Dollbaby: A Novel (8 page)

I
bby could tell that Fannie was upset from her altercation with Vidrine a few moments ago. She was driving with one hand, smoking a cigarette with the other, and barreling down the street as if there were an emergency somewhere. Ibby wondered if she should be driving at all, considering the bump on her head.

“Where are we going?” Ibby managed to ask.

“To see old Madame Doussan,” Fannie said as her gray hair swirled around from the open car window. “In the French Quarter.”

“Oh,” Ibby replied.

No one had mentioned a Madame Doussan. She’d never heard anyone referred to as a Madame before. What kind of a place was Fannie taking her to?

Fannie drove through an older part of town called the Garden District, known for the canopies of oaks that lined the streets and the grand mansions hidden behind them. This soon gave way to the tall buildings of the downtown district. Once they crossed Canal Street, they were in the French Quarter, where the streets narrowed and the buildings were only two or three stories high. Most were of brick covered in plaster, with intricate ironwork balconies gracing the upper floors. With few exceptions, the ground floors had multiple sets of French doors, many of which were open onto the street this morning,
giving Ibby a glimpse of life in this grand old part of the city, where the aroma of stewpots and wet cement left from the passing street cleaners mingled together in a strange but pleasant way.

Fannie pulled the car up to a shop on Royal Street with a vast display of tin soldiers in the window. There must have been hundreds of them, lined up three and four deep on glass shelves, as if on parade. Ibby got out of the car to admire them.

Fannie came up beside Ibby. “Your father used to love this shop.”

“Is this where Madame Doussan lives, above the tin soldier shop?” Ibby asked.

“No, dear. Madame Doussan lives around the corner on Chartres Street.”

Ibby looked up at Fannie, not realizing until now how tall a woman she was. She could see some of her daddy in Fannie, especially the way she always seemed to be thinking about something she wanted to keep to herself. But there was a difference. Based on their conversation in the dining room this morning, Fannie was far more direct than her father had ever been. That part scared her a little.

“For years, all Graham wanted were tin soldiers to add to his collection,” Fannie went on. “I bet they’re still in his room. I’d forgotten about this shop until now. Brings back memories.”

Ibby could see Fannie’s reflection in the window. She remembered what Queenie told her to do when Fannie started talking about the past.

Rule Number Two. Fannie talks about her past, don’t ask questions
.

Fannie started down the street, swinging her pocketbook and tapping the large umbrella she was carrying on the sidewalk as if it were a walking stick. They passed a handful of colored boys, no more than eight or nine years old, who were tap-dancing and singing in the street. When Ibby stopped to listen, one of the boys came over to her.

“I bet you a dollar I can tell you where you got them shoes,” he said, pointing at her red sneakers.

Fannie turned back around and grabbed Ibby’s hand. “Come on, dear. That’s the oldest one in the book.”

“I bet you a dollar,” the boy repeated, still pointing.

“Where?” Ibby asked.

“On your feet, on Royal Street,” he said as he stuck his hand out and grinned.

Fannie shook her head and handed the boy a dollar. She turned to Ibby. “If anyone else stops you, just keep walking, okay? Otherwise, we’ll never get to Madame Doussan’s.”

On the way, they passed a man painted silver from head to toe. Fannie explained that the man was a pantomime who went from corner to corner, standing on a washbasin, pretending to be a statue.

“Why?” Ibby asked.

“For money, dear. They all do it for money.”

Just up the street, Ibby spotted a heavyset man wearing a kilt talking to two women in bunny costumes. In the next block, a young boy carrying a tuba bigger than he was began playing near a food stand that looked like a giant hot dog. The man standing beside the stand yelled over to them.

“Lucky Dog for the little lady?”

“Not today.” Fannie waved him off.

Ibby glanced up at the sky, which was covered in a blanket of white. New Orleans was certainly a different kind of place, she was thinking. The people, the food, even the sky was different. Where she was from, you barely noticed the clouds. They were thin and gauzy and high in the sky. Here, the clouds were everywhere. They rolled in from the river, jostling up against each other, hovering so low Ibby felt she might be able to reach up and touch them.

“Is it going to rain?” Ibby asked as she watched the clouds glide by, one after another.

“This time of year, you never know. It could rain this block and not the next. I always carry an umbrella just in case. Now come on, dear.”

They turned the corner, went up another block, then stopped in front of a shop on Chartres Street with fancy gold letters stenciled on the window.

“Madame Doussan’s French Perfumery”

Oh,
Ibby thought.
It’s a shop. Madame Doussan owns a perfume shop.
Her heart slowed down. In the back of her mind she’d harbored a notion that perhaps Fannie was going to drop her off at this Madame’s house and leave her for good.

Fannie opened the door to the tinkling of a brass bell. As they stepped inside, a barrage of fragrances bombarded them. The tiny shop was long and narrow, crammed with glass-enclosed counters on the right side, and thin shelves holding a variety of perfume bottles, atomizers, and a splendid display of bath salts, powders, and lotions on the other.

An elderly woman in a long flowing silk gown burst out from behind a red velvet curtain at the rear of the store and came toward them with a grand wave of her hand.

“I’m Madame Doussan. May I help you?”

“Yes,” Fannie said, pulling out a perfume bottle from her pocketbook.

The bottle was empty except for the dried residue at the bottom. Madame Doussan turned the bottle upside down, noted the handwritten inscription, then took the glass stopper from the bottle and sniffed it.

“This is Oriental Rose, a special blend for a client I once had. Where did you get it?” she asked.

“You made it for me,” Fannie replied.

The woman studied Fannie’s face. “Fannie? Is that you? We haven’t seen you in quite some time. According to the date on the bottom of the bottle, it’s been a good twelve years since you’ve been in the shop.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Yes, my dear. I apologize for not recognizing you. You had such pretty auburn hair the last time I saw you. As for me, my hair has grown so thin that I’ve taken to wearing this scarf every day.” She touched her head. “Please have a seat at the counter.”

Fannie and Ibby settled themselves on the stools as Madame Doussan went behind the counter.

“Would you like a refill of this perfume?” She pulled a wooden box from under the counter and flipped through the file cards. “Oh, yes, here it is. A rose base with hints of amber, vanilla, and sandalwood, with a touch of musk and magnolia.”

“I’d also like you to prepare a special perfume blend for my granddaughter. She has a birthday coming up.”

Ibby, surprised and touched by Fannie’s gesture, grinned widely. The day wasn’t turning out at all as she had expected.

“Thank you, Grandma Fannie.”

Fannie patted her hand. “Please, dear. Just call me Fannie, and we’ll get along fine.”

Madame Doussan placed a carton filled with small glass vials on the counter. “The younger girls seem to prefer a citrus blend—something lighter. Let’s try a few out, why don’t we?”

Madame Doussan opened the first vial. Ibby leaned in to smell it.

“If you don’t like it, you just need to tell me. We’ll move on until we find the ones you prefer. That was magnolia.” She jotted some notes on a file card.

Doll had been right about magnolia—it smelled like sour laundry. Ibby shook her head.

“Try this one.” The shopkeeper held a vial out for Ibby.

Ibby shook her head.

“Carnation is a no as well,” she noted. “Try this.”

Ibby leaned in. This one was more pleasing, soothing.

“Musk. The young ones always like musk. And this?”

“Oh yes, I really like that,” Ibby said.

“Wild orchid. You have good taste, young lady,” Madame Doussan said.

She went through at least twenty more vials until she announced that Ibby had chosen the perfect blend of wild orchid, citrus, musk, gardenia, and spice.

“Feel free to look around the shop while I go back to my workroom and prepare these for you,” she said.

Ibby strolled over to examine the display in the front window. Fannie joined her.

“Madame Doussan’s family has been making perfumes in this same shop for over a hundred years. Those were some of the original perfume decanters,” Fannie said, pointing at the ancient-looking colored bottles.

“They’re beautiful,” Ibby said.

Ibby noticed an old woman skating back and forth in front of the window, making faces at them each time she passed.

“Lucy,” Fannie said, as if to herself.

“You know her?” Ibby asked, astounded.

Ibby went over to the front door and peeped out. The woman, who must have been close to Fannie’s age, had gray hair braided in a long plait down her back. She was roller-skating up and down the sidewalk in a tattered wedding dress and a big floppy hat as a small flock of ducks followed her. When Lucy turned one way, the ducks followed; when she turned the other way, the ducks scrambled to keep up, making low noises as if they were exasperated.

“Everyone knows Lucy the duck lady,” Fannie said. “Story goes that she was jilted at the altar years ago and wanders around the French Quarter in her wedding dress looking for her fiancé. She’s been here as long as I can remember.”

“And the ducks?”

“She started feeding the ducks down by the river one day. They followed her home. They’ve been following her ever since.”

“And the roller skates?” Ibby asked.

“I don’t know about the roller skates, but I’ve never seen her without them.”

To Ibby’s surprise, Lucy stopped in front of the door and pointed a finger.

“Do I know you?”

Startled by her booming voice, Ibby jumped back.

“You look like somebody I used to know,” Lucy said.

When Fannie stepped up behind Ibby, Lucy pointed at her. “You—I know you. Fannie. You’re Fannie. I know you.”

“That’s right, Lucy dear. It’s Fannie.”

“Been a long time. You look like an old lady now,” Lucy said.

“I guess we all do,” Fannie replied.

“Not me.” Lucy shook her head and started off down the street. “Not me.”

“Why does she do it?” Ibby asked. “For money?”

“No, dear. She’s just a little different,” Fannie said, watching Lucy skate away and disappear around the corner.

“How do you know her again?” Ibby asked.

“I told you, sweetheart. Everyone knows Lucy.”

“Yes, but how does Lucy know you?”

Fannie gave her a sideways glance. “I used to live in the French Quarter when I first came to New Orleans. It was a long time ago. She was around even back then.”

Ibby noticed that Fannie’s hand had begun to tremble. Ibby grabbed it and squeezed.

Fannie shook her hand free. “What is keeping Madame Doussan?”

“I’m right here.” She came up and presented Fannie with a small box tied nicely with ribbon.

She handed Ibby a separate package. “This is for you, young lady. This is your own special scent that we are going to call Wild Orchid Number Seven. Anytime you need more, that’s all you have to say. And I threw in some talc and body lotion as a little lagniappe.”

Ibby took the package from her. “Thank you.”

“Just make sure your grandmother comes back to see me soon. I’m not getting any younger.” She winked.

When they were in the car, Ibby pulled the stopper out of the perfume bottle and sniffed.

“Wild Orchid Number Seven. I like the sound of that,” Ibby said, and applied some to her neck, the way Madame Doussan had shown her.