Dollbaby: A Novel (13 page)

Crow just shook his head.

Doll tightened her arms across her chest. “For sure, the Reverend Jeremiah’s gone have a few things to say about it this coming Sunday.”

Queenie shook her head. “But I still say, you can’t go mixing people up like they a bunch of eggs.”

Crow took a bandanna out of his back pocket and wiped his eyes. He went out the back door just as a bellow came from the front room.

“How dare that good-for-nothing president interrupt my show!”

Queenie and Doll exchanged glances.

Queenie reached over and turned off the radio. “Ain’t nothing ever gone change around this house. That’s for sure.” Queenie rolled her eyes. “And ain’t nothing gone change for the black man neither, no matter what the president say on the radio.”

Doll glanced out into the backyard, where her father was now bent over, scrubbing the car.

And she hoped, just this once, that her mother wasn’t right.

I
bby noticed the door to Doll’s sewing room was ajar the next morning as she made her way down to breakfast. When she peeked in, she was startled to find a set of dark eyes staring back at her.

“Get away from that door, like I told you!” Doll fussed at the dark-eyed girl.

“But, Mama,” the girl said, “they is someone there!”

Flustered, Ibby ran across the hall to her father’s room. She listened for a moment to make sure no one was coming after her before she took the urn from the armoire and placed it on the floor in front of her.

“Good morning, Daddy,” she said.

“That your daddy in that jar?”

Ibby looked up to find a pair of spindly brown legs attached to a girl about her age in a sleeveless gingham dress. Her hair was braided all over her head. She was standing with one hand on her hip and staring down at Ibby.

“That your daddy?” the girl said again, pointing at the urn.

“Yes,” Ibby answered, flustered by the girl’s sudden appearance in her father’s room.

The girl sat cross-legged beside her. “What were his name?”

“Graham,” Ibby said.

“That’s a nice name.”

They studied each other a few moments. Ibby could see Doll in the girl. They had the same wide mouth, long thin face, expressive eyes, and beautiful almond skin.

“You Birdelia?” Ibby asked.

The girl nodded. They stared at each other a little while longer.

“Is that your real name?” Ibby asked.

“Yeah. Mama gave me that name on account of when I was born, I had my mouth open like this.” Birdelia lifted her head, pushed her lips out, and began opening and closing her mouth. “Just like a baby bird do when they looking for food.”

“My name’s Ibby.”

“That your real name?”

“No, it’s Liberty, but the only person that calls me that is my mama when she gets mad,” Ibby said, clenching the urn.

Birdelia leaned in and looked Ibby squarely in the eyes with an intensity she wasn’t used to. “You miss your daddy, don’t you?”

“He loved me,” Ibby blurted. She had no idea why she said it, especially to a stranger.

“My daddy loved me, too. Least that’s what my mama say.”

“Did something happen to your daddy?” Ibby asked.

“Don’t rightly know. Left before I was born.” Birdelia cupped her chin in her hands, as if she were thinking about it some more.

“So . . . you never met your daddy?”

“Don’t matter none.” Birdelia shrugged. “Mama say he went back to Sorrowful Swamp, where he belonged.”

“Where’s Sorrowful Swamp?”

“Just a blot on the map, in the low country. Mama say no matter how hard you try and scratch it off the map, the stain of Sorrowful Swamp still shows through.”

“You ever been there?”

Birdelia shook her head. “No. People shy away from the place, like it reeks, ’cause they say once you go there, you never come out.”

“Is it haunted?”

Birdelia inched closer. “The way the story goes, there’s a strange silence in Sorrowful Swamp. Once a person gets caught up in that silence, they can’t live without it. And once they there, they can’t leave anyway on account they believe every bush and every tree harbors Satan. And if it ain’t Satan up in that tree, it’s bound to be the boogeyman, or maybe one of them plat-eyes.”

“Is that where your daddy is now?”

Birdelia nodded. “Mama say he went there before I was born, and no one ever seen him since.”

Ibby felt sorry for Birdelia, never having met her father. “Your daddy, I know he loves you, in his own way.”

“Yeah. That’s what Mama say, too.” Birdelia looked Ibby in the eye. “Your daddy, even though he’s up there now”—Birdelia pointed up to the sky—“he’ll always be with you as long as he’s in here.” She took Ibby’s hand and placed it over her heart. “Every time you want to be with your daddy, that’s all you got to do.”

“Birdelia! I told you not to leave the sewing room. You not supposed to be in here.” Doll stood by the door, tapping her foot.

Birdelia stood up and pointed at Ibby. “
She
in here.”

“Don’t you give your mama no sass. That’s different, and you know it. Now, tell me, Birdelia Trout. What kind of stories you been telling Miss Ibby?” She squinted at Birdelia.

“Nothing, Mama. We just talking.”

“Miss Ibby, don’t believe a thing Birdelia tells you,” Doll huffed.

The truth was, Birdelia’s story had intrigued her. Ibby took a sort of newfound comfort in knowing that her daddy would always be with her, in her heart. She smiled to herself.

“Miss Ibby, you listening to me?” Doll asked.

Ibby looked up at her, realizing she had been lost in her own thoughts.

“Why don’t you go on up and get dressed? Queenie got some biscuits and grits waiting for you in the kitchen. Miss Fannie’s already taken her breakfast, so don’t go disturbing her. She busy picking her
horses before Mr. Henry gets here. Birdelia can keep you company today. Now, come on, Birdelia.” Doll took her daughter by the hand and led her out of the room.

When Ibby got downstairs, Birdelia was sitting at the kitchen table with a pile of biscuits in front of her. She took a big swig of milk and smiled at Ibby.

“I see you two have met.” Queenie wiped her hands on her apron.

Crow opened the back door and came in with a big box. “Here’s the cake you asked me to pick up from the bakery. What you making today? Smells mighty fine.” Crow moved things around in the icebox to make room for the cake.

Queenie stirred the pot. “Gumbo. Mr. Pierce gave me some extra shrimp to put in. I’ll save some for you. Knows how much you like gumbo.”

“Morning, Poppy,” Birdelia said through a mouthful of biscuit.

“Birdelia, child, you know better than to talk with your mouth full.” Queenie tapped the spoon on the side of the pot and placed it on the counter. “Now listen, young ladies, soon as Mr. Henry gets here, stay out of the way, understand?”

Crow rubbed the side of his face nervously, then whispered to Queenie, “Maybe they should stay in the backyard and not go wandering around the neighborhood after the president’s announcement yesterday. The mayor called for peace, and as far as I know, there ain’t been no trouble, but best be safe.”

Queenie nodded, then looked at the two girls. “Poppy is right. You two stay in the backyard today. Don’t go wandering off nowhere, you hear?”

“But Mee-maw, what we gonna do in the backyard?” Birdelia whined. “You said we could go over to Plum Street and get a snowball.”

Crow shook his head and headed out the back door. “You women never listen to me anyway. Don’t know why I waste my breath.”

“Please?” Birdelia clasped her hands and smiled.

“Oh, all right,” Queenie said after Crow was out of earshot. “But if
you run into any trouble, you come on back home, you hear me?” Queenie squinted at Birdelia. “No trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am, I promise.” Birdelia jumped from the stool.

Queenie reached into the cookie jar and placed four dimes and two quarters in front of them. “No trouble,” she repeated, and pointed at Birdelia.

Birdelia grabbed the money and stuck it into her pocket. “Well, come on, Miss Ibby.”

As they walked up the street, a throng of uniformed maids passed them, heading for the Bell household to place their bets. As they got farther up the block, Ibby hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Birdelia asked.

Annabelle Friedrichs was sitting on the wooden swing hanging from the tree in her front yard, her back toward them.

“Let’s cross the street,” Ibby said.

“What for?”

“See the girl in the swing? That’s Annabelle.”

“Yeah, so?” Birdelia put her hand on her hip.

“She’s the one that gave me this black eye.” Ibby pointed at her face.

“Then we gonna walk right on past her. Don’t do nothing until I give you the signal. She’s behind a fence—what she gone do?”

Ibby thought about it for a moment. “Okay.”

“She say anything to you, don’t say nothing back. Understand? She wants to get under your skin—just act like you don’t care. Now follow me.” Birdelia started walking real slow, swinging her arms and whistling as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Ibby followed, imitating her.

Annabelle heard the whistling and turned around. Birdelia and Ibby kept on walking, swinging their arms. Annabelle jumped down from the swing and came over to the fence.

“See you still got that black eye,” Annabelle said, following along behind the fence as they strolled by. “And I see you’re a nigger lover, too.”

Ibby wanted so badly to turn around and pull Annabelle’s braids, but she remembered what Birdelia had told her.

“Now!” Birdelia said.

With that, Birdelia turned, pulled down her underpants and mooned Annabelle, then ran away as fast as she could. Ibby turned her head to see Annabelle Friedrichs standing with her hands on her hips and her mouth open.

Birdelia kept running. Three blocks later the girls stopped to catch their breath.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Ibby said.

“She won’t be bothering you no more,” Birdelia giggled.

They took their time walking the rest of the way up to St. Charles Avenue. They crossed the street to the median, which Ibby discovered was called the neutral ground in New Orleans, and stood beside a yellow sign to wait for the streetcar. A few minutes later, a green streetcar with a red roof pulled up.

“Just give the money to the conductor.” Birdelia handed Ibby a dime and stepped onto the streetcar.

They walked up to the front, handed the money to the driver, then went to the back of the streetcar and found a seat.

A woman sitting behind them tapped Ibby on the shoulder. “You go on and sit up by the driver, like you supposed to.”

Ibby looked around. There were plenty of empty seats, both in the back and up front by the driver.

“Go on now.” The woman waved her hand.

Ibby got up, waiting for Birdelia to follow.

“You stay put.” The woman pushed Birdelia down by the shoulder.

Birdelia jutted her chin out, nodding to Ibby to do as the woman said, then looked the other way.

The streetcar traveled a good ways down St. Charles Avenue before making a turn at the bend of the river. About six blocks later, Birdelia jumped up and pulled a white cord over the window. She tilted her head toward Ibby.

“Why’d she make me go sit somewhere else?” Ibby asked when they got off the streetcar.

“That was the section for colored folks. I thought you knew that white folks supposed to sit up front.”

“Why?”

Birdelia shrugged. “Always been that way, far as I can remember. Mee-maw say, a long time ago, when she was just starting to work for Miss Althea, they used to have streetcars marked with yellow stars for just colored people. Problem was, they didn’t come around too often, and when they did, they was always full, so Mee-maw ended up walking to Miss Althea’s most days. She say she was happy when they got rid of the streetcars for colored folks ’cause at least she could always find a seat on the back of the regular streetcars.”

As they crossed the street, Ibby thought about what Birdelia said. She couldn’t imagine being treated so differently.

They walked a few blocks down Plum Street until they came upon people milling about a purple clapboard building on the corner.

“You go and wait in that line out front.” Birdelia pointed to the people standing just outside the front door of the building. “I got to go to the side window around back, where all the other colored folks are.” She handed Ibby a quarter and disappeared down the street.

Ibby opened the screened door to the snowball stand. A sign over the counter advertised about a hundred different flavors of snowballs. A man in a white apron and funny paper hat held a Chinese takeout container under the opening of a large machine. Fine bits of shaved ice fell into the container and piled up over the rim. It took about twenty minutes for Ibby to reach the front of the line.

“What flavor?” the man in the paper hat asked.

Ibby pointed to a little girl in the next line over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

“That’s wedding cake with whipped cream and sweetened condensed milk. That what you want?”