“The party ain’t until later on. But there’s no way I’m gone miss it. It’s the last day Lincoln Beach gone be open.”
“Why they close the beach so early this year? Thought they waited until end of the summer.”
“They closing Lincoln Beach for good, now that Pontchartrain Beach, where the white folks swim, is integrated. The city says they is no use having two public beaches no more, so what they do? They close the Negro beach.”
Queenie sat down at the table and leaned on her elbow. “You see what I’m telling you? If the government would have left well enough alone, they wouldn’t be closing the Negro beach. And by the way, did you see the front page of the paper today? There’s a big picture of your friend Lola Mae sprawled all over the floor at that sit-in on Canal Street. Could have been you.”
“But it wasn’t, Mama. You made sure of that.”
Queenie held up the paper and pointed at the photo. “Really? Take a closer look.”
Doll stared at the photo showing Lola Mae on the ground, a policeman standing beside her, and a bunch of wide-eyed Negroes looking on from their stools at the lunch counter.
“Look at the shoulder and the side of the head at the edge of the photo. Now, who you suppose that is?” Queenie narrowed her eyes.
“What you going on about? I don’t see nothin’.” But just then, Doll did see. In the corner of the photograph was her profile. There was no mistaking it.
“Don’t you pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s you sitting there on that stool. Why’d you lie to me?”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I felt like it was something I needed to do.”
“You need to start thinking more about Birdelia,” Queenie said, “and less about yourself.”
“And why you think I gone down there—for fun? I’m doing it for Birdelia and everyone like her,” Doll said. “You just don’t seem to understand that.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t gone do no good if she don’t have a mama around to take care of her no more. You got to be more careful. And don’t you dare lie to me again like that.” Queenie wagged her finger at Doll and threw the paper onto the kitchen table. “I’m telling you, ever since President Johnson said he might sign that new civil rights law into place, it got people mighty jittery. Don’t want no trouble.” Queenie got up from the table and peeked into the dining room.
“Mama, come sit back down. Last time I looked, Miss Fannie was already in front of the TV, waiting for the game to come on.”
“It don’t start for another hour—why she just sitting there? Gone miss my stories,” Queenie fretted. “And where’s Miss Ibby?”
“She’s sitting right next to Fannie. I told her to sit with the bad eye toward the hall, but I don’t think you need to worry about Miss Fannie noticing Miss Ibby’s eye. She too busy watching the pregame show.”
The screened door creaked open, and a man who barely filled his overalls came through the door walking slowly, in a sort of back-and-forth shuffle to accommodate his bowed legs. He was carrying a brown paper bag folded over at the top.
“Come on in and take a load off, Crow,” Queenie said to him.
Crow set the bag on the table and pointed at it. “Queenie, wish you’d get Doll to run your errands. Them folks down at Haase’s Children’s Fashions gone think I’m some kind a queer, you keep sending me to buy things like that.”
Doll opened the bag and pulled out a pair of black patent-leather Mary Janes. “Thank you, Daddy. These’ll fit Miss Ibby just fine.”
Queenie handed a glass of sweet tea to Crow, paying no mind to his comment. “Doll, you finished with Miss Fannie’s dress you making for Ibby’s birthday lunch?”
“Almost.”
“Ibby’s, too?”
“Be ready tomorrow, Mama.”
Crow finished his tea and wiped his mouth with a red bandanna he’d pulled from the pocket of his overalls. “I can see you got other things on your mind. I’ll be out in the back washing Miss Fannie’s car if y’all need me.”
Queenie grabbed two sodas from the icebox and went into the front room and set them on the coffee table in front of Fannie.
“You want to come help me in the kitchen?” Queenie nodded toward the kitchen.
Fannie was so busy talking back to the television that she didn’t seem to notice that Ibby had followed Queenie out of the room.
As Ibby sat down at the kitchen table, Queenie asked, “What kind of cake you want for your birthday? You ever had doberge?”
“What’s doe-bash?”
“They a specialty around here, a cake that’s got about twelve paper-thin layers filled with pudding. They a favorite of Miss Fannie’s.”
“I guess so,” Ibby said, then added, “Who’s Crow?”
Doll was sitting on a stool over by the back window, eating her lunch. “Crow’s my daddy. Matter a fact, he’s out back shining up that old Cadillac of your grandmother’s so he can drive you to your birthday lunch.”