“I’ll have Doll walk her down soon as she finished the ironing.” Queenie gave Ibby a nod and left the room.
About a minute later Queenie pushed the kitchen door open and looked into the dining room.
“I didn’t call you,” Fannie said.
“I know, Miss Fannie, but Mr. Henry already here with the groceries.”
“Tell him I’ll just be a minute.” Fannie stubbed her cigarette out and left the table hurriedly.
“Run on up and put some clothes on, baby,” Queenie said to Ibby as she picked up the empty plates. Then she mumbled to herself, “I sure hope Annabelle Friedrichs don’t bite Miss Ibby’s head off. She’s about as stuck-up as they come.”
When Ibby got to the second floor, she noticed the bedroom door to the left of the stairs was open a crack. There was an intermittent sound of a machine being turned on and off. She peered in to find sewing patterns and fabric strewn across the floor. Doll was sitting behind an old black Singer sewing machine, as the breeze from a ceiling fan riffled the edges of the pattern she was sewing. She stopped to inspect her work, then pressed the pedal on the floor as she guided the material through the machine. She didn’t have her wig on today. Her hair was ironed flat against her head and hung straight down just below her chin. She was singing softly to the song on the radio, as if she were trying not to awaken anyone.
When Ibby opened the door a little wider, it let out a screech.
Doll looked up, startled. “What you doing in here?” She yanked her sewing from the machine and hid it behind her back.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” Ibby didn’t finish the sentence, wondering why Doll looked so nervous.
Doll got up from the sewing machine and gently guided her out of the room.
As she shut the door, Ibby asked, “What’s in there that you don’t want me to see?”
“Normally, you welcome in my sewing room anytime, but I’m working on a project for Miss Fannie. Something for you.”
Ibby gave Doll a sideways glance, hoping it wasn’t another Shirley Temple dress.
“Don’t tell Miss Fannie you know, or she’ll get right mad.”
“Don’t worry,” Ibby said, looking past Doll.
“What’s wrong, baby? You missing something?”
“My daddy’s urn. Do you know where it is?”
“Oh, Miss Ibby, I had to move it. Miss Fannie’s not able to get past the fact that Mr. Graham is just a bunch of ashes in a jar, so I brought the urn up to Mr. Graham’s room for safekeeping.” She put her hands on her hips.
“I was afraid you’d thrown him away,” Ibby said.
Doll tapped the side of her face with her finger. “Come on, then—I’ll let you have a peek. But don’t tell no one I let you in there, understand? Not a word.” She stuck a key in the door directly across the hall from her sewing room. “This was your daddy’s room. He was a few years younger than you when he got sent away to boarding school over in Mississippi. Don’t think it’s changed much since then.”
In the center of the blue linoleum floor was a beautiful compass rose with long spikes of white and silver marking north, east, south, and west. A four-poster bed with a patchwork quilt was pushed against the wall, and next to it, a bookcase held an army of tin soldiers, just as Fannie had said. On the far wall, a large armoire took up the wall between two windows covered with blue plaid curtains. A stack of comic books was piled neatly in a corner.
“I put the urn in the armoire.” Doll pointed to the other side of the room. “If you want, I can leave the door unlocked—that way you can come visit whenever you want. But it’ll be our little secret. Understand?”
To Ibby’s surprise, the armoire was still full of her father’s clothes—Tshirts neatly stacked on the shelf, a few jackets and collared shirts, and a green Tulane sweatshirt hanging from the rod. Several pairs of shoes lined the bottom of the armoire. Doll had placed the urn between a pair of worn tennis shoes and brown penny loafers.
“I’ll leave you alone with your daddy.” Doll closed the door softly.
Ibby sat on her knees and stared at the brass urn for a good long while. She tried to envision her daddy’s eyes, the way they crinkled up at the edges when he told her how much he loved her. She missed hearing the sound of his voice. The cold linoleum floor only reminded her of how lonely she felt. She wondered if he had felt the same way when he lived here. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for causing his bicycle to slip on the wet pavement that day. She tried to find the words, but none would come. She bent her head and closed her eyes. The room was so quiet she could hear herself breathing.
“I’ll take care of you, I promise,” she said.
She placed the urn back in the armoire, then went over to the bookshelf where the tin soldiers were lined up. She searched until she found one she thought would have been his favorite, a soldier mounted on a stallion with his sword raised high in the air. She stuck it in her pocket and closed the door behind her.
Chapter Eleven