“We got company.” Birdelia pointed behind T-Bone.
Three colored boys about T-Bone’s age approached. One of them had on a jacket with the hood pulled up over his head, even though it was at least ninety degrees outside.
“Hey, man,” the boy said to T-Bone as the two other boys hovered behind him.
“What you want, Peanut?” T-Bone said.
Peanut narrowed his eyes. “Say, what you doin’ with that cracker?”
T-Bone shook his head. “She ain’t with me, man. That’s Birdelia’s friend.”
Birdelia whispered to Ibby, “They nervous ’cause they not used to being around no white girl, that’s all. To them, all white folks is trouble. Just don’t say nothing, or they might pick a fight with T-Bone.”
The boy pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “Got me some bitching weed. Twenty for the lid.”
T-Bone shook his head.
“Hey, man, got to sell this shit. You don’t want a whole lid, how about half?” Peanut pulled a joint from his pocket and handed it to T-Bone. “Try it.”
“How I know it’s the same shit that’s in the bag?” T-Bone asked.
Peanut took out a pack of rolling papers from his pocket. He handed the bag to one of his companions, who held it open for him while he pulled out some weed. He was about to roll a joint when they heard a whistle. Ibby looked up to find a policeman standing on the retaining wall, pointing down at them with a billy club.
“You, down there in the jacket—what’s that in your hand?” the policeman yelled.
The boy dropped the bag as if it were on fire. “Nothing.”
Ibby felt a tug on her sleeve. Everyone began to run.
“I know her,” Ibby heard someone say.
It was that voice again.
Annabelle Friedrichs was sitting high up on her horse, looking over the edge, pointing down at Ibby with her riding stick.
Ibby ran as fast as her feet would carry her, up over the seawall, past the railroad tracks, through the park, but somewhere along the way, she lost Birdelia. At Prytania Street, she stopped and bent over, trying to get rid of the stitch in her side. She glanced around, out of breath. When she was sure no one was chasing her, she walked the rest of the way.
By the time Ibby got to Fannie’s, Birdelia was standing by the back door as if she were afraid to go in. Crow was standing just inside the door. Ibby could see Doll in the kitchen with her arm around Queenie’s shoulder.
“What happened?” Ibby whispered to Birdelia.
“My uncle, Purnell. Poppy says he’s been shot.”
Fannie came into the kitchen and placed a hand on Crow’s shoulder and handed him an envelope. “This should take care of it. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Thank you kindly, Miss Fannie,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
Doll tried to rouse Queenie from the stool. “Come on now, Mama—we got to go to the hospital.”
Crow went over to Queenie and slid his arm around her middle.
Doll tried to lift her up by her arms. “Come on, Mama.”
Birdelia went in and grabbed her grandmother’s hand and tugged at it. “Come on, Mee-maw, we got to go.”
“My baby, my baby, my baby,” was all Queenie was saying, over and over.
T-Bone appeared at the back door, sweating. “What’s going on?”
“Come on over here and help Mama get to the car,” Doll said.
Birdelia whispered to T-Bone, “Purnell.”
That was all Birdelia had to say.
Chapter Thirty-Two
After the Trouts left, Ibby stood by the kitchen door, listening to Fannie on the phone in the hall.
“I’d like to place an order for delivery on Elysian Fields Avenue,” she said, puffing on a cigarette. “No, not in the Marigny—closer to the lake. . . . What do you mean, you don’t deliver to that neighborhood?” Fannie slammed the phone down, fuming. Her hand remained on the receiver, as if she were trying to decide what to do.
She picked it up again. “Leah, this is Fannie Bell. I need some food sent over to the Trout family. . . . That’s right, Queenie and Crow. . . . What happened? Their boy Purnell was shot. . . . No, they just left to go over to the hospital, don’t know the arrangements yet. I need your help in telling me what I should send over. . . . What’s the usual?” She repeated the order. “Fried chicken, gumbo, fried catfish, bread pudding, and sweet potato pie. What about booze? . . . You’ll take care of that? Whatever you think, you know better than me. . . . Wonderful. Just let me know how much it is, and I’ll send the cash over later. . . . My number? Twinbrook seven four three five one. Bye-bye now.” Fannie hung up, stormed into her bedroom, and slammed the door.