Southern Ruby (18 page)

‘You are the only person who can inherit this house. I'd rather it burn to the ground than be bought by some visiting Hollywood star who'd paint its interiors white and sell off the furniture to Blaine to be distributed around the world.' She looked at me keenly. ‘But with this house comes great responsibility, Amandine. When you inherit it, you'll not only have to maintain its beauty; you'll become the keeper of its secrets.'

‘Secrets?'

A storm had started outside. Rain beat against the windows and thrummed on the porch roofs. Grandma Ruby rose and
switched off the lights so that only the candles illuminated the room. She placed her hands on the table in front of her.

‘The moment we die we become nothing more than a memory,' she said. ‘I can't let that happen to the people I loved. I can't let them be nothing more than names and dates on a tombstone.' Her lips trembled, and my own legs began to quiver, as if something ominous was happening. ‘There are things only I know,' she continued, ‘and I can't share them with Louise. She wouldn't understand. But now that you're here, perhaps we won't all fade as quickly as I'd feared . . . especially not him.'

I assumed she was referring to my father.

‘He can't fade, and neither can you,' I told her. ‘I carry you in my heart and in my genes. Besides that, you're a heroine of the Civil Rights Movement: a Great Lady of New Orleans. You're not going to be forgotten.'

She looked at me in a fierce, trancelike way. ‘I want to tell you something. Something you should know because it concerns you directly.'

I held my breath. I could see from the set of her jaw that this was something significant, but I had no idea that everything I had believed about Grandma Ruby up to that point was about to be turned on its head.

M
ae and I sat on the floor of our empty parlour and stared at the ceiling. To pay for Maman's operation at Doctor Emory's private clinic plus the first two weeks of her convalescence, I'd had to pawn everything. Everything! All we had now were our clothes. There were no chairs to sit on, no paintings on the walls and even no dishes to eat from. But it was worth it to have gotten Maman safely through her operation. All I had to do now was figure out a way to buy our things back and pay for the rest of Maman's stay at the clinic, which Doctor Emory had warned me might extend to months, maybe even a year.

The task seemed insurmountable; even thinking about it left me exhausted. But there was nothing to do but face each day as it came. There was no point worrying about the future. If I did, I'd give up before I even started.

‘Miss Ruby,' Mae said, with a pained expression on her face, ‘I've been thinking. With your mama being looked after at the clinic, you don't need me so much around here.'

I guessed what was coming: Mae was going to leave. Well, how could I resent that? I didn't even have enough money to provide adequate food for her. But her going would be a blow to Maman, who loved her, and to me too. I'd known Mae all my life. But she was fifty-five years old. If she didn't find herself a new position now, she might never find one.

‘I've been thinking about getting a job in the new laundry that's opening on St Claude Avenue,' she said, fixing her gaze on me. ‘They're looking for coloured workers. I can pay you a little rent for my room and help you and your mama that way.'

I brought my hands to my face. ‘Oh, Mae! You have a heart of gold! But I can't ask you to do that. You're a free woman. You have to get yourself a better position.'

Mae cringed as if I'd slapped her. That wasn't the reaction I'd been expecting. I'd thought she'd be relieved to know I was letting her go with my blessing.

Instead tears filled her eyes. ‘Don't you want me no more, Miss Ruby?'

‘Want you?' I cried, grabbing her arms. ‘You're like family to me! But I'm trying to think what would be best for you.'

She lifted her chin, but there was a tremble in her voice when she replied, ‘What's best for me is to stay in the only place I want to be — with you and your mama. I'm figuring out a way to do that.'

I looked at her incredulously.

She took my hands from her arms and held them in hers. ‘Did your mama ever tell you how I came to work for her?'

I shook my head.

‘I was born eighty miles out of New Orleans, in sugar-cane country. My grandpa continued to work on plantations after the Civil War, but that wasn't good enough for my daddy. He worked hard, taught himself reading and arithmetic, and got himself a small goods store. When he started to do all right, he sent me and my three brothers to school. Although it was near
impossible for coloured folks to register to vote in Louisiana, my daddy did because he could read and he had property. Not only that, he used to tell customers that one day one of his sons would run for government. Now if a coloured man wants to enrage white folks, all he has to do is put on airs and graces.' Mae clenched my hands tighter, and tears came to her eyes. ‘There was a no-count white hussy who set her sights on my daddy, who was a fine-looking man. When he refused her advances, she accused him of rape. It was the excuse the townsfolk were looking for. My daddy was dragged from our house, castrated, branded, hung from a tree and set on fire.'

Mae's story hurt me like a sharp kick in the stomach. I balled up my fists. It was a tale I'd heard too often growing up. Lynchings were rare in New Orleans but they'd happened all over the rural South ever since the end of the Civil War. I'd like to see those mobs get a taste of their own medicine, but all too often the local sheriff was in on it.

I blew out a breath to calm myself. ‘How old were you when they killed your father, Mae? And what happened to the rest of your family?'

Mae wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘I was thirteen years old. The townsfolk locked us in our store and set it alight. I broke a window and escaped to the garden, but I couldn't save my mama and my brothers. They were trapped in the kitchen. A coloured farmer gave me a ride into New Orleans, but after that I was on my own. That's when I met your grandma. Your mama was only four years old then and when I went to see your grandma about the position she'd advertised, your mama hung onto my leg and wouldn't let go. “Can't argue with that,” said your grandma. “Dee Dee has chosen you.” Even though I looked like something the cat had dragged in, your grandma took me in and trained me. Sometimes my nightmares would wake the entire household but instead of getting rid of me, she'd come and comfort me. “There's nothing to be afraid of here,
Mae,” she'd tell me. “We won't let anything bad happen to you.” After she died and your mama got married, your mama brought me here to look after you.' Mae straightened herself and looked into my eyes. ‘So you think I'll up and leave just 'cause you and your mama have fallen on hard times? The men in your family might have been fools, but the women have always been fine Christians.'

I looked at Mae as if seeing her for the first time and realised that I'd taken her for granted. I hadn't thought of her as having a past or a childhood before she'd been with my family, and we'd never discussed such things. I'd get impatient with her for always being nervous and never wanting to try new things, but now I understood. What had happened to her family had made her terrified of the consequences should she ever lift her head or step out of line.

I wondered what Mae would have been like if she wasn't kept low by white people. I thought of the three men I'd seen in Avery's Ice Cream Parlor and how they'd been treated for wanting nothing more than to sit at a decent table. What would the whole coloured race be like if they weren't subjected to discrimination and terror?

I stood and pulled Mae up with me. ‘I don't want you sweating in some laundry for low wages. You're better than that. Let me figure something out.'

She looked at me askance. ‘What are you fixing to do, Miss Ruby? I hope nothing bad. You got nothing left but your reputation. Don't sully that — for your mama's sake.'

I thought about Mae's warning as I peered into the window of a tobacco shop on Canal Street and admired my best day dress in the reflection: red wool with a black velvet trim. To work was to ‘sully' my reputation but what else could I do? I needed to make money to pay for Maman's treatment, and I needed to make it fast. Only finding a job that would pay me more than waitressing or tour guiding proved difficult.
Demonstrating kitchen gadgets at Woolworths paid only fifty cents an hour with no commission for goods sold. A sales clerk earned sixty cents an hour; a telephone operator, twenty-five dollars a week. If I'd paid more attention to my piano lessons I might have been able to teach, but the reality was I had no skills and no outstanding talents beyond my ability to tell an enthralling story. I couldn't even type — not that a secretary's salary would get us out of hot water either.

I considered begging Uncle Rex on my knees. But even if Aunt Elva was struck by a lightning bolt and allowed him to lend us the money, she would expect it back, and with interest, so credit from them wasn't a long-term solution to our problems. I couldn't be sure that sometime in the future Maman might not need another major operation.

I stopped outside a hairdressing salon. Women in white uniforms moved about inside, fussing over customers sitting under conical dryers. One manicurist was buffing a matronly looking woman's fingernails while another was massaging her feet. But what most caught my eye was a sign on the reception desk:
Shampooist Wanted. Whites Only Apply
.

I could give that a try
, I thought
. After all, it's only washing hair. How hard can it be?

I smoothed my skirt and straightened my collar before entering and asking the receptionist if I could see the manageress. She pointed to a woman with short peroxided hair who was sitting at a desk at the back of the salon and giving instructions to an apprentice.

I walked over to her and said, ‘Good morning, ma'am.'

‘We're fully booked today,' she replied in a voice heavy with boredom. ‘Did you make an appointment?'

‘Oh, no,' I said, pointing at the sign on the reception desk, ‘I'm inquiring about the job. The shampooist.'

Her eyes travelled over my dress. ‘Do you have any experience?' she asked with a sneer.

Maman had always taught me that even if someone was very rude I must never sink to their level. But I'd never been one for tolerating insolence. I stared at the manageress's overly tight curls and was tempted to reply, ‘No, do you?' But my desperate circumstances tamed my sassiness.

‘I'm willing to learn,' I said.

The manageress moved her tongue around her mouth as if she was trying to get something out of her teeth. Then her eyes narrowed.

‘You are kind of pretty,' she said, with the disdain of someone assessing a cheap dress on a rack. ‘The job is ten dollars a week plus tips.' She nodded towards the women sitting under the dryers. ‘But I have to warn you, the customers around here aren't too generous.'

Ten dollars! I was instantly deflated. Before Maman had gotten sick, I'd never thought so much about wages or how hard people worked for so little money.

‘Can't you please pay me more?' I asked. ‘My mother's sick and I've got a lot of bills to pay.'

The manageress sat back in her chair then raised one of her over-plucked eyebrows. ‘Who do you think you are, Miss Uppity, to ask me to pay you more? I'm not a charity!' Then a cruel smile formed on her face. ‘If you want more money, there's another profession you could try.'

One of the hairdressers sniggered and accidentally sprayed lacquer into her customer's eyes. The woman cursed.

My cheeks blazed. I knew what profession the manageress was talking about. Anyone who lived in the Quarter couldn't be unaware of the seedy side of New Orleans. The prostitution and gangster activity were out in full view every night.

Some of the customers joined in with their own jeers. ‘I'm sure there are men who'd pay her plenty to massage their heads,' shouted out one.

Her remark sent the others into howls of laughter.

My stomach lurched and I stepped back, bumping into a display of shampoos and making it wobble. The women laughed harder and my face burned with shame. I didn't wait for things to get any worse and made a run for the door.
Dear God
, I thought, walking quickly along Canal Street,
what am I going to do?

Around me, mothers pushed babies in prams, and men chatted easily with each other, but I felt all alone. The women's laughter rang in my ears. Why did they have to kick me when I was already down?

‘Hey, honey, stop a moment,' a woman's voice called.

I turned to see a plump woman with rollers in her hair and a rubber cape around her shoulders rushing towards me. She must have come from the salon.

‘You walk too fast,' she panted when she reached me. She waved a piece of paper in the air. ‘Those women were jealous 'cause you're pretty! I know of a job that will pay well for a nice girl like you. My daughter has left her position at a gentlemen's club on Frenchmen Street to get married. The owner is looking for a hostess to replace her.'

‘A gentlemen's club?'

‘A nice one,' she said, nodding her head vigorously as if to reassure me. ‘Classy. All above board. You have to be well-dressed and have good manners. Rich men go there. Nancy said they're respectful.' She pressed the piece of paper into my hands. ‘There's the address for you. The owner's name is Rolando Perez. Tell him Gina sent you.'

The Havana Club: Gentlemen Only
the sign on the door read. I wasn't too sure about seeking work in any gentlemen's club. What did men do there that they didn't want their wives to see? Smoke? Gamble? Swear? Seduce other women? I was on the
verge of walking away, but then I reasoned with myself that I didn't have too many options available to me and Gina had seemed genuine. I stared at the Spanish columns set among banana trees in the entrance way. ‘Classy' was the word Gina had used to describe the club. I was doubtful about that, but I entered anyway.

The place was empty except for some waiters setting up the tables for the evening and a cleaner mopping the mosaic-tiled floor. The interior wasn't as gaudy as I'd been expecting. Round tables decorated with linen cloths and beaded lamps faced towards a stage with a red velvet curtain. A carved horseshoe bar dominated the centre of the room and the scent of whiskey and expensive tobacco lingered in the air. I tried to imagine what kind of men came here.

‘Are you here for me?'

I turned to see a swarthy man in a purple jacket and bow tie. His broad smile was as flashy as the diamond rings he wore on each of his fingers.