“Hair will grow, Miss Ibby,” Doll said, then turned to her mother. “Mama, I got to finish with Miss Fannie. She sitting in her room waiting for me to do her hair.”
A little while later Doll held the kitchen door open, looking exhausted. Fannie appeared behind her, fiddling with a beige alligator handbag as she patted down the skirt to a green silk shantung dress. Doll had applied mascara, rouge, and red lipstick, lending a radiant glow to Fannie’s normally sallow complexion, and Fannie had evidently doused herself with a good bit of her Oriental Rose perfume, because Ibby could smell it all the way across the room. What astounded Ibby was Fannie’s perfectly coiffed hair, which was now a soft chestnut brown. If Ibby didn’t know better, she would have sworn the woman standing in the kitchen was a stranger.
“Well, what’s everyone staring at?” Fannie pulled on a pair of white leather gloves.
She said it with a grunt, but Ibby could tell there was a smile hiding behind her blue eyes.
Crow escorted Fannie to the car and opened the back door for her. Ibby got in and sat next to her. Crow drove leisurely down St. Charles Avenue as Fannie smoked a cigarette. Ibby rolled the window down, trying to get some fresh air. When they approached Lee Circle, a huge clap rang out overhead. From the heavy storm clouds lumbering across the sky, Ibby thought it was thunder, but then she heard another clap, then another.
Crow looked at his watch. “Close to noontime. Must be the fifty-gun salute over at the Armory on Dauphine Street.”
“Someone die?” Fannie waved the cigarette smoke away from her face.
“No, Miss Fannie.” Crow glanced at them through the rearview mirror. “Don’t you recall? Today is Independence Day.”
“I know what day it is, for God’s sake,” Fannie said.
“It’s for the Fourth of July celebration,” Crow added.
A few minutes later Crow pulled up to a building on Rue St. Louis with a sign hanging from a chain painted with the words: “Antoine’s Restaurant, since 1840.” A man in a black tuxedo came over and opened the car door for them.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bell. Numa has your table waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Alciatore,” Fannie said, taking the man’s hand.
Ibby followed her grandmother into a brightly lit room. Most of the tables were empty, save for a lone couple sitting in the far corner next to one of the French doors.
“Right this way,” the ma?tre d’ said, leading them through the room into a small hallway to the left.
Fannie urged Ibby forward. “Only the tourists eat in the front room, dear,” she whispered.
The hall opened into a large airy back dining room bustling with waiters who were darting about like ferrets. The ma?tre d’ ushered them to the only empty table and pulled out a wooden bistro chair for Fannie.
“Numa will be right with you,” he said as he placed paper menus on the table in front of them.
When Ibby sat down, she noticed the walls were covered with dozens of framed photographs of famous people. Fannie saw her looking at them.
“Every dignitary or celebrity who’s ever been to Antoine’s has their picture tacked up on the wall,” Fannie said. “That adds up to a lot of people after a hundred years.”
The picture beside Ibby on the wall was of a swarthy-looking man with slicked-back hair who was staring down at her with a flirtatious grin. She tried to make out the signature on the bottom of the photo.
“‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,’” Fannie said.
Ibby looked at Fannie, puzzled. Had she said something to offend her?
Fannie pointed at the photograph on the wall. “Haven’t you seen Gone With the Wind? That was Clark Gable’s most famous line in the movie. He’s the man in the photograph you’re staring at.”
“No, my mom doesn’t let me watch movies about the South,” Ibby said.
“Why? Is she afraid you might get some ridiculous ideas like we have alligators in our backyard and we don’t pay our help?”
Ibby was too embarrassed to answer. “Something like that.”
“Then she’s teaching you that ignorance is bliss,” Fannie remarked.
A portly waiter approached the table. “Mrs. Bell, we haven’t had the pleasure of your company in quite a while.”
His accent was so strange, Ibby had to struggle to understand what he was saying.
“I haven’t had a reason to come, Numa.” Fannie pulled a cigarette from her pocketbook. “But today I do have a reason. It’s my granddaughter’s twelfth birthday. So let’s celebrate.”
Numa bent over to light her cigarette, patting his brow with a white cloth as he did so. He looked over at Ibby. “Happy birthday, young lady.”
“Would you be so kind as to bring me a cocktail? An old-fashioned. Ibby here will have a Shirley Temple.”
“Right away.” He gave a slight bow and left.
“Why does he sound so funny?” Ibby whispered to Fannie across the table.
“He’s a Cajun, honey. They come from the bayou country, where they speak a mangled sort of French as their first language.”