Color Blind (20 page)

I learned Marie Catherine Laveau was born a free woman of color in New Orleans on or about September 10, 1801; the actual date was unconfirmed. A child of biracial parents, she was baptized in St. Louis Cathedral by Père Antoine, who later became her close friend and confidant. At the age of seventeen, Marie married a Haitian refugee, a carpenter named Jacques Paris. They had a daughter (some sources said two daughters), who apparently died not long after Jacques Paris disappeared in the early 1820s. After he'd been missing for one full year, Jacques Paris was declared dead and Marie began calling herself the “Widow Paris.” It was rumored, but never proved, that she was involved in “disappearing” her husband to escape an unhappy marriage.

There were also claims that Marie had an illegitimate daughter, Delphine, with an unnamed white man, and that Marie later gave her up to be raised by a “white” family. It was also reported that Delphine gave birth to a very dark skinned daughter, Liga, who she gave to her mother, Marie Laveau, to raise as her own child. Delphine told her husband their baby had been stillborn, which was a fairly common occurrence in those days. I hadn't found any documentation that validated this information; so far, it was all supposition. It didn't mean the information wasn't out there floating somewhere in cyberspace; I just hadn't found it yet. I needed to dig deeper.

Reported to be stunningly beautiful, Marie Laveau attracted the eye of Jean Louis Christophe Duminy de Glapion, the eldest son of a wealthy Louisiana sugar plantation owner. As interracial marriages were illegal in Louisiana, Marie couldn't marry her white lover. They coexisted in a common-law relationship for nearly thirty years. Some websites indicated they produced as many as fifteen children, some said only seven; again, I had found no verifiable documentation. One source confirmed five children, three of whom were daughters, all of whom were named Marie, as was the custom at the time. Of the five apparently documented children, only two daughters survived to adulthood; one of them became her mother's successor in the practice of Voodoo.

Well, darn, this was going to be considerably more difficult than I'd originally thought. How could I find out anything about children that were never documented? Where would I go for that kind of information if I couldn't find it on the Internet? A library? Church records? City archives? There's gotta be New Orleans research centers listed on the Internet. I'll start there. I might actually have to go old-school and pull hard-copy records myself.

I kept digging, but found little that made sense to me regarding her children. I switched gears. I wanted to understand how Marie Laveau could be a practicing Catholic, could attend Mass on Sunday mornings and hold Voodoo ceremonies in the evenings. Maybe like the dictionary said, it was because the two religions had certain elements in common. What I was most curious about was how she became involved in Voodoo in the first place. The more I learned about her, the more questions I had.

I reached for another cookie, but the plate was empty, the iced tea glass drained. I looked out the window and realized it was already dusk. It wouldn't be much longer before Kate would be home. I got up from the bed and worked out the kinks—stretching my arms to the ceiling, bending down and touching my toes, shaking out my arms. I'd been sitting way too long. Down to the kitchen to put my dishes in the dishwasher, grab some water, and go outside. I released BG from her tether and watched as she wandered around the courtyard, a nibble here, a nibble there.

I sat at the wrought iron table and reviewed what I had learned so far. Marie Laveau had a white grandfather and an African grandmother. Her parents were mixed-race. She was the widow of a Haitian carpenter and the common-law wife of a white sugar plantation heir. She had an unconfirmed number of children. Marie Laveau could neither read nor write, but apparently was able to accomplish much within New Orleans society without a formal education. She was a respected businesswoman. She was a talented hairdresser. She was a skilled nurse. She owned property. She also had the ear of local politicians and priests. As described in everything I'd read so far this afternoon, she had a captivating personality. I found her more than intriguing.

My thoughts shifted elsewhere. I reflected on one piece of history that I found especially personal and deeply disturbing. It was a common practice in the 1800s for mothers who gave birth to mixed-race children, with either predominately white or black skin tones, to give up their children to be raised by a family consistent with the color of their skin.
Would mothers give up their babies because it was in the best interest of the child, or were they simply motivated by self-interest?
There was absolutely no way to tell what would motivate any mother to abandon her child. I could sort of understand the need for such family “adjustments” in the 1800s, when racism ruled.
Why did my mother abandon me? What was her excuse? Why didn't she fight for me?

Returning from my dark reverie, I shifted my focus again. I considered everything I had learned so far about Marie Laveau's mixed-race heritage and her relationships with both black and white men and the reports of up to fifteen mixed-race children. It was a lot of information to process. When I included the photographs in Angel's house and Kate's office in my analysis, everything seemed to support my theory that Simone, Angel, Kate, and I were related. My next step would be to authenticate everything to the best of my ability and then share it with my new family.

It was getting late; time to get back to work. I got up and corralled BG, kissing her little head and giving her a few ear snuggles before hooking her back up for the evening. I checked her water bowl and went back inside. I opened the refrigerator and was staring at the contents, trying to decide about dinner, when I heard the front door open, then close. Kate was home. I shut the refrigerator door and leaned against the counter, waiting for her to come into the kitchen. Hopefully, she would make the dinner decision for us.

“Hey, welcome home! I was just thinking about you, wondering what you might like for dinner.”

“Glad to be home. I'm beyond pooped,” said Kate, as she set down her tote bag and kicked off her clogs. “How about we order a pizza? I don't feel like cooking tonight. I doubt you're ready to go out in public yet with your face looking like that, even though it looks like you're healing pretty quickly. You'll be ready for public appearances fairly soon.”

“Pizza's great! Can we do veggie? We could do half and half, if you'd like sausage or pepperoni.”

“I pretty much eat everything. Veggie is fine with me. Thick or thin crust? I'll place the order and go shower. You can tell me about your day over dinner.”

“Thin crust. Can we get salad too, Italian dressing on the side? I'll set the table while you freshen up. What would you like to drink?”

“This'll do for me,” said Kate, removing a bottle of red wine from the rack on the counter. She opened it, sniffed the cork and poured a glass.

“I should probably let this breathe, but, oh, well, not tonight.” Kate raised her glass to me. “Cheers!” She placed the order, topped off her glass of wine, and headed to the shower.

“Well, okay, then! A soda will do for me,” I said to Kate's back.

I got out plates, salad bowls, and napkins and began to set the table. After adding jars of crushed red pepper, oregano, grated Parmesan, and the bottle of wine to the table, I slid the napkins into their rings, centered them on the plates and straightened the forks and knives. Something was missing. I took an ornate silver candlestick with an ivory-colored beeswax taper from the butler's pantry and placed it with matches from the “catch-all drawer” in the center of the table between our plates.

Surveying the table, I was pleased.
I'm getting pretty good at this table setting thing. Besides, it won't hurt my case any if I do something nice for Kate. It's worth a shot anyway. I hope when she comes downstairs, she'll be nice and relaxed, maybe even a little buzzed from the wine, and hopefully, too tired to get involved in heavy conversation.
I could help move her in that direction. I poured a fresh glass of wine and set it down next to Kate's plate.
That should do it.

It wasn't long before Kate was back in the kitchen, her skin a bright pink, as if she had tried to scrub the day off.

“Bad day?” I asked.

“Not bad, just hectic. We had a full house, were short-staffed and turned every table two or three times. After lunch, we began the prep for a private event this evening, which, mercifully, I'm not working.” Kate nodded her head towards the table. “Nice job on the table. Thanks for the fresh glass of wine, it was very insightful of you,” she said, draining the last of the first glass and putting it in the sink.

The doorbell chimed and Kate left to pay the delivery person. I chose a wine glass for myself, filled it with ice, popped the soda can and set them at my place. I was lighting the candle when Kate came back with the food.

“Nice touch. Let's eat!”

“Good pizza,” I said, sliding another piece onto my plate.

“It is, isn't it? It's from my favorite pizza place. When the business first started, the owners only sold pizza by the slice out of a hole-in-the-wall place in the French Quarter. Slice by slice, they grew a loyal following, especially with the filmmakers who came down here to make their movies. Today, it's a full-service restaurant.” said Kate.

“Nice! Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Where do chefs go to eat? Do you go check out the competition, the latest and greatest new chefs?”

“Indeed I do! We all do it. We all know each other, if not personally, at least by reputation. It's a relatively small trendy restaurant community and the trendier the restaurant is, the harder it is to stay in business. It's good to see what's working and what isn't. There aren't that many new, too-chic-for-words establishments, but there are quite a few well-established, historic restaurants like Galatoire's and Antoine's or any one of the numerous Brennan family restaurants.”

She continued, “The locals aren't really big on change, everyone has their favorites. Of course the tourists expect the famous centuries-old standbys to be here when they come to town. They want to be able to tell the folks back home all about where and what they ate while visiting New Orleans,” said Kate, washing down the last bite of pizza with a little more wine.

“Where do you like to go? Like if you're on a date or something?” I asked.

“It depends on the date. Sometimes, say for a casual movie date, a couple of Lucky Dogs on the way and some popcorn at the theater will suffice. Maybe a quick stop at the Red Fish Grill or the Acme Oyster House for a plate of oysters afterwards. For something a little more romantic, there are quite a few restaurants with exquisite courtyards and, for the most part, they are all walking distance from here,” said Kate, yawning deeply.

“More wine?” I asked, holding the bottle up, ready to pour.

Kate tipped her empty glass towards me, then looked at the half-empty bottle and said, “No thanks. I've had enough, I should keep my wits about me.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you need to keep your wits about you? Why do you always need to be in control? Don't you ever loosen up?”

Kate hesitated, narrowed her eyes, frosted her tone, and said, “Those are all very good questions, April. None are any of your business. Well, on second thought, maybe one question is your business.
I
need to keep my wits about me because
I
don't know what crazy-assed thing
you'll
do next.”

Ooops! Just when things were going so well. She was relaxed and distracted, then Boom, I blew it.

I put the bottle down, lowered my eyes, and said, “Point taken.” I began to stack the dishes and hoped that was the end of it, but knew it wouldn't be.

“So, April, now that you've effectively killed my buzz and any hope of nodding off to dreamland in the next twenty minutes, let's talk about you and your day. Tell me about your job search. How did it go? Did you find anything yet?”

Well, here we go, exactly what I was trying to avoid: heavy conversation. I just can't get out of my own way, no matter what I do. Unbelievable.
I finished stacking the dishes, rinsed them in the sink, and loaded them into the dishwasher.

I got the cork from the counter, took it over to the bottle, and asked once more, “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

I corked the bottle and sat back down at the table.

“I did as you asked. I read through every ad for part-time jobs. I found one that might work out and circled it so we could talk about it. I left the newspaper on your desk, should I go get it?” I asked, rising to escape.

“Not now.”

I settled back into my chair. “I'll look again tomorrow after the paper gets here. I don't have any job experience, so it's kinda hard.”

I told her about the different job openings listed in the classifieds. She laughed at some of them, but, like me, was horrified by the ad for the smokers aged ten to sixteen.

“Okay. Anything else to report?” she asked.

“Yeah! I found a bunch of stuff on goats as pets—excuse me,
companion animals
. I printed out what I thought you might think was pertinent, organized it, and left the information on your desk. I also found a law I believe answers a lot of the questions we had about keeping goats as pets. Last thing, I left you the phone numbers for the landscaping company and the local vets who have goat patients.”

Kate said, “Thank you for that. I've been thinking about BG. Even though I think a goat would be a charming and interesting pet, one that would suit you to a “T” since you're as stubborn as one, I came to the conclusion she'd still be better off with other goats. She can stay here until I can get her settled elsewhere. I'll call the landscaper tomorrow to see what I can work out.”