Heiresses of Russ 2011 Read online

  Gilda was flushed with the memory of the farmhouse. It was where she’d hidden after escaping from the plantation, leaving behind everyone who was in her family. There she’d been discovered and brought to Woodard’s. The farmhouse was where Bird and her Madam, as Lulu referred to her, had retreated to be alone together, like parents on much needed vacation. The farmhouse was where Gilda had been reborn into this long life. It was there that the blood had been exchanged and she sickened enough to expel all that was mortal from her body, then awaken as part of the family to which she now belonged.

  Despite her own proscriptions Gilda caught herself trying to listen to Lulu’s thoughts, which were still masked.

  “Why?”

  Lulu again took a deep breath and poked a finger—no longer adorned with gleaming rings—under the edge of her tignon to scratch at an imagined itch.

  “Bird was here, you were right about that; but she is long gone, on her journey again. She left something for you.”

  Gilda held her expression carefully neutral, not revealing her deep hurt that Bird had come and left—again without her.

  Lulu moved smoothly to the drawer that held the cutlery, removed a paper-wrapped object and handed it to Gilda.

  “She’s a handsome woman,” Lulu said in what sounded more like her old self. “Your Madam could have made a lot of money with her, cherie. Let me say that. Breathtaking! Oh, I understand their relationship, but still….”

  Gilda was almost relieved to recognize the old mercenary Miss Lulu as she calmed her hands so they wouldn’t shake when she un-wrapped the tissue paper from the packet. She did it more slowly than necessary, wanting to extend the moment as if Bird herself would be inside. Bird—her other mother—the only one she felt could help her bridge the worlds.

  Inside the paper was a knife whose blade was slightly curved and handle was a bright shade of green glass. Inside the paper was written: “Turkey is quite far away” and nothing more.

  Gilda laughed fully for the first time in weeks. If she’d had tears they would have risen in her eyes. Instead she laughed until she could no more and fingered the edge and smooth handle with joy.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a gal who likes weapons, not from what I’ve heard.”

  “Not weapons. But a knife is an important thing for a journey, isn’t it?”

  “And important for cutting loose from the past.”

  “You must teach the girls this, I’m sure,” Gilda said carefully sidestepping Lulu’s comment.

  “Oh they know how to handle all kinds of knives, I assure you.”

  Gilda re-wrapped the knife to savor later when she was alone.

  “And why was Bird here?”

  “The District…Storyville…as you know was created as a convenience for the religious and the politicians. It made them comfortable to believe they knew where all the sin was located.” Lulu laughed at that. “Outside their own boudoirs, I mean.” Lulu’s laugh was harsh like the ripping of fabric.

  “But with their regulations come graft, more corruption than ever before. And soon it will be over. I can feel that in the air. Les Americains…ptuh!”

  Lulu made the spitting sound that many used to before Louisiana was part of the Union. “Les Americains” was an epithet still heard in the French Quarter late into the century.

  “Storyville is seeing its last days, I assure you. I don’t know when but I can feel them pushing our life into the Gulf just like they pushed the Africans into leg irons.”

  “But perhaps the District has become too much, the violence, drinking….”

  “Those are just a part of it. It is the music we must worry about. Where will it go when all the pleasure palaces have closed? The sanctified don’t want it in their homes; they curse our music like it comes from the Devil.”

  Excitement rose in Lulu’s voice and her face flushed with her passion. “There is holiness in this music. I learned that as I listened every night to the magic of the pianos and the horns….”

  Gilda understand Lulu’s worry; this was not a country that recognized its treasures, especially those that came wrapped in dark skin. The compelling melodies and rhythms had a blood trail from the bordellos, across the Mississippi, through the cotton fields and back to Africa. It was not a music to be easily stripped of its meaning.

  “Why did you think we needed to be alone to talk of these things?”

  “I simply wanted the time to get to know you. Bird spoke of your sadness.”

  “What does she know of that?”

  “You speak as if you two are not forever linked. You are looking for a renewal of your faith, I think.”

  “Faith?”

  “In the family, our values. In yourself.”

  “And Bird thought she must leave me to this search on my own.”

  “I don’t believe you are on your own, gal, if you noticed.”

  Gilda almost laughed at how easily Lulu’s hard edge made her feel like a girl again.

  “What is that?’ Lulu was suddenly alert; her eyes blazed orange and she was still as stone listening. “Girls.”

  Lulu was away from the table, through the narrow back hall and at the rear door before Gilda could respond. She pulled open the door which led into the alley with a swift hard movement but did not let it slam against the wall. On the doorstep stood two young girls, chilled and frightened. Their faces were painted, and they wore dresses totally impractical for the foggy dampness surrounding them—no coats or shawls, just sheer fabric between them and the night air.

  Lulu grabbed one by the arm and pulled her in, the other came too as if they were attached. She then slammed the door shut, shaking the door jamb. Gilda watched quietly not wanting to interfere, listening to the situation. One was older but tall for her age, which Gilda sensed was about twelve. She had dark, angry eyes that glared out from their kohl-stained rims. The younger was perhaps nine despite the way her wispy brown hair was pinned up in a complicated style much beyond her years.

  “What’s happened?”

  The two girls trembled and their teeth chattered so hard they couldn’t speak. Gilda took her cup from the table and passed it to the smaller of the two. She looked up at the taller girl before she took the cup and sipped the hot liquid as quickly as she could. Then she passed it to the taller one, who was wary, but then she sipped too until the trembling lessened.

  Lulu pulled a shawl down from a hook in the hall, wrapped it around both of them, and pushed them deeper into the kitchen. She repeated her question in the exact same tone as if she understood they were already too frightened to be bullied.

  The taller girl pulled the shawl more tightly around them both, giving herself something to do as she decided how to speak.

  “What are your names?” Gilda finally asked hoping that simple question would open the door.

  “I’m Colette….”

  “Your real names,” Gilda said softly.

  They looked at each other maybe to see which would remember her name first.

  “I…I…Clementina. I was Clementina and this here is my baby sister, Jinny.”

  “Well sit down and join us, Clementina and Jinny, we’re about to have a little late supper, what about you?” Lulu spoke with the authority of one who took care of many frightened girls.

  The two bundled together in the same chair, holding on to the shawl as if it was a life line and they were swimming in the Mississippi. Lulu stoked the fire on the stove and threw some meal in water when it boiled. She soon served them a bowl of porridge decorated with immense pieces of butter and sprinkled with brown sugar. They took turns with the same spoon, carefully not knocking the spoon against the bowl so their meal was silent.

  The Miss Lulu that Gilda remembered had never been known for her patience or caregiving skills, but she waited with Gilda for the girls to calm themselves with the hot food before she spoke.

  “You gals must be from May Tuck’s place over on Bourbon.”

  That made their eyes open wide
with fear.

  “Don’t worry I’m no squealer!” she said laughing; then looked at Gilda. “May likes her girls to have good manners…no banging the cutlery on the plates and all that. She got a mean old man, though. He’d be enough to run me out into this foul fog,” Lulu continued as much for the girls as for Gilda.

  Clementina and Jinny tried not to look like they wanted to disappear. They glanced at Gilda, not able to conceal their curiosity. Gilda’s traveling clothes were covered in road dust and she still held the hat that camouflaged her femininity when she was on the road.

  “I’m going out back to look around, make sure everything’s…quiet while you all get settled.” Gilda decided they might loosen up more quickly if they were dealing only with someone they knew. “Lock the door behind me,” she said as put on her hat.

  She felt Lulu lift the veil she’d drawn around herself and the house. Gilda would be able to hear the girls’ story as Lulu extracted it from them.

  Gilda walked to the end of the block and got her bearings; she felt relief being outside again after so many nights on the road. Music wafted from windows and doorways all though the District, where the pleasure and gambling houses were corralled by the law after Gilda left. Some were lavish, filled with marble fireplaces and chandeliers—living up to the name palace, as Lulu’s had. Others were cheap waystations, little more than barns, in some cases, where girls worked in “cribs” for their quick sexual transactions.

  Girls with no place to go or anyone to protect them always ended up in the District. That had been true at Woodard’s too; however there the girls were given the choice of what work they could make theirs.

  As Gilda moved in her wide-legged walk through the Storyville District she understood what Lulu said. Now she could feel the place closing in on itself. There was desperation around the houses thicker than the fog. The laughter was tinny and fearful. But the music was exactly as Lulu had described it—vital and regenerative. She made her way toward May’s house on Bourbon and stood beneath the graceful curving iron balcony in front. So many slaves had bought their freedom with their work on these elegant architectural delights that Gilda could imagine their sweat was in the fog that swirled around her.

  She listened to the laughter inside that reminded her of Woodard’s. Then she heard the piano clear and sharp like the sound of a baby’s first cry as it emerges from the womb. The playing had an urgency and purity she’d never heard before; and she sensed that the feeling in the piano player was somehow connected to things going on above him in the upper rooms. Gilda moved around to the side of the house and stood beneath an open window. She could feel the chaos inside and before she heard the words of the argument she was certain it was caused by Clementina’s and Jinny’s flight.

  “I told you not to make them do that! We got other girls like to touch each other. Ain’t no need.”

  The woman’s voice, Gilda assumed it was May, was high and tight like she was tired of the argument but had to hold her ground.

  “They girls like any others, they do what I say!”

  His voice was petulant, needing to prove his mastery of the women and the situation.

  “They sisters. You can’t make them do that to each other.”

  “They girls, sisters don’t matter. If the customer want to see it; they do like they told!”

  “No, you can’t do that.”

  The crack of the man’s hand on May’s face and her gasp were so loud in Gilda’s ear she had to hold onto the brass hitching post at her side to steady herself.

  “I’m telling you, Rusty, you can hit me if you want, but you gonna lose us some more girls if you don’t listen.”

  Good for her, Gilda thought. But the next slap was harder. Gilda looked up at the window and gauged the distance—too high for most, but not for her. Instead she circled until she found an open side door. She let her mind reach that of the piano player as she asked, “Shall I come in and help May?” His response, “Yes!” was silent and puzzled but welcome. She slipped inside and climbed the back stairs, followed by the sound of the piano as if it was searching too. When she found them she listened to the energy of the couple on the other side before tapping softly.

  “Come.” The woman May said trying to keep the tears and anger out of her voice.

  Gilda entered quietly as they glared at each other. He was red with anger and May was furiously thinking what she might use to hit him. They both looked surprised when they saw it was a stranger rather than someone from the household. She closed and locked the door behind her.

  “Who in the hell are you?”

  Gilda held the man in her gaze. She willed his silence within three seconds and May looked puzzled but not afraid.

  “You one of them voodoo, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah. Do you want this man?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Do you need him here or is there someone else who might be better?”

  Gilda didn’t want to totally catch May up in her hypnotic gaze because she wanted her to feel free will as this decision was made.

  “I can’t leave him here. He’ll kill you or someone soon. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Yeah. He’s got a big temper and a little brain.

  “So….”

  “So…who are you and what you doin’ in my house.”

  “You said I could come in.”

  “I ain’t truckin’ with no voodoo so you can carry your ass right out of here, boy.”

  Gilda admired the woman’s hard edge, which she needed to survive in the world of Storyville.

  “I think the piano player might work out better,” Gilda said.

  “What you know about it?”

  Gilda could hear embarrassment in the woman’s voice; clearly this was not a new consideration.

  “This one is going to cause you trouble. That’s what I know.”

  “He’s got his uses.”

  “You don’t need an enforcer if you treat the girls right, May. You know that.

  “Now you teaching me my business? I said get out!”

  Gilda was unsure what to do next. She looked at the man Rusty as he stared in her direction unseeing. She could take him with her and risk May raising the alarm. But she couldn’t take his blood and implant a new idea of changing his ways while she stood here in front of May.

  “I’m going but don’t let him hit you again. He’ll never stop.”

  Gilda started toward the door then turned back to May, “And let me get this one for you.” Gilda drew back her left arm and hit Rusty with her fist, a move she’d had to practice more than once on the road. She could feel his consciousness return just as he was flooded with the pain of her blow. He crumpled to the carpet like a doll and May laughed.

  Gilda turned on her heel and disappeared through the door before May could register that it was even open.

  When she reached Woodard’s Gilda was exhausted, but this time she felt excited because the lights were on in the parlour and she knew Lulu was waiting for her.

  Together she and Gilda closed up the house—pulling the shutters, damping down the stove and locking all the doors—as if they’d been through these tasks together for years. It wasn’t until they had Clementina and her sister Jinny swaddled in blankets, a rug and deep silence in the back of the buckboard and the four of them were headed out of town to the farm that Lulu spoke.

  “Remind you of anything?”

  Gilda saw herself as a runaway slave, swaddled as Clementina and Jinny were now. The safety she’d found was here for them too. For the first time she felt pride; pride to be part of a family with not just power but with a patient hand on the future.

  There were seven girls at Woodard’s now, aged three to fifteen. The three year old had been found as a premature infant in a basket tied to the back door one evening when Lulu returned from her search for the blood. Within months the baby’s color had deepened and it was clear that in some white household in New Orleans what had been explained fir
st as a cold, then as indigestion, had emerged as a mulatto baby unsuitable for their front parlour. But Woodard’s was known as the house where girls went who had nowhere else to go.

  “We’re the Ursulines for les jeune filles des colouers. You know the convent that teaches the girls. We have become that for our colored girls who face uncertain parentage or poverty and do not want to grow old in the District.”

  “The aging process is quite fast there, I can see,” Gilda sighed thinking about little Jinny’s mature hair and Clementina’s darkened eyes.

  “We’ve been safe at Woodard’s, in part because of the protection our family can provide, but also because I turn away no colored child. And there are many with colored children to dispose of. Where conscience will not allow them to drown them in the Mississippi they may bring the child to me.”

  “But there are so many mulattos and quadroons in the French Quarter, why would anyone want to…?”

  “Like everything else, the time is different now. And no one wants the inheritance of their legitimate children or their political careers jeopardized by the dark child of a mistress. Or others who just can’t feed the issue from a rape. I can’t keep up with them all and have sent some, the boys, of course, out to Sorel and others.”

  “Yes, I’ve met those who worked in his salon.”

  “I know the hatred the whites and even the blacks feel for us…our fair skin, our hair. We are a reminder that each one of them—white and black—is a fool, believing their color is the best! Look what happened after that prize fight, people went crazy!”

  Unconsciously Lulu snapped the reins of the horses with anger at the scorn smeared on Jack Johnson’s win.

  It was hard for Gilda to recognize the coolly calculating Lulu of the Mahogany Palace in this woman who assessed the political climate so perceptively. But Gilda could not argue with her. She’d seen the veiled looks of distaste for her in Sorel’s salon—looks from whites because her skin was dark and from blacks because she did not dress her hair to make it look less African.

  “They will destroy this country, I assure you. But we have to care for and educate our young or we’ll disappear.”