I didn’t know I still cared, I’d watch Old Jim play with Jack in the gardens. Danny, too. The unbridled joy they all seemed to have with one another. A joy that wasn’t stolen from me—I’d given it away.

  When Sippie finally came back, she was flushed and wearing an old dress that Dida must have fixed up to fit her. I didn’t realize until I saw her that I’d been afraid she wouldn’t come back at all.

  “You’re a vision in that Sorrow lace, Sippie!” I smiled up at her.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting across from me on the porch.

  “So, Miss Teenage Daughter, tell me, do you want to talk or to let things work themselves out? You’re a Sorrow. And for better or worse, we do a lot of letting things just work themselves out. I’ve been sitting here, thinking and thinking, and I’m out of ideas on how we should … proceed.”

  “You said you had to work in the garden, you all done?”

  “You like to garden, Sippie?”

  “I do! I used to help Simone garden in the backyard of our old house, then after … well, Eight Track wasn’t much good at that kind of stuff.”

  “Then we have a plan,” I said.

  I showed Sippie my saint garden, how I fill up Helene’s broken statues with flowers and greenery. A wisteria plant growing up from inside St. Michael, camellias around the hands of Jesus. It was Sippie’s idea to plant wild roses inside the Virgin Mary in such a way that the blossoms filled out her eyes.

  “I’m sure that during Helene’s time, this was a beautiful garden,” I said. “And I’m sure she’d call me a heathen if she saw what I’ve done to it. But I think it’s far more beautiful now than it ever was. I think the statues like it better this way, too.”