Color Blind (26 page)

“Aunt Kate?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

When the doorbell rang, I ran to get it, hoping Miles was early. I fluffed my curls, checked my face in the mirror above the hall table, put on a huge smile and flung open the door.

Marguerite stood before me holding a beautifully wrapped package in her hands. My smile instantly vanished.

Tense as a coiled rattlesnake, I blurted, “You! What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“No magic in finding you. Your auntie is listed in the phone book. She should change that, you know. There are lots of dangerous people in the world.”

“Go away! You're not welcome here!”

“I won't be long. May we talk? Just a few minutes of your time?”

“Five minutes. You get five minutes.” I pointed to the rockers. “Over there. Pardon me if I don't offer you any chamomile tea or tea cakes. I'm feeling less than hospitable.”

We sat. She began.

“April, I want you to know how sorry I am. I meant you no harm. You weren't ready for a Voodoo ceremony. I know that now. When you came to me, you were desperate to contact your father. I thought the ceremony would be beneficial, that it would help you find the closure you sought. If you believed your father's spirit was finally at peace, you could get on with your life.”

“Animal sacrifice? That would help me move on? How was that supposed to work?”

“
Chère
, the sacrifice of animals is part of our ritual, part of our culture; it is a way of life that has always been. However, in
my
ceremonies, the animals are symbolic. They are
never
killed. My business could not withstand any retribution by animal rights activists. And the children and grandchildren of the devotees would never forgive them if they harmed an animal. There are those who still practice the old ways, but the animals are consumed afterwards, they do not go to waste. It really is no different from what happens to animals on a farm or deer in the forest or ducks in the sky.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better? You're not really helping yourself out here, Madame.”

“I need not justify my beliefs. I came here only to apologize for what happened and to bring this to you. A peace offering.” She handed me the beautiful box.

“What is it?”

“A simple token, nothing more.” She stood, ready to go. “My five minutes are up. I shall leave you in peace.”

“
Bleat! Bleat!
”

Marguerite stopped; she smiled at me enigmatically, just as she had that night in the swamp, then she quickly descended the stairs.

“Marguerite, wait!” I faltered, “Thank you . . . Thank you for . . . your gift.”

Marguerite turned back around and for the last time, her pale gold gaze fell on me.

“You are most welcome, my child.”

Miles brushed past Marguerite on his way in the gate. He bounded up the steps and gave me a questioning look.

“But Dad warned . . .”

“Miles, she's gone now. For good.”

He pointed at the package. “What's that?”

“She said it was a token.”

“Are you going to keep it?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Aren't you going to open it?”

“Not now.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Only about how we're going to spend the day.”

I yawned and stretched lazily. Miles took the rocker next to me.

“I could take you on a tour of the plantations. That would be fun.”

“Naw, no tours for a while. The cemetery and Voodoo tour was enough to last me for maybe the rest of my life!”

“How about some lunch? Now there's a good idea. We could go to Coop's for fried chicken. They have the best in N'awlins.”

I stared at Miles, horrified. “I'm kind of off chicken these days . . .”

“Yeah, right. Makes sense,” he said.

“Is there somewhere we could get something vegetarian?”

“Are you kidding? In this town? Where can't we get great food? Even vegetables.” Miles rose, bowed and held out his hand, “Shall we go?”

I took his hand.

“How about we pick up a couple of Muffulettas and some sweet tea? We can sit by the river and watch the paddle wheelers steam by.”

“What's a Muffuletta?”

“You want the long or the short answer?”

“I know you're just
aching
to impart some of your vast knowledge, so I'll take the long answer!”

Miles began, “The first Muffuletta was created at the Central Grocery, near the French Market. Sicilian farmers who were selling their goods at the Market used to come to the grocery for their salami, ham, cheese, olive salad, and bread. They'd all sit around on crates or barrels and have their lunch before going back to work. It was kind of hard to eat that way because they ate everything separately. One day, the grocery store owner, Mr. Salvatore Lupo, suggested putting the salami, ham, cheese, and olive salad in between the round loaf of bread, which is called Muffuletta and, voilà, the Muffuletta sandwich was born.”

“Do they make vegetarian ones?”

“Indeed they do!”

“Let's do it!”

We made our way towards the Central Grocery in companionable silence. Miles stopped, took my hands and pulled me into him.

“You know, April, we've never discussed where we're going.”

My breath caught, my heart raced.

“I thought we were going to get something to eat. Aren't we?” I asked in my most innocent of voices.

“That's not what I meant and you know it. I meant you and me. Us. Where are
WE
going?”

I stammered, “Uh . . . I . . . uh, don't really know. Is there an
us
?”

“You tell me, April. Is there an
us
?” he asked, his breath warming my skin. “You know there's only one way to keep all of those pretty little Tulane co-eds away from me, right?”

“How?” I murmured, turning my lips upward towards his, closing my eyes in anticipation.

“You!” He leaned down, gently kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my nose and, at long last, my lips.

I wrapped my arms around Miles, melted into the moment, hoping it would last forever.

Miles lightly pushed me back and laughed. “There! That should give you something to think about.” He grinned, tightened his arm around my waist, “Now, let's get something to eat.”

We claimed an unoccupied bench by the river's edge and spread out our feast. I took one bite of the massive sandwich and said, “Thank you, Mr. Lupo! This bread with the olive salad is awesome!”

We ate in silence, watching the paddle wheeler,
Queen of the Mississippi
, move slowly past us, its music and laughter floating lightly over the murky river. There was a nice breeze and it was lovely here by the water. I leaned over, rested my head on Miles's shoulder, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the respite from the heat. I wondered if this might be the beginning of my new normal.

Miles grinned, “So, Miss April, how do you like New Orleans so far?”

I smiled, “Not bad. A little boring for my taste. Seems like nothing much exciting ever happens here in
The Big Easy
. A little too
Smallville
, don't you think?”

Miles laughed. “In a Quentin Tarantino kind of way.”

“Exactly!”

Miles gently kissed my curls, making me vibrate. “Ready to go?”

“I am.”

At our front gate, Miles leaned down and kissed me once more. “Kissing you could become a habit.”

“I'm a hard habit to break.”

I closed the gate behind him and floated up the sidewalk to the porch. Kate was out with her girlfriends for the evening. I had the house to myself. I thought about my afternoon with Miles and smiled as I climbed the stairs. I crawled into bed, tucked my legs under me, and tuned the radio to a smooth jazz station. I laughed out loud when I heard the announcer say in his deep, raspy late-night voice, “For all you lovebirds out there listening tonight, coming up for one uninterrupted hour,
Love Songs
by Miles Davis.”
Perfect, just perfect!

Sinking back on the pillows, I closed my eyes and breathed in the heady floral scent of magnolia drifting in with the breeze. When I remembered Marguerite's gift, I bolted from the room, ran back down the stairs, snatched the package off the table and brought it back to my room. It was heavy; I hoped it wasn't another How-to-Voodoo book. I dropped the gift box at the end of the bed and lay back on the pillows, studying the package as if it were a beautifully wrapped bomb.

Completely agitated, I sat up and reached for it. I couldn't just leave it there, like an unfinished thought. I undid the ribbon and threw it aside. I slid my finger down the seam and released the package from the beautiful paper. I examined the box. There was nothing to indicate what the contents were. I set it down again and paced the room. Finally, I gathered up what was left in my reservoir of courage and opened the box.

“Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God! Not again.”

Another scented vellum envelope fixed with Marguerite's signature red wax seal lay on top of the tissue paper. I tore open the envelope and withdrew her letter:

I opened the tissue and removed a beautiful black leather journal.
April Lockhart
was embossed in gold, with a gold fleur-de-lis centered directly underneath. I ran my hand over the fine-grained leather. It was cool and had a nice feel to it. I held it to my nose. It smelled expensive, rich, like my family history. I believed Marguerite was right. My family's saga would make great narrative. I settled back on the pillows, opened the book, and fanned the blank pages. After a while, I put the journal aside, closed my eyes and nodded off. An idea bounced into my brain. I got back out of bed, gathered up my father's gold pen, picked up my new journal, and dropped into my comfy chair. The new leather was stiff; it creaked when I opened it. On the first blank page, I wrote,
Color Blind, Chapter One
. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Every story had to start somewhere.

I closed the cover, leaned back in the chair. In that moment, I knew I would write this book. I got up, placed my journal on top of the dresser, and laid the gold pen beside it. It was my gold pen now and I would cherish it forever. The antique dresser, which had been passed down through generations, was newly populated with an assortment of framed extended family photos: my dad and me, my parents at the prom, Marie Laveau, and the “selfie” of me, Kate, Angel, and Simone holding the family Bible. And, of course, the little button-eyed Voodoo doll, which had started the journey for me, now held a place of honor with the rest of the family.

That night, I made a promise to myself: no matter how long it took, I would write our story. I climbed back into bed, turned off the light, and drifted off listening to the romantic sounds of smooth jazz playing on the radio.