Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Out of the corner of Jemma Barker's eye, the woman flickered, a shadow of light shimmering at the edges of her vision.
Don't look at 'em, Jemma. That was Mama's voice.
Ain't nothing but the devil's work if you look. And that was Daddy's.
Taking a slow breath ( five, four, three, two, and one on the exhale),
shakier than usual due to the train's rattling, Jemma stared into her
light-wool-skirted lap, where twisting fingers worked wrinkles into a
white handkerchief. When she glanced over at the empty seat next to her,
the woman was gone.
Jemma smoothed the handkerchief, then her
already smooth skirt, then her bobbed hair, the hot-combed bangs
fluffing in the Southern heat, humidity intent on disarray. The man
who'd sat in that seat, who'd boarded with her when she'd left Chicago
two days ago, had gotten off somewhere in southern Missouri, right when
one of the white-jacketed porters had hung a colored sign in their car.
The sign wasn't necessary, as only Black passengers inhabited the car
anyway. No white folks would sit in this space, without a luggage rack
but with a flattened mouse in one corner.
No one-no living person, anyhow-had sat in the seat since.
The car had steadily emptied as they traveled south. Jemma opened her
black patent leather handbag and pulled out an envelope. She'd read the
letter inside dozens of times, but she wanted to see it again, to make
sure it was real. It was dated less than a week after Marilyn Monroe had
died, and even now, the papers were still making much of the actress's
death.
The letter read:
August 10, 1962
Dear Miss Jemma Barker,
I am writing to offer you a position with the Duchon family in New
Orleans, Louisiana. The Duchons are a prominent family in the city and
believe you have the qualities we are seeking. You would have free room
and board and be expected to live on the property. The pay is $300 per
week. This is nonnegotiable. You must call by August 31 should you wish
to accept.
Sincerely,
Honorine Duchon
Of all the
details in the letter, Jemma stared at the three-hundred-dollar weekly
pay the most. It was more than three times what she'd earned as a
teacher in Chicago, before everything had fallen apart. So she had
called Honorine Duchon one afternoon in mid-August, a few weeks ago.
"Next stop, New Orleans. New Orleans, next stop!" a porter announced,
strolling down the wood-floor aisles. He stopped next to a dozing woman
and touched her shoulder, making sure she woke up in time. She, like
Jemma, had a single square suitcase between her feet. Jemma put the
letter away and smoothed her hair again before slipping white gloves
onto her hands and a pillbox hat onto her head.
Half an hour
later, she joined a line of passengers who shared her color,
disembarking after the white ones had already gotten off. Jemma stood
for a minute on the concrete, purse in one hand, suitcase hanging from
the other, the clean, modern lines of the Union Passenger Terminal
looming ahead of her.
The heat was a womb. She'd thought summers in Chicago were bad, but nothing had prepared her for this.
A white man in stovepipe slacks and a fedora jostled her as he hurried
past, and then he turned back, perhaps to excuse himself. The beginnings
of a frown set between Jemma's brows, and chiding words formed behind
her lips. Before she could say anything, however, his expression upon
seeing a lone Black woman in last season's jacket and skirt, the
indifference that dulled his eyes, reminded her that she wasn't in
Chicago. She remembered the colored sign hanging in the train car as she
pressed her lips together, watching the man continue to his
destination, the encounter probably already seeping from his mind even
as it brought a flush to her burning skin. The man's hurriedness was
familiar to her, something that, along with his rudeness, reminded her
of home. But when she took in the rest of the place, she was reminded of
the differentness.
Early September in Chicago was a wave of
cool weather, wool jackets and scarves at the ready. It was unpacking
heavy sweaters, thermals and mittens. Gray skies and biting winds
settled in for a long haul, and the taste of snow was always in the air.
So Jemma's attire was completely out of place. Women of all colors
swirled around in silks and linens (linens!), cottons and organdies. The
tones were suitable for fall-light gray, sky blue, deep pink, cream-but
she was the only one in navy blue anything. And very few of the women
she saw were wearing gloves. Moisture sprouted in her armpits, and not
only from the heat. She removed her gloves and tucked them into her
purse.
"Get you a cab, miss?"
Jemma looked to her right, where a porter smiled at her.
"No, thank you," she said. "But can you tell me where I can get some coffee?"
"Best for you to bypass the French Quarter. They're still boycotting
over there on Canal, and you don't want to get mixed up in that. Make
your way to this neighborhood called Tremé. You can catch the bus over
there."
"Boycotting?"
He cocked his head. "Yeah. They
don't want to hire none of us to work on Dryades 'less we're sweeping
out the back room or scrubbing the toilets. We can't eat nowhere on
Canal. So it's been some sit-ins and little marches and things."
A smile tugged at Jemma's lips. Although not immune to the oftentimes
inexplicable whims of white people in Chicago who didn't want Black
people to experience full citizenhood, she'd had more freedom there than
the folks who lived across the South. And they were fighting back.
Good.
"Can you give me directions to Tremé if I'm walking?"
"It'll take you a minute."
"I got time."
He gave her careful directions. Jemma pressed her handkerchief, now
bearing blotches of brown powder, to her face and thanked him as she set
off, the handle of the suitcase slick in her hand. Rivers of sweat ran
freely down her body, and her legs itched in the thick stockings.
Cobblestone streets stretched in every direction. There were no
skyscrapers or tall housing-project buildings here, only walls of
balconied structures and wrought iron railings. Jemma passed yellow,
blue and pink stone buildings, with ivy and flowers trailing down from
second floors or growing up brick sides like delicate fingers. The
smells of soft bread, strong coffee, sweet pastries and thick roux
filled the air, a jumble of scents that pulled Jemma's tongue between
her lips. She'd eaten nothing since lunch the day before, the last of
the roast beef sandwiches she'd packed, as there were no colored dining
cars or other places where they were allowed to eat once they'd reached
Tennessee. Glancing through the restaurant windows, she saw only white
patrons.
As she navigated her way north, the smell of the
Mississippi River gradually faded, although not completely. Colorful
buildings and storefronts gave way to row houses. On Rampart Street, she
turned down an alleyway, her feet in the black heels seeming to grow
blisters against the cobblestones with every step. Jemma stopped and
leaned against the brick wall between two nondescript buildings, setting
her suitcase down and mopping her face again. All her powder had been
wiped clean off, the remnants of her carefully made-up face soiling the
handkerchief. She glanced around, now sure she was in the wrong
alleyway. The porter had told her of a café down a specific backstreet
but had also cautioned her, Stay away from dark alleys where you don't
see nobody else. She'd wanted to remind him that it was morning, but
something in his face kept the words inside. As she slipped one foot out
of her shoe and rubbed her toes, a door in the building in front of her
opened. Jemma tensed at the sight of the light man in a chef's apron
until she took in the crinkled hair, the almost imperceptible wideness
in his nose.
"You lost?" he asked her after tossing dirty
dishwater out of a huge pot into a nearby grate. Hazel eyes appraised
her, lingering over her heavy clothing before coming back to her face.
"I'm looking for Lulu's Café."
"Next alleyway over," he said, jerking his chin to the right. "There's
no sign, but you'll see a window with some dolls inside."
Jemma
had wanted to rest for a few minutes, maybe even cool off before moving
on, but she felt like an intruder here, where the man now pulled a
rolled cigarette from his apron pocket and lit it with a match. He
didn't offer her one. Clouds of smoke obscured his face, but she felt
his eyes on her.
She put her shoe back on, hitched up her
suitcase and moved on to the next alley, finding the bright blue-painted
café by the collection of brown-skinned dolls sitting inside the
window, just as the cook had said. Jemma passed two yellow wrought iron
table-and-chair sets as she walked inside, the coolness of the dim space
so welcoming she shut her eyes, wanting only to breathe it in for a
while. Ceiling fans turned overhead, spreading delicious smells around
the room, all hot coffee, pralines, beignets and roux.
"Ooh,
baby, I know you burning up." A woman's voice brought Jemma back. She
found herself looking into the deep brown face and eyes of a middle-aged
woman in a light blue dress and with a white apron around her waist.
"Come on in here and sit down."
Jemma happily obeyed, taking a
spot in a stiff-backed chair by the window. The table was small, made
for two, and as Jemma took in her surroundings, she spied nothing but
Black patrons at half a dozen tables, hunched over white cups of coffee
or plates of bread and sausage.
"You want some chicory, honey?"
"I'm sorry-what?"
The woman smiled down at her. "It's a coffee. I'll get you one."
Before Jemma could protest, the woman walked off and disappeared
through a set of swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Jemma opened
her handbag and pulled out her coin purse, the peeling red leather
petal-soft beneath her fingers. Snapping it open, she made sure she
still had five wrinkled singles, along with a small handful of change. A
chalkboard hanging on one wall advertised everything from chicory café
au lait, pain perdu, beignets, croissants and calas to gumbo, crawfish
etouffee, red beans and rice and croque monsieur. Jemma didn't recognize
all the words, but the mix of sweet and spicy smells floating through
the air reminded her how hungry she was.
"This is on the house."
The woman, her head tilted as she looked down at her, slid a cup of
coffee in front of Jemma. "Are you visiting?"
"No. I just moved
here. I'm working for the Duchon family." Jemma pronounced it Du-chun,
emphasis on the first syllable, unable to keep the breathy pride out of
her voice. The woman stared at her for a moment before a look of
recognition washed over her face.
"Oh, the Doo-chone family,"
she enunciated, the soft smile shrinking away. Her back straightened,
all the friendly intimacy of their conversation disappearing along with
the grandmotherly tone. "You want something to eat?"
Jemma's
mouth worked (What just happened here?), but after a moment, she asked
for grits and eggs, knowing the breakfast cost just forty cents. She
sipped her coffee, and before long, the woman returned, sliding a plate
loaded with grits, eggs and toast onto the table. Alongside it, she
placed a small plate with a couple of sugary confections.
"Oh, I didn't ask for-" Jemma started.
"It's on me, baby. You're new to New Orleans. You got to try Lulu's
beignets." She turned to go but stopped and looked at Jemma again, the
softness back in her eyes. "You're working for the Duchons, you say?"
"Yes. I was going to ask how to get to the . . . plantation." That's
what Honorine had called the property when Jemma had talked to her a few
weeks ago.
"It's not in the parish proper-it's out toward
Metairie. You can take the bus, but it's going to let you off before you
get there. Cab'll take you straight through, but it'll cost."
"I can take the bus. If I have to walk a ways, that's okay."
Lulu glanced away for a second before turning back, her deep brown eyes
full of something disquieting Jemma couldn't quite place.
"Miss, it's not my business, but if I was you, I'd go the other way. Get
back on the train or bus or whatever you came here on and go back to
where you from."
The Witch of Acadiana
Mirrored Opposition
Valeria
