Finding Someplace

by Denise Lewis Patrick

  TM2H! Too much to handle? What was he talking about? After all his flakiness lately, he had texted to let her know he was evacuating. Then he had come to ask her about Dré. And then that kiss! Why hadn’t he explained himself?

  Did it mean what she thought it might mean? Ayanna was always talking about kids at school who were “more than friends.” Was that what was happening with Orlando? Reesie really wished that she could talk to him now, live and in person.

  She stared at the tiny screen, but she didn’t call. And she didn’t text, either. Neither did he, she told herself, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

  “Teresa?” Miss Martine was calling her.

  “Coming!” Reesie answered, hurrying up from the table. When she stepped into the shadowy dining room, her feet sank down into the thick shag carpet. She eased around the huge table, bumping into one of the heavy thronelike chairs.

  The dining room opened through a curved arch into the living room, where Miss Martine had stopped. Reesie stood in the arch, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  There were books everywhere: piled on top of two faded velvet sofas and balanced on small dark tables. Behind the sofas, tall bookcases stretched up to touch the low ceiling; through their glass doors Reesie saw paperbacks jammed next to expensive-looking leather-bound volumes with gold letters on their spines.

  Miss Martine flipped on a fancy brass table lamp, and the space was suddenly glowing. Every inch of the living room’s wall space was covered in frames. Reesie gasped and moved closer.

  There were yellowed flyers from shows on Bourbon and Rampart Streets, dated sixty years ago. She saw programs from plays at New York’s Broadway theaters. There were wild old movie posters and black-and-white photos of people dressed to kill.

  “Wow! This is like a museum!” Reesie stopped to read the autograph scrawled across the bottom of one photo.

  Teenie, write a song for me sometime! Love, Louis. Reesie’s brain registered the man’s round face and wide grin. She spun around.

  “Louis Armstrong! You knew Louis Armstrong, Miss M?”

  “Child, I’ve known lots of people.”

  Reesie turned back to the picture to check out Louis Armstrong standing with his arm around a tall curvy-bodied young woman. She wore her wavy hair parted down the middle and slicked close to her head. Her dress draped low across her chest and flowed into a tight fit at the hips, with a scissor-pleated edge on the skirt. Thrown across her wide shoulders was a plump dark fur that seemed to have both an animal’s tail and head attached to it. The woman was smiling wide, and she had dark full lips.

  Those lips were the same as Miss Martine’s ruby red mouth.

  “But this is you!”

  “It’s me.”

  “And you’re wearing a killer dress, and a fur!”

  “Called a stone marten,” Miss Martine said.

  “Were you a singer?” Reesie tried to wrap her mind around Miss Martine and this long-ago glamorous life.

  “Let’s say that I didn’t always make cakes. Here.” Miss Martine held out a small red book. Reesie dropped her eyes to the fading silver print on the leather cover.

  Woman Everlasting … Poetry and Stories by Martine Odette Simon, 1949. Reesie looked up at her neighbor in wonder. “Miss M! You’re famous!”

  Chapter Eight

  “No, no.” Miss Martine gave Reesie a half smile. “I only wanted to be a writer. But none of my family even finished grade school, and they didn’t think much of my trying to be different. I wanted to go to college. When I left that house on South Roman Street, I knew I wouldn’t ever go back. I decided to run off to New York.”

  “So that was your storm, huh?” Reesie perched on a fluffy velvet stool. “You left home to make your dreams come true.”

  Reesie wondered what it would be like if she got the chance to fly all over the world, walk the runways, and see herself and her designs in magazines. That was her dream, but she couldn’t quite picture leaving her family behind. She couldn’t imagine them not backing her up, either.

  “I met other colored writers—black, y’all say now—up there. They were people who treated me like family.…” Miss Martine’s voice trailed off, and her eyes became distant.

  “And you got a chance to write your book!” Reesie said.

  “I got lots of chances.” Miss Martine nodded. “I tried writing for the movies too. Believe it or not, there were black folks making movies back then. The Johnson brothers, and Oscar Micheaux.” Miss Martine paused to laugh at Reesie’s blank expression. “He was … uh … the Spike Lee of my day,” she explained. “Oscar liked one of my stories, gave me a piece of money for it. Not much. Then he went and made a movie that wasn’t anything like it. I got invited to the opening anyway. That was his last film.”

  Movie scenes swirled in Reesie’s mind, first visions of the way-out dresses and evening gowns the women in the old black-and-white movies wore, then the fabulous clothes actresses wore on TV awards shows.

  “Did you get to walk the red carpet?” She gasped. “Was your dress custom designed? Oh, oh! And did you wear that—that fur from your picture—what was it? A rock martin?”

  Miss Martine laughed out loud and then looked thoughtfully at Reesie, pulling on her cat-eye glasses as if she wanted to get a good look for the first time.

  Reesie froze, afraid she’d somehow said the wrong thing.

  “A stone marten. And we seem to be going on and on about me,” Miss Martine finally said. “Tell me about what you do.”

  “What? I just go to school and stuff.”

  “What is stuff? I don’t believe at all that you keep your head on your studies every single minute. You are too lively for that!”

  Reesie didn’t know how to answer. Miss Martine was somebody who’d been famous and had hung out with stars. Surely, she wouldn’t care about an almost-teenager’s dream to be a fashion designer! Reesie nervously fingered the edge of her baby-doll shirt.

  “Did you make that?” Miss Martine asked. And she didn’t ask it like it was impossible, the way some of the kids or teachers at school did.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Martine came around and gently examined Reesie’s flat-felled shoulder seam, and the lace pieces she had sewn around the neckline.

  “Appliqué!” Miss Martine murmured. “Child, you’re good! Very good.”

  “Thanks,” Reesie said proudly. “My Ma Maw taught me how to do it. Miss M—” A question burned at the back of Reesie’s mind. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” Reesie hoped she wouldn’t bring back bad memories; still, she had to know.

  “Not at all,” Miss Martine said, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s been good talking about the past.”

  “Well … I guess I don’t get how you—I mean anybody—could give up something you wanted so much! How could you give up writing? All that fame and everything?” Her voice faltered.

  Miss Martine didn’t react with anger. In fact, she looked a little sad.

  “Oh, child. I wasn’t ever famous! And anyhow, do you think this country was ready for anybody colored—trying to make a living off words—to be famous? I wrote my heart out. Yes, and got one book published. Never made much money off any of it. I stayed up North for a while, waiting for something big to happen. I went overseas after the war, where lots of colored artists and writers had done better. Wrote some more poetry and a few stories. Ran out of money, though. I ended up writing for love, and cooking for a living.”

  Reesie thought of Orlando for some crazy reason. She blushed and pushed him out of her mind.

  Miss Martine seemed to pick up on it. “I don’t mean a man, either! I mean, writing was what I wanted to do, what I loved. Cooking was what I had to do to earn my keep. I’ve been cooking ever since.”

  Reesie opened her mouth to ask what happened to the writing, when Aretha Franklin’s voice belted out “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” from her cell phone. She watched Miss Martine’s eyebrows jump, and laughed. “It�
�s my mom’s ringtone,” she explained.

  “Teresa Arielle Boone!” Her mother’s voice was shaking.

  “Mama? I’m okay! Didn’t you get my text? I’m at Miss Martine’s—”

  “Oh my God, honey, forget about the cake!” There was so much commotion in the background that Reesie could hardly hear, and her mother was practically yelling.

  “Mama? Mama!” Frightened tears welled in the corners of Reesie’s eyes.

  Her mother took a deep breath. “Boo, I wish I had followed my first mind and taken you away from here!” she said angrily. Reesie couldn’t exactly tell who she was angry at, though.

  “Look,” her mother went on. “Parraine called me. Things are so crazy that there’s no way he can get into the city to pick you up. I can’t find your father. You stay where you are, you hear me? This hurricane is coming, it’s coming in bad. I don’t want you to get caught by yourself!”

  Reesie swallowed. She was aware that Miss Martine was standing quietly in the doorway, listening.

  “But, Mama.” Reesie tried to sound calm. “I’m not by myself. I’m with Miss Martine!”

  “Right. They don’t expect the storm to make landfall until tomorrow morning, so your daddy will come for you.… Are you listening?”

  Reesie was nodding without saying anything.

  “Reesie! Teresa! Put Miss Simon on the phone!”

  “I’m here. Yes, Mama. Just a minute—” A loud busy signal interrupted the conversation, and all at once her mother was gone. She tried redialing, but she got a busy signal, then a recorded message: “We’re sorry, but circuits are busy. Your call cannot be completed at this time.”

  “Well, I guess I have company now, don’t I?” Miss Martine said. “If I know Lloyd Boone, he’s going to find a way to get his baby girl. You can count on that.”

  Reesie wanted to say something, anything; but she was still dangerously close to crying. In her heart, she knew Daddy would do anything for her. He simply refused to believe anything would happen to his New Orleans—ever. He couldn’t have known that the city would officially be shut down. Usually, when her parents agreed to disagree, everything worked out. But this time Katrina had jumped into the mix, and even Lloyd “Superman” Boone might not be able to make it right.

  Chapter Nine

  AUGUST 28, 6:30 PM

  Reesie looked out Miss Martine’s front window. Clouds had finally rolled in, and a strong, steady rain was falling. There were no more slamming doors, or cars creeping along. She didn’t see headlights or taillights, or even house lights. It was hard to tell if she and Miss Martine were the last people on the block.

  What were her parents doing, and why hadn’t she heard from them? Was Orlando having room service somewhere? Was Ayanna hanging out with her cousins? She even smiled to herself at the thought that Bernice might still be finishing up one last customer.

  Maybe it would all be a bust, but Reesie felt the weight of waiting, and it was horrible. Waiting for her phone to ring or buzz. Waiting for Katrina.

  “Let’s take our minds off all this storm mess,” Miss Martine said, clapping her hands. “Child, when I’m upset, I cook. In fact, I bet I can cook up a bigger storm than old Katrina!”

  Reesie couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

  “We’ll make meat pies,” Miss Martine told her. “That way, if the power goes out, we’ll have something we can eat cold.”

  They proceeded to chop onions and garlic and bell peppers. Miss Martine directed Reesie to drawers and cabinets stocked with dishes, bowls, and fancy serving platters. Each one had a story, and Miss Martine told them all. Reesie found herself laughing even more and asking questions, forgetting the tight place in the pit of her stomach. She felt as if Ma Maw were with her again.

  The aroma of the frying crust and spicy meat began to fill the house as the rain lashed hard against the windows. Reesie counted one, then two dozen of the golden half-moons spread on paper-towel-covered trays—and Miss Martine was still scooping more pies out of the hot oil.

  “You know, I ran into a fellow once who was selling videotapes of Micheaux movies. I don’t know where he found the film, but they’re the real deal! I bought one or two of them. We can watch one if you set up the video machine. I never can figure that thing out.”

  “No way!” Reesie turned to see Miss Martine’s eyes twinkling. “Black-and-white?”

  “Course!” She nodded toward the other room. “Look through that armoire in front of the couch.”

  Reesie stared at the huge piece of furniture, and when she went to pull at its double doors, she found a bulky old TV set sitting on top of a VCR. Not even a DVD player. She smiled to herself. But then, the boxes stacked neatly beside the TV were all videotapes. She scanned the titles until she saw the name Micheaux written in spidery script on the spine of one box. The tape inside only had a plain label on it that read SWING, 1938.

  “This is soooo old!” Reesie murmured. She slid the tape in, rewound it, and it was ready to go. “It’s in, Miss Martine,” she called out, pressing play.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Just as Reesie settled onto the sofa, the lights flickered. Then the TV picture turned to static, and the power went completely out.

  “Hey!” Reesie shouted.

  “Good gracious! It’s only the lights,” Miss Martine said.

  But Reesie jumped up, banged her knee, and sent something thudding to the floor.

  “Don’t move,” Miss Martine ordered. “You’ll hurt yourself. Let me get my searchlight.”

  “O-okay,” Reesie answered. She wouldn’t dare move. It was pitch-black. The wind was actually whistling, the way it did in horror movies, and trees were scratching at the windows. For a minute she imagined that she felt the whole house move, but then it seemed still.

  “That’s freaking crazy,” she mumbled out loud.

  “Say what?” A strong beam of light suddenly shone from the kitchen. Reesie could see Miss Martine’s face in the shadows.

  “N-nothing.” Reesie was still trembling. And all at once, she was super-hungry. It was ridiculous. How could she be totally scared, and starving too?

  Reesie blinked. Miss Martine was smiling, motioning in her direction.

  “We might as well eat a little something,” she said. “Seems to me, people always eat when their nerves are bad. Watch where you step, now.”

  Miss Martine plunked her flashlight on a counter and rifled through a kitchen drawer. She produced a tall candle, lit it, and set it in the center of the table.

  “What kind of New Orleans girl are you, afraid of a little wind?” she asked.

  Reesie shrugged. “One time during a storm, when I was little, Ma Maw took Junior and me into the middle bedroom while the house shook like crazy! I mean, we were okay and everything, but—I just don’t like any of it.”

  “I’ve been blessed since I bought this house,” Miss Martine said. “I never suffered more than a few inches of water and some missing shingles.”

  “But aren’t you—weren’t you scared to be in here by yourself?” Reesie asked.

  Miss Martine smiled. “I know it’s odd for you young people to be alone, but we old people get used to it.”

  Reesie did think it was weird, but she didn’t say that. She nervously chewed on a meat pie, listening to the wind rumble. The rain was pounding now, and a clap of thunder almost knocked her off the stool she was sitting on. The searchlight was dancing along the counter by itself. The house was really shaking. The walls were straining and creaking.

  “Miss M, do you think … do you think Katrina is the ‘big one,’ like everybody’s saying?”

  Before Miss Martine could answer, an explosive burst of wind blew the candle out and rocked the building from its brick foundation up. Glass rattled and windows popped, tinkling as their shards flew everywhere. Reesie jumped off the stool and crawled under the table. Miss Martine eased to her knees and grabbed one of Reesie’s hands. Reesie squeezed the old lady’s soft arm.<
br />
  “Just keep still,” Miss Martine whispered.

  The searchlight finally clattered to the floor and went out, spinning underneath the table alongside them. Then a thunderous crash hit the side of the house.

  “Wh-what was that?” Reesie’s eyes were wide in the dark.

  “I think it was the roof over my bedroom,” Miss Martine said. A moment later they heard a sound like a giant shower running at full force.

  Katrina raged and stomped across New Orleans.

  Reesie and Miss Martine clung to each other under the table. The hurricane kept rolling. Reesie closed her eyes tight, telling herself that it couldn’t possibly be her house that the trees were falling on. It couldn’t be her house that the wind had just flattened with another boom.

  “Now, I’m just thinking,” Miss Martine said calmly during a lull in the wind. “How silly an old woman am I to stay here for a bunch of books and souvenirs from two lifetimes ago?” She shifted her weight away from Reesie and clicked her tongue, fussing at herself.

  Distracted from her fear, Reesie opened her eyes.

  “That’s not silly. It’s like you said. These are your precious things!”

  “Things seem to be all I have left,” Miss Martine said.

  “I think there are some things that are special,” Reesie said.

  “Like what?” Miss Martine asked as trees crackled and cracked outside.

  Reesie described the antique clock Mama’s uncle had brought back from his time in World War II, and the Kenyan stool her parents had gotten when they went to Africa before she was born. She told Miss Martine about Junior’s basketball trophies and her own stacks of sketchbooks.…

  “And then there’s Ma Maw’s old sewing machine,” she said.

  “She’s the one who taught you?”

  Reesie nodded.

  “I should have known. Your grandmother always had an eye for fashion. I made her a pie every now and then, and she’d hem a dress for me in return.”

  “That’s so cool,” Reesie said, thinking how crazy it was that she never knew any of that.