Queenie gave her a reassuring smile. “Take your time, child.”
It had been less than two weeks since the accident. Ibby had just sort of wandered around in a quiet daze since that day, secretly harboring the idea that if she never spoke of it, maybe the whole thing would just go away and her daddy would come back and say, “Morning, pumpkin,” like he always did and they would go on with their lives as if nothing had happened. Ibby wasn’t sure she was ready to talk about it, but Fannie’s eyes were set on her like a dog set to attack. It took another moment before she felt the courage to speak. Her words came out haltingly at first.
“Every Saturday morning . . . Daddy . . . he would take me for a bike ride down the hill and over to the bakery to get a doughnut. It was our little secret. Mama doesn’t like . . . for me to eat sweets. She would have killed Daddy if she’d known.” Ibby clamped her hand to her mouth, realizing her choice of words.
“It’s all right, child. Go on,” Fannie said.
“When we started back, it was drizzling. The road was slippery. Daddy turned his head to tell me to hurry up and bumped into one of the boulders on the side of the road. His bike slid out from under him. When I pedaled over, there was blood all over the side of his head.” Ibby stopped for a moment. It was all coming back to her now.
“Then what happened?” Fannie asked.
Ibby took in a deep breath. “Daddy managed to get up, so we rode our bikes back up the hill to the house. Mama was mad when she saw Daddy’s face.”
“Did you call a doctor?” Fannie asked.
Ibby shook her head. “Mama wanted to, but Daddy said no, he was fine.”
“Should of called a doctor,” Queenie said.
“Let her speak,” Fannie said.
“Daddy said he wasn’t feeling well, so he went to lie down. When I went to check on him later, he was asleep.” Ibby looked up. “He never woke up. They came and got him the next morning, and I never saw him again.”
“Bless her heart,” Queenie said.
“Weren’t your fault,” Doll said.
Ibby glanced over her shoulder at Doll. She didn’t tell them the rest of the story—that her mother had pointed a finger at her the next morning and told her it was indeed her fault, that if they hadn’t been sneaking around behind her back for a stupid doughnut, none of it would have ever happened.
Fannie pursed her lips. “Was there a funeral?”
“No, ma’am.”
Fannie slammed her fist down on the chair. “Then we need to bring Graham back here and give him a proper burial.”
“Daddy is here, Grandma Fannie.”
“What do you mean, he is here? Where?”
Ibby tilted her head toward the double-handled brass urn. “My mama told me to make sure and give him to you.”
There were three succinct gasps before Fannie grabbed her chest and her head plunked facedown onto the table.
“Lawd, now you done it,” Doll said as she came over and lifted Fannie’s head.
Fannie’s eyes were open but unseeing. Ghastly. Dead. Empty. Just like the eyes on the bust on the upstairs landing.
Doll motioned for Queenie to help her get Fannie out of the chair. Queenie placed Fannie’s arm around Doll’s neck, and Doll lifted her up. As they carried her down the hall toward the bedroom at the back of the house, Ibby remembered the sneer on Vidrine’s face when she’d reminded Ibby to give Fannie the urn.
Then it dawned on Ibby.
This is exactly the way Vidrine had planned for it to turn out all along.
Chapter Five
Doll threw back the covers and settled Fannie onto the four-poster canopied bed. Fannie’s eyes were closed, her chest rising in shallow breaths. Doll placed the back of her hand on Fannie’s forehead. It was cold and clammy.
Doll reached up and tugged on the cord to the ceiling fan. The fan began to whir over the canopy, ruffling some papers on the rolltop desk across the room. Doll tugged on the cord once more to slow it down, then went into the bathroom and ran a washcloth under the faucet in the sink. As she was wringing it out, she heard Fannie groan.
“Be right there, Miss Fannie,” Doll said, giving the cloth a final twist.
When she came back into the room, Fannie’s eyes were open, and she was staring straight up at the canopy above her head.
“Why, after all these years, have I never noticed that the fabric on the canopy has a little pattern to it? I thought it was just plain blue damask. Now I see it has a tiny waffle pattern.”
Doll placed the washcloth on Fannie’s forehead and glanced up at the canopy. “Could be you look at something for so long, you see what you want to see, and not what’s really there.”
Fannie grabbed Doll’s hand and squeezed it. “You trying to tell me something?”
“No, Miss Fannie, just telling it the way I see it,” Doll said flatly.
“Maybe I should look more closely at the things around me.”
Doll nudged her hand away. “Maybe you should.”