On Archimedes Street (22 page)

The class, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to elaborate on the style of the parables and the
Song of Solomon
, took a moment to digest the import of a two-word sentence.

“Paraphrase Genesis.”

Someone dropped a pen, but it might as well have been a pin in the dumbfounded silence that reigned. Finally, Dutch broke the silence with a shout. “Costernazione generale! Haw! Haw! Haw!”

At this, the class exploded in nervous laughter.

“Oh, shit!”

“I’m fucked.”

“What the…?”

“Fuckin’ Immaculata!”

“Silence! Silence!” the proctors thundered.

There was no silence, but, as Dutch had predicted, general consternation, followed by gallows humor and dark laughter.

“Dutch can paraphrase Genesis in his sleep,” Flip said to himself. “Poring over the Bible night after night, looking for the dirty passages.” And, Flip had to admit, he’d paged through a comic-book version of the Bible Dutch had given him as a joke. He would probably pull a B+, given the whispers he was hearing around him. “The parting of the Dead Sea?” “Er… dunno.” “The Ten Commandments!” “Silence! Silence!”

“My B+ to his A+.” Flip was in a detached, analytical space. He would scour the rentals in the newspaper and online. He was outta there. But when he heard Dutch chuckle, a curtain of red rage fell over the words he was writing in his light-blue examination booklet.

A week later, Sister Mary Agatha’s prayers had been answered. Sister Immaculata was wonderfully, energetically recovered as she surveyed the examination booklets. A third of the class apparently believed that the
Song of Solomon
and the parables of Jesus populated the verses of Genesis. And they pontificated on their respective styles and audiences very prettily. Yet another fraction believed that the crucifixion and resurrection figured prominently in the first book. She was left with Dutch (A+), Flip (A-), and, wonder of wonders, Googs (A-). The scales had fallen from Sister Immaculata’s eyes.

Chapter 31

L
OTTE
COULD
clean up well when the occasion demanded it. And if any occasion demanded it, this one did, she ruminated, fresh from her scented tub. She reconnoitered her closet. Black, as befits a widow, and her mood, on this errand. But with some white about the face, for brightness. Heels, of course. She finally settled on a suit with faille lapels, pleated white dickey, and unexpected circle skirt. Raymond had grumbled over the $800 he’d had to shell out for this, over twenty years ago. But quality was quality, and this was timeless. Black-and-white spectator pumps set the dress off nicely. She surveyed herself in the mirror with satisfaction. Since Raymond’s death, Lotte didn’t bother much with her looks. “Mebbe I should look after myself bettah,” she told her reflection.

The spectator pumps rattled a step-step-slide-step tattoo on the sidewalk as she made her way to the Hair by Claire Salon (“Men Welcome, Too!”).

“Ooh-whee, Miz Lotte!” said Claire, principal stylist and proprietor of Hair by Claire, as Lotte stepped into a miasma of hairspray. “Lookin’ bad-ass! Gotta hot date?”

Lotte made a dismissive, haughty gesture in reply. “Hey, Claire. Shampoo, trim the split ends, condition, and wrench again, please. Blow-dry.”

Claire handed Lotte a smock to protect her black suit. “Oh, Miz Lotte. You look so nice! How ’bout we do somethin’ special?” Claire fingered Lotte’s chestnut locks. “I’m thinking we could feather it, lighten it up, real saucy and
now
.”

“Fedders!” Lotte snorted. “No fedders! Jes’ a nice french twist—an’ no hairspray, Claire.”

Claire sighed a weary sigh. Leave it to LaNasa to pinch every penny. The woman was as tight as the wallpaper on sheetrock. Imagine, a dollar tip! Once a week, for over fifteen years!

If Lotte made anything of the sour look Claire was giving her, it didn’t show on her face as she gave herself a final once-over in the salon mirror. Then she stepped out of the shop with determination and paused under the Hair by Claire awning to root in her black envelope pocketbook. Behind the salon plate glass, Claire craned her neck to try to make out the writing on the tattered paper Lotte had fished out of her purse. “Lost Cat.” Claire could hardly miss the big, bold legend. “What in the world that woman’s up to, dressed up like Astor’s horse in the middle of the afternoon? And cats? That woman’s never had a cat in her life.”

Dominic happened to be returning from school in time to witness the dignified sway of Lotte’s hips under the black circle skirt as she set off to Seneca Street on her errand. He spent his life now looking at girls and women. The girls wouldn’t give him the time of day. He might have better luck with an older woman, he’d decided recently. And this one was hot. Then he took a closer look.

“LaNasa!” He was so taken aback he’d shouted it.

Lotte turned her head and turned it again in disdain when she spotted Dominic. “You run along home now, an’ don’t eben be thinkin’ of goin’ in my store while I’m away, Mr. Light Fingers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dominic recovered himself. As he tracked Lotte’s progress down the block, Dominic gave a shrill wolf whistle.

“Cheeky!” She turned to scowl at Dominic, but she was secretly pleased. It gave her some courage, and she needed it to face down the hussy who had dared to name her cat after Raymond. And who probably was behind all those novenas he’d made at the end, out of guilt.

“Did you see
LaNasa
just now?” Dominic asked his father as he entered the shotgun workshop.

“Yeah. Hardly recognized her,” Manny said.

“Me either.”

“Dom, what’s become of Frenchy?” Manny tried to keep his voice casual. “Do you guys still hang?”

“Nah, I think he dropped out.”

“Dropped out!”

“Yeah. He just wasn’t there one day, and he never came back.”

Manny’s mind raced. He turned to work the lathe so his son couldn’t read the turbulent thoughts in his eyes.

Are they making ends meet now that I no longer pay him a wage? And what is he doing with himself?
Then a thought intruded, and he knew it for truth instantly.
Oh, my God. He’s turning tricks in the Quarter. For the money. But, even more, for the sex.

E
D
AWAITED
Elwood’s Saturday morning performance at the farmers’ market with great curiosity. Elwood had holed up in his room several nights in a row, after the nightly lesson. He had overheard Elwood pursuing some kind of rhythmic drone in solitude. Concerned, he had called out through the closed bedroom door, “Wailin’ Elwood, are you all right in there?”

“Leave me be! I practicin’.”

“Practicing? For what?”

“For Sattaday mornin’, natural.”

Ed had been intrigued. Elwood never practiced. The rhymes and chords that he loosed on the kitchen never received a reprise at the Saturday morning farmers’ market. The impromptu was the very soul of his performances and the reason for his small but devoted fan base.

Currently, an a cappella quartet crowded the jury-rigged pallet stage. They performed an oddly pleasing pastiche of doo-wop and hip-hop. Ed scanned the audience and saw his neighbors among the usual suspects—Dutch, Doodie, Miz Rita, Honoria Abbott. He idly wondered where Flip had got to. It was rare to see one half of the stunting duo without the other.

His musings were interrupted by the departure of the quartet to tepid applause, followed by Elwood’s buoyant spring onto the stage. Elwood bowed deeply to clapping and chants of “El-
wood
! El-
wood
!” Elwood then spread his hands in a shushing gesture to silence the crowd.

“Today we doin’ somethin’ diff’rent! All the chil’ren to the front! Now! Dat mean’ you.” He pointed to a boy and his sister. “An’ you, too, Dominic!” Only a few children in the crowd obeyed, but Elwood seemed satisfied by the knot of eight or so youngsters gathered before the stage.

“We gonna sing. We start dis easy, wit’ somethin’ you all know. Oh, wait, I fo’got somethin’.” He made a dash to the back of the stage and snatched a grocery bag that he’d apparently stashed there in advance. From it he withdrew a tasseled mortarboard cap and a ruler. He donned the cap.

“I now
Professa
Wailin’ Elwood. An’ you kids gonna sing wit’ me!”

A few of the kids looked nervous, and Dominic looked downright rebellious. He’d approached the stage because Elwood was such a nut job that you never knew what he was going to do, but it was usually fun and occasionally profitable, like the cat chase. But singing? With all these kids who were far younger than he?

“All right. Like I say, we start easy, wit’ somethin’ you know.”

“Wailin’ Elwood! Why you not at your piana?” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Ain’t gonna play no piana. You kids ready?”

And then he started on a chant from his youth, but it was apparent that it hadn’t been handed down to the generation now nervously fidgeting before the stage.

“Acka backa,” Elwood chanted.

“My sodey cracka,

“My Bee—You—Tee!

“My bootiewhacka.”

At first the response from the kids was hesitant, but after some rough cajoling by Elwood, they picked up the chant. It helped that the chant included “bootie” and “B-U-T,” skirting obscenity closely enough to make some of the younger feel the thrill of the forbidden.

“My belly ache!” Elwood shouted.

“My belt too tight.

“My bootie shake from lef’ to right.

“All right!

“All right!

“You….

“Can….

“Kiss….

“My….

“Acka backa

“My sodey cracka….”

After several iterations of the chant, the children were stoked, clapping and stomping in rhythm. Quite a few in the general audience joined in the chant, and most were clapping to the rhythm. But then Elwood broke the rhythm and shouted a long
A
sound.

“
Aaaaaaa
!”

Dominic, intrigued, fell into the call-and-response.

“
Beeeeee
!”

“Beeee,” from Dominic and a few of the kids.

“
Aaa
!
Bee
!
Cee
!
Dee
!
Eee
!
Eff
!
Gee
!

“I don’t wanna climb no tree!”

Startled, Dominic hiccupped a laugh. In the audience, Special Ed creased his forehead.

“
Aaa
!
Bee
!
Cee
!
Dee
!
Eee
!
Eff
!
Gee
!

“Won’t you sing along wit’ me?”

The response from his juvenile hearers was pallid, but he’d rehearsed for this contingency.

“If you don’t start to singin’ some,

“I crack you on the cur-
ric
-u-lum!”

At this, Professor Wailin’ Elwood shifted one hip laterally, Elvis style, and whacked it with his ruler. The tassel on his mortarboard danced in the opposite direction. “I crack you on the cur-
ric
-u-lum!”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” said someone in the audience.

“
Aaaa
!”

“
Aaaa
,” call-and-response.

“Where the
A
went?”

Dominic, little Larry, Herma Sue, and the other children looked at Elwood in confusion. Then Elwood resumed, but in a different rhythm.

“The
A
went up north to the pole,

“And it stop’ by Sanna Claus,

“Den it came back south and slip’ t’rough a hole

“In your Gramma’s greasy draws!”

The kids shrieked in glee.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” again.

“Where the
B
went?”

The juvenile chanters needed no further cue and joined Elwood enthusiastically, as did many in the audience.

“The
B
went up north to the pole,

“An’ it stop’ by Sanna Claus,

“Den it came back south and slip’ t’rough a hole

“In your gramma’s greasy draws!”

Beat. Then the reprise.

“If you don’t start to singin’ some,

“I crack you on the cur-
ric
-u-lum!”

And this time Elwood lunged down and smacked Dominic’s butt with the ruler. The children were beside themselves.

Elwood was in fine form. He did alphabet chants, multiplication chants, and rudimentary spelling chants for thirty minutes to his increasingly animated audience. Everything bordered on the risqué but never quite made it across that line. The children roared.

In the audience, Dutch was amused. Special Ed felt a little at sea. “I don’t wanna climb no tree,” especially, stuck in his mind. Would he be stuck with all the tree work forever while Elwood pursued his studies? But the “acka-backa kiss my B-U-T” part? It set him on fire.

He was hoping for a private performance of the chant, in the privacy of their shared shotgun. Maybe Elwood could wear the mortarboard cap and nothing else. And maybe he could do the hip-sway thing with one foot on the floor and the other on the seat of a kitchen chair. And maybe he could chant more slowly, in his low bedroom voice. The balls would sway along with the tassel on the mortarboard. If this happened, Special Ed knew exactly where his mouth would be while Elwood chanted “My B-U-T, my bootiewhacker” above him.

A third spectator, however, looked on Wailin’ Elwood with something akin to adoration. She was black. In her midfifties. And for the first time since her move from Pennsylvania to accept the post of superintendent of schools for Jefferson Parish, inspired by a new idea and—yes—hopeful.

T
HIRTY
MINUTES
after the “Professa” had left his podium to loud acclaim, a weary Tobia marshaled her grandkids, little Larry and Herma Sue, toward the car. She was too old, too tired, to rear another generation of kids. That no-good daughter of hers had to “find herself” in Taos, wouldn’t you know it, sticking her with the kids. “Finding herself” was a euphemism for “sleeping with anything in pants,” she reflected with annoyance. Little Larry didn’t help anything by pilfering an individually wrapped fudge brownie from one of the concession stands.