Dollbaby: A Novel (16 page)

Queenie cautioned Doll to stay back. “Go call Doc Hathaway. Tell him to come right away.”

“You gone be all right in here with her?” Doll had never seen Miss Fannie this bad.

“Just go!”

A few minutes later Doll appeared at the bathroom door. “They coming now. Good thing Doc Hathaway’s on call this morning.”

“Thank the Lawd that hospital only a couple blocks away.” Queenie tied a washcloth around Fannie’s hand. “Help me get her up and dressed before they get here.”

She spoke to Fannie in a low voice and stroked her hair as Doll
helped her into her clothes. Just as Doll slipped a shoe on Fannie’s foot, there was a knock at the door.

“Go answer it before Miss Ibby comes down,” Queenie said.

Doll returned with three men in white coats.

“How is she?” the doctor asked.

“Take a look around, Doc. See for yourself,” Queenie said.

Dr. Hathaway placed his bag on the floor next to the bed, took out a syringe, and gave Fannie a shot. Fannie didn’t move.

“Doc,” Queenie said, “this the worst one yet.”

“What brought it on?” Dr. Hathaway asked as he checked Fannie’s vital signs.

“Her son Graham passed,” Doll said. “That started it. Then a few days ago her granddaughter shows up with Master Graham nothing but a bunch of ashes in a jar. If that weren’t enough, somehow, over lunch, Master Balfour’s name came up. Afraid it was all too much for Miss Fannie. Too much.”

“I see,” Dr. Hathaway said.

When he gave the signal, one of the attendants put Fannie’s arm around his neck, grabbed her by the waist, and escorted her out of the room. These episodes happened frequently enough that Doll had a small bag for Miss Fannie packed and ready. She handed it to the other attendant.

“We’ll take her in, see how she does,” the doctor said.

What that meant was, Fannie would be taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital, where she’d stay until the doctor felt she wasn’t a danger to herself or anyone else. Could be a day or two, could be a couple weeks. Never could tell.

“Her hand might need a stitch or two,” Queenie said. “I got it wrapped up tight.”

“I’ll take a look at it as soon as we get to the hospital,” the doctor said. “Okay, boys, let’s go.”

“You be good now, Miss Fannie. Don’t you worry none about Miss
Ibby. We’ll take good care a her until you get back,” Queenie said as the attendant escorted Fannie down the hall, with Dr. Hathaway following closely behind.

Queenie and Doll stood by the front door, gazing through the etched-glass panel as the attendants loaded Fannie into the ambulance. Ibby appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Where are they taking Fannie?” Ibby asked.

She ran down the stairs, pushed past them, and threw open the front door.

Doll put her hands on Ibby’s shoulders and drew her back. “They just taking her to rest for a few days.”

“But
where?
Where are they taking her?”

Ibby was waving at Fannie frantically, as though she might never see her again.

“They taking her to St. Vincent’s, Miss Ibby.”

“The crazy hospital?” Ibby asked.

Doll turned Ibby around to face her. “Now listen, baby. They got revolving doors for people like Fannie who need a place to go when the sadness gets to be too much. She’ll be okay. Don’t you worry. She be back soon enough. Now come on.” She gently pulled the girl away from the door. “You gone come to church with us this morning.”

Ibby’s head shot around. “To church?”

Doll put her hands on her hips. “Ain’t you never been to church before?”

“Never.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mama says church is a bunch of garbage.”

“Well then,” Doll said with a tight-lipped smile, “this morning you gonna see for yourself. Then you can make up your own mind about it.”

When Crow pulled up in the driveway about an hour later, Queenie got into the front seat as Doll and Ibby slid into the back of the Chevy Malibu. Doll saw Crow peering at them through the rearview mirror.

“Anyone gone explain what’s going on?” he asked.

“Miss Fannie, she gone off for a few days,” Queenie said.

“I understand.” Crow nodded as he backed out of the driveway. “Sure do.”

After a while, he asked, “Miss Ibby, she going to church with us then?”

“Yes, Daddy. She can keep Birdelia company. We need to go by the house and change into our Sunday clothes first, though.”

“I understand,” Crow said again. A few minutes later he added, “You think that’s such a good idea, bringing her to church, knowing what the Reverend Jeremiah gone be preaching about this morning after the president’s speech and all?”

There was a long pause before Doll answered. “It’ll be all right, Daddy.”

Lawd,
Doll was thinking,
Daddy’s got a point. The reverend’s gone be going on about civil rights and how the black man has been oppressed and how it’s the white man that keeps him down. Just what
is
Miss Ibby gone think about all that? Not a good day to bring a little white girl to church. Hope nobody say nothing to her. Miss Ibby never been to church before. Maybe she won’t know the difference.
She shook her head. She didn’t want any more trouble this morning. She’d already had her fill for one day. But who was she kidding? Everyone at church was going to notice the white child sitting with Birdelia.

Crow drove through downtown and the French Quarter, passing through a section of town called the Faubourg Tremé, where the houses were stacked close together with no yards. Eventually he turned onto Elysian Fields, a broad boulevard lined with live oaks and modest one-story raised shotgun cottages that had once been brightly painted but were now dingy and guarded by heavy iron burglar bars across the windows and doors. The boulevard’s neutral ground was strewn with folding chairs and empty food containers that were being scavenged by a few mangy dogs.

“I wish the neighbors would learn to pick up after themselves,” Doll said under her breath as Crow pulled up in front of their double shotgun, a long narrow house with two front doors on opposite ends that led to mirror-image apartments on either side.

Birdelia jumped up from one of the plastic chairs on the front porch. She was wearing a puff-sleeved blue dress with a white satin sash that was so starched it stuck out like a bell, making Birdelia’s skinny little legs look like Popsicle sticks.

She tore down the steps and pointed at Ibby. “What’s she doing here?”

“That any way to talk to Miss Ibby?” Doll scolded. “Where your manners at?”

“Well, like I say before, what’s she doing here?” Birdelia asked again, still pointing.

“She gone spend the day with us,” Doll replied.

Birdelia looked at Ibby as if she didn’t know quite what to make of that.

“Why don’t you two visit out here a few minutes while we go inside?” Queenie said.

“Okay.” Birdelia shrugged.

When she and Doll got inside, Queenie stopped and leaned on the wall.

Doll put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay, Mama?”

Queenie waved her away. “I’m fine. Just never seen Miss Fannie like that before. Scared me a little, that’s all.”

Doll watched her mother shuffle toward the back of the house. She hadn’t wanted to say anything, but she’d been thinking the same thing. Fannie had always managed to return from St. Vincent’s Hospital after a few days, but what if this time was different? What if Miss Fannie never came back?

Gone have to say an extra prayer at church today,
Doll thought as she followed her mother into her bedroom.

I
bby stood on the porch with Birdelia, studying the small ornamental tree in the front yard that was haphazardly strewn with Mardi Gras beads. Empty blue bottles were stuck on the tips of each branch. She’d never seen anything quite like it.

“Why does that tree have all those blue bottles stuck on the branches like that?” she asked.

“It’s Queenie’s bottle tree,” Birdelia said. “Every time she finishes a bottle of Milk of Magnesia, she sticks it on a branch of the tree. The bottles, they supposed to capture spirits that wander in the night. Mama says them spirits love blue glass, so they crawl up inside, and once they there, they can’t get out. Then, when the sun rises, they burn all up until they no more.”

“What are all the beads for?”

“Them just Mardi Gras beads.”

“What do they do?”

“They just for show. We throw them up in the tree after the parades. Make the tree right pretty, don’t you think?” Birdelia smiled a big toothy smile. “Threw most of them up there myself.”

Birdelia grabbed Ibby’s hand and pulled her inside the house. It smelled of potpourri and overstuffed furniture. Birdelia plopped down
on a brown Naugahyde couch that had a crocheted afghan thrown over the back of it.

“This side of the house is where Queenie, Crow, and T-Bone live. Me and Mama live next door, on the other side of the shotgun.”

“Who’s T-Bone?” Ibby asked as she came over and sat next to Birdelia.

“T-Bone? Oh, he’s my uncle. His real name is Thaddeus. They call him T-Bone ’cause he likes to play the trombone. Got a picture a him up there somewhere.” She pointed to a gas fireplace with framed photos perched on the mantel. Birdelia went over and picked one up. “Right here.”

The boy in the photo didn’t look much older than Ibby. He was tall and skinny, with a long face, a broad smile, and close-cropped hair. His eyes held a certain sparkle, as if he’d been up to some mischief.

“He looks awfully young to be your uncle.”

“He’s sixteen. Might be at church this morning, but never can tell with T-Bone. He got a habit a not showing up like he supposed to.”

“Who are the other people in the picture?”

“That one on the left, that were my uncle Ewell, and that one next to him were my uncle Malcolm. Never knew either one. They died before I was born.”

“What happened to them?”

“Not sure about Malcolm. Don’t think no one ever told me. And Ewell, he was shot in a fight right outside this house.” She looked around at the other photos. “Don’t see no pictures of my uncle Purnell. Mee-maw must have taken them all down.”

“Why would she do that?” Ibby asked.

“He ain’t exactly been in Mee-maw’s good graces lately. Been hanging out with bad brothers. Mee-maw kicked him out of the house ’cause she didn’t want him bringing them around no more.” Birdelia put the picture back on the mantel and pointed at Ibby’s dress. “My mama make that?”

“Yes,” Ibby said. “For my birthday. And she made me a doll, too.”

“I know,” Birdelia said. “I laid on the floor, and she drew the pattern around me. She say she gone make me one, too, if she ever has the time. My mama, she say she gone go into business someday, sew clothes and stuff for folks. She’d be real good at it, don’t you think?”

Doll emerged from the back room. “You two about ready?”

Birdelia stood up. “You look mighty fine, Mama.”

A white patent-leather pocketbook hung from Doll’s arm and she was wearing a silk shantung dress similar to the one Fannie had worn to lunch at Antoine’s yesterday.

“Thank you, baby,” Doll said as she adjusted her hairpiece.

Queenie came up behind Doll.

“Come on—don’t want to be late.” Queenie shuffled her large frame toward the front door.

Ibby had never seen Queenie in anything but her gray uniform with the white apron. Today she had on a dark purple cotton dress with a lace collar and had somehow managed to puff her hair up into a short bob that peeked out from under a large purple hat. She was carrying a black leather pocketbook in one hand, and white cotton gloves in the other.

“Where’s the old man?” Queenie looked around the room.

“I’m right here, woman.” Crow came into the room wearing a dark pinstripe suit and two-toned shoes.

“Grab the deviled eggs from the icebox.” Queenie pointed toward the kitchen. “And don’t be forgetting the cornbread and collard greens.”

“Already in the car,” Crow said.

“Well, come on then. What you waiting on?” Queenie waved her gloves.

Ibby slid into the car next to Birdelia, who was balancing a tray of deviled eggs on her knees in the backseat. Doll came around the other side and got in as she fastened a scarf around her hair and put on a pair of sunglasses. Queenie rolled the front window down, holding on tight to her hat so it wouldn’t blow off as Crow drove away.

About fifteen minutes later, Crow pulled up in front of the True Love Baptist Church on Dryades Street in Central City, a section of town near the interstate. The area had once been prosperous, catering to small minority-owned businesses, until the addition of a housing project in the 1940s caused the area to dwindle, leaving most of the buildings empty, save a few bars that dotted the corners and an auto repair shop. Streams of people in their Sunday best were making their way toward the church. Crow pulled up to the curb, then came around and opened the door for Queenie.

“Y’all go on in. I’ll find a place to park,” he said.

The sun shone brightly, reflecting off the metal cross perched high above the gabled roof of the small white clapboard church. The red doors to the church were open and two men in white robes greeted the congregation. Several women were accepting food donations in the empty lot next to the church, where dozens of folding tables had been set up under a tent.

“Good morning, Sister Saphronia, Sister Viola,” a man with sparkly eyes said to Queenie and Doll.

“Blessed day to you, Reverend Jeremiah.” Queenie accepted a program and a paper fan from him.

“And who have we here?” he asked.

“This here is Miss Ibby,” Birdelia chimed in.

The man shook Ibby’s hand. “Welcome, welcome.” Doll and the reverend exchanged glances. “Take a fan, young lady. You and Birdelia can go on up to the front of the church with the other children.”

Ibby took the fan from him, noting how the Reverend Jeremiah had a way of putting people at ease, even white girls who’d never been to church before.

Doll jerked her head toward the door. “Go on in, girls. I got to go with Queenie around back and make sure everything is ready for the picnic after the service.”

Birdelia pulled Ibby inside and marched her down the center aisle. The windows were closed, making it so unbearably hot that Ibby had
trouble catching her breath. When they got to the front of the church, just beneath the platform, they settled cross-legged on the ground.

The church was painted completely white on the inside and was unadorned, save for a large painted canvas hanging from the ceiling above the stage, a bucolic scene of a lake surrounded by snow-tipped mountains. Ibby wondered if it was Reverend Jeremiah’s idea of heaven. Just beneath the canvas, a man in a robe was standing behind the pulpit, his head bowed as he flipped through the pages of a large Bible.

Several children of various ages joined Ibby and Birdelia on the floor, as infants were being left with two women in knee-length white robes. The girls sat fanning themselves as the rest of the congregation strolled in. After a while, the church took on a kind of low buzz as women in the pews began to sway from side to side, making a sound somewhere between a hum and a moan.

“What are they doing?” Ibby whispered to Birdelia.

Birdelia didn’t bother to turn around to look. “They communing with the spirit.”

Several of the children sitting with them began to do the same thing, swaying back and forth with their eyes closed, humming in a low monotone. As the congregation continued to file in and the pews filled up, the noise in the church grew louder, not just from people talking among themselves but from people talking
to
themselves. Ibby turned to ask Birdelia what was happening, but Birdelia’s eyes were closed as she fanned herself. Every so often, a random shout rang out from somewhere behind them.

“So glad!” A woman near the back of the church rose from her seat and cried out, then closed her eyes and sat back down.

“Glory!” another woman shouted.

Near the front, a different woman hollered, “Sweet Jesus!”

“Amen!” another woman declared as she stood up, raised her hand in the air, then sat down again.

This continued on for a good half hour, gaining momentum. The
longer it went on, the faster Ibby’s heart raced. She felt as if she’d been deposited in some foreign land where people were speaking a different language. She wondered if it would be all right if she waited outside until it was all over. She tapped Birdelia on the leg, but Birdelia was too wrapped up in the frenzy to pay her any mind.

A woman with a large fabric flower attached to the bun on the back of her head stood up and proclaimed, “So glad!” But instead of sitting down, as the other women had done, she proclaimed in a booming voice: “I’m here to give praise to God’s blessed name and to thank him for the gladness that’s a-working in my heart.” The woman grabbed her chest with both hands. “I’m here to tell about the peace that come to my soul, when Jesus took me from my sinful ways, and called me to stand with His Christian saints. . . . Amen! So glad!”

A heavyset woman who was perspiring heavily got up and held her fan in the air. “I seen the light leading my feet to the righteous path before it was too late,” she cried. “For many years, the only thing that held my mind was wickedness and condemnation. But the spirit spoke through and Jesus stooped down low and sanctified my soul. Amen! So glad!”

Men, women, and even some of the children stood and declared their trust in Him. At times they spoke in whispers. Some ranted incoherently, twitching as if possessed. Then unexpectedly, and to Ibby’s great relief, the hysteria subsided and the congregation lapsed into a sort of spent calmness, the only sound now a low humming.

Ibby fanned herself furiously, wondering what was going to happen next.

Reverend Jeremiah, who had remained stoic throughout, walked to the edge of the platform and raised his hands. “Thank you, brothers and sisters, for your praise of Him. Thank you, Sister Clementine, for your words. Thank you, Brother Joseph. Thank you all.”

He paused, as if waiting for something.

Then there were shouts from the audience.

“Amen!”

“Praise God!”

Reverend Jeremiah held out his hands, calling for quiet. “It pleases me to see so many Christians coming together, putting aside the sins of the world, to turn your mind on the kind of pleasure recommended by God himself. Blessed be His name! None of the people outside this church know what the feeling of gladness is until they done laid aside their worldly ways and let the religion commence to working in their heart. . . . Ain’t that true?” His voice was soothing, melodious.

“Amen!”

“Bless God!”

“Religion,” he continued, “is a mighty breastplate to help you overcome the wicked ways of the world. Why, just this week, we overcame bigotry and hatred from those so low as to be prejudiced against people of color when our mighty president saw the wisdom to sign into law a bill that gave civil rights to all people.
All
people, you understand what I’m saying? If you listen closely, you can hear the dying groans from the Old South as she bites the dust of ignominious defeat in its futile but furious fight against the onward march of civil rights!”

“Amen!”

“Praise God!”

Reverend Jeremiah’s voice was becoming louder with each passage. “Many of you sitting here can remember your parents talking about what it was like on the plantations when the wealthy plantation owner died. Brother Leroy, Brother Willie, you remember what they said? You remember?”

“I remember!” An elderly man near the front thumped his cane on the ground.

“Then you know, Brother Leroy, what a community-stirring occasion it was.” Reverend Jeremiah paused for effect. “The poor, they came and went, and nobody cared. But when a plantation master died, whites and colored folks alike went about the business of mourning. Even those who were glad to see the deceased take his flight mourned. You know what I’m talking about!”