When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Ibby heard voices coming from the dining room.
Doll put her arm out for Ibby to stop. “Wait one second, child. Miss Fannie and Queenie having some words.”
Ibby could just make out an old heavyset black woman standing beside a disheveled lady in a faded housedress seated at the head of the dining room table.
“Is that your mama?” Ibby asked Doll.
Doll put her finger up to her mouth. “Yes. That’s Queenie,” she whispered. “Don’t want them to know we standing here just yet.”
“Miss Fannie, don’t you remember?” Queenie was saying. “You been expecting her. Her name’s Liberty Alice.”
“I know my own granddaughter’s name,” Fannie sighed. “That dimwit of a woman that married my son—oh, what’s the damn woman’s name . . .”
“Vidrine,” Queenie said.
“Vidrine. How could I forget? She named her Liberty Bell because she was born on the Fourth of July. What kind of stupid person does that?”
“Someone with a name like Vidrine, that’s who,” Queenie said, trying to make light of the situation. “Now calm down. Could be worse.”
“How so?” Fannie asked.
“Miss Vidrine, she could of named the child after herself. Then we’d have another little Vidrine running around this here house. Now, wouldn’t that be something?”
Fannie waved her hand. “Perish the thought.”
“She’s coming down right now to meet you,” Queenie said.
“Who?”
“Your granddaughter, that’s who.”
“What?” Fannie sat up. “She’s here?”
“That’s what I been trying to tell you, Miss Fannie. Miss Vidrine, she done dropped her off not an hour ago.”
With that, Doll nudged Ibby ahead of her into the dining room.
“I do believe she look just like you, Miss Fannie,” Queenie rattled on. “And lookey there. She even got that little mole on the side of her cheek, same as you.”
“That’s a beauty mark,” Fannie snapped. “Not a mole.”
Ibby looked around, then ran out into the hall as Fannie stared after her, flabbergasted.
Queenie piped up. “Not five minutes, you done scared that child half to death, Miss Fannie.”
“Ain’t that something,” Doll marveled. “Second time this week, Miss Fannie gone speechless.”
Ibby caught her reflection in the gold-leaf mirror above the marble fireplace, keenly aware of three sets of eyes watching her when she came back into the room carrying the urn she’d retrieved from the hall table.
“Come here, child.” Fannie beckoned. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Fannie pulled Ibby so close, their noses almost touched. Ibby had no choice but to stare straight back into Fannie’s face. Doll had been right. The artist who made the bust on the upstairs landing had captured the essence of this strange woman—her hard gray-blue eyes and silvery hair, her long Roman nose, the thin lips set in one straight line.
“Yep, she the spitting image of you, Miss Fannie. Sure is,” Queenie said.
As far as Ibby was concerned, the only thing she remotely had in common with this woman was their pageboy hairdo, a cut Vidrine had given Ibby after she’d seen a picture of Jackie Kennedy’s daughter in a fashion magazine. Ibby reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears, the way she used to do when it was long. It fell back into her face.
“What do they call you, young lady?” Fannie sat back and took a long drag from her cigarette.
Ibby put the urn on the dining room table, then pulled out her dress and curtsied. “Liberty Alice Bell, ma’am.”
“I know your name, for God’s sake, but what do you want me to call you? Certainly not Liberty Bell. I’d feel like I’d have to say ‘ding-dong’ every time I said your name.”
Ibby scrunched up her shoulders, not knowing how to answer.
“Speak up, or I’ll make up a name. How about—”
“She say her name’s Ibby,” Doll piped up.
“Ibby? What kind of name is that?” Fannie snorted.
Ibby kicked the ground with her tennis shoe. “When I was little, I couldn’t say Liberty. It came out sounding like Ibby.”
“What she gone call you, Miss Fannie? Grandma? Mee-maw? Tootie?” Queenie chuckled. “How about Granny Fannie? That one got a certain ring to it.”
Fannie waved her hand dismissively. “Just plain Fannie will do.” She leaned in toward Ibby. “Now tell me, dear, what happened to my boy Graham?”
Ibby glanced down at her red sneakers, the same shoes she’d had on the day it happened. She felt her chest tighten.