Ibby put her hand on the gate to Fannie’s house and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She remembered when her mother had dropped her off for the first time. The house had seemed so ominous and uninviting. It gave her a much different feeling now, like that of an old tattered blanket: it wasn’t much to look at, but it made you feel safe just the same.
The branches of the oak tree in the front yard were waving, as if welcoming her home. The poor tree had begun to lean considerably, ever since Hurricane Betsy swept through the city in the fall of 1965. Ibby thought back to those hot days, when the power had been out and school was closed. Crow, Queenie, Doll, and Birdelia had moved in, fearing flooding in their neighborhood. She remembered eating cold food out of cans, barbequing in the backyard, playing card games to while away the time, and the never-ending search for ice to cool off. They had all complained, but looking back on it, it was the first time Ibby felt as if she were a real part of the family.
Every year after that, the tree had begun to lean a little more, so much that now it resembled the leaning Tower of Pisa. The neighbors had been on Fannie to cut the tree down, saying it was a hazard, but Fannie had resisted the idea. It was as if the tree meant something to her. In a way, that old tree reminded Ibby of Fannie—slightly off balance but clinging stubbornly to life.
Fannie had survived her trip to the hospital four years earlier, and many more after that. Ibby soon realized that Fannie needed an occasional escape from life. She had gotten used to Fannie’s ways, and everyone carried on as if it were all perfectly normal.
New Orleans was like that. A live-and-let-live attitude was ingrained into the fabric of the city; no one cared who you were or what you looked like—you had a place, and everyone respected that. There were a few exceptions, of course, most notably Annabelle Friedrichs, who had continued to be a nuisance to Ibby. Ibby had grown used to her taunts and ignored her as much as possible, but Ibby’s missing mother had become the butt of Annabelle’s jokes over the years—and that was something Ibby couldn’t tolerate.
No one wants you, not even your own mother. You’re an outcast. Why don’t you go back where you came from?
Ibby hadn’t heard from her mother since Vidrine dropped her off four years ago. And except for Annabelle’s occasional reminders, Ibby went on about her days as if her mother didn’t exist. It was just easier that way.
Fannie had tried to explain Vidrine’s disappearance as a simple case of wanderlust, but Ibby had a different word for a mother who would abandon her daughter and not even take the time to put in a call to say hello. As far as her mother was concerned, Ibby was never sure of anything, not even of what she might say to Vidrine if she ever did come back.
Ibby opened the gate and started up the driveway where two cars were parked—a very official-looking black Lincoln Town Car, and a brand-new red Lincoln Continental convertible with white leather seats. Ibby noticed Fannie’s old blue convertible wasn’t in the garage.
As she opened the back door, she found Queenie perched on a stool, cleaning softshell crabs at the kitchen table. As much as Ibby loved eating softshells, she could barely stomach watching Queenie clean them, the way their legs writhed as Queenie cut through the shell with a pair of utility scissors, then reached under and scooped out the white spongy lungs.
Queenie had slowed down a bit over the last couple of years. Her hair was now a salt-and-pepper gray, and she had taken to sitting at the table to do her cooking rather than standing at the counter, claiming her legs just didn’t want to hold her up anymore.
“Lawd, look at you. Your face, it’s as red as one of them Creole tomatoes,” Queenie said.
Ibby set her books on the table and wiped the sweat from her face. “That’s because New Orleans only has one season. Hot.”
Queenie tossed a crab into a tub of milk batter and wiped her hands on her apron. “No, baby, we got seasons. We got oyster season, crawfish season, shrimp season, crab season. Come to think of it, we got alligator season, hurricane season, Mardi Gras season. We got a whole mess of seasons around these parts. And baby, it’s only the end of May. Come September, even I begin to sweat.” Queenie tilted her head toward Ibby’s books. “Show me your picture in that there yearbook.”
As Ibby opened it to the page that showed her class, Queenie leaned in to get a better look. “Who drew that big black mustache on your face, Miss Ibby?”
Ibby rolled her eyes. “Who do you think?”
Just then Doll came into the kitchen, humming. Doll hadn’t changed much. She still had a penchant for red nail polish and liked to wear her hair piled high on her head, although today she’d straightened her hair with Morgan’s Hair Refining Cream and rolled it under neatly at the bottom. Ibby thought the hairstyle made her look much younger than her twenty-seven years.
Doll leaned over to get a glimpse. “Miss Ibby, why you let that Annabelle do stuff like that to you?”
“I don’t let her. She’s just mean.”