Color Blind (22 page)

I closed my laptop, set it on the table by the chair, and stretched my fingers. They were feeling a little cramped, like the rest of me. I stood at the rail and shook the kinks out, stretching while I watched the people meandering down Royal Street. Cameras and cell phones handy, they were ready to document every little detail of their visit to New Orleans so they could post it on their social media.

My morning had been highly productive. I had a slightly better handle on my own path and was more at peace with my circumstances. I hadn't exactly achieved a “Zen mentality,” but I didn't feel nearly as bad about things as I had when I boarded that absurd bus in Montgomery.

My stomach growled. Like yesterday, after researching information for hours and completely losing track of time, I was restless and ready for lunch. I decided to go out and get makeup for tomorrow's interview. I needed to look my best. I found a Saints baseball cap in Kate's office and hoped she wouldn't mind if I borrowed it. I checked on BG, then got my purse and dark glasses and headed up Royal Street. About halfway up the block, I turned around and went back home to call Kate, to leave a voicemail letting her know she shouldn't be concerned if she called and there was no answer. I needed to go out to get makeup for my job interview and would be back in an hour or so.

With that taken care of, I was on my way. It felt good to get out and get some air, even though it was hot and still humid. I ambled up the sidewalk, stopping along the way to enjoy the window displays of the art galleries and antique shops. A number of shops had cats perched or sleeping in their windows and water dishes on the sidewalks for dogs.
I love that about this place!
Even though I had no clue where to find a store that sold makeup, I knew if I stopped to ask someone, they wouldn't hesitate to help. Folks here seemed pretty easygoing.
Is that why everyone calls New Orleans The Big Easy?

I wasn't ready to ask for assistance just yet. I wanted to explore on my own, get familiar with my new “hood.” I passed by the police station and Café Beignet, finally found a Walgreens and made my purchase. Down the block from the store, a bright red and yellow Lucky Dog cart was open for business. Since Kate had recommended it, I wanted to try one. I slathered my hot dog with yellow mustard, topped it off with a generous helping of relish, and ate it while I explored the famous Bourbon Street. It was crowded, raucous, and claustrophobic—it totally lived up to its reputation for decadence. Strip clubs, jazz joints, sports bars, and souvenir shops selling brightly colored beads, feathered masks, tee shirts, and shot glasses lined both sides of the boulevard. I suspected the street would become even livelier as the day wore on, when the bars and strip clubs were filled beyond capacity and their patrons stumbled out onto the pavement with drinks in hand. I watched as two relaxed, but ready for anything, NOPD mounted officers navigated their steeds through the throng.

I came upon a restaurant Kate had mentioned, Galatoire's. An engraved brass plaque next to the green double doors read
Established in 1905
. The restaurant had maintained its last-century appearance and seemed totally out of place on Bourbon Street. It was beautifully decorated in an old-fashioned way with lace curtains, linen tablecloths, silver flatware, tasteful flower arrangements, and polished brass fixtures. The large dining room was filled with gentlemen in suits, ladies in dresses, and waiters in tuxedos, definitely reminiscent of a bygone era. The restaurant was quite lovely, most certainly a special-occasion restaurant. I lingered in front of the window, envisioning my ghostly grandfather regaling his business companions over a three-martini lunch. For one brief moment, I wished I could join them, to meet the man who'd had such a dramatic impact on my life. When his apparition abruptly faded, I moved on.

I finished my hot dog, elbowed my way through the crowd, and found myself back on Royal Street, behind St. Louis Cathedral, directly in front of a graceful statue of Jesus centered in the garden. I thought about Marie Laveau and how much time she had spent at this cathedral with her friend, Père Antoine. Such an odd pairing, the priest and the high priestess.

I checked my watch. I still had time to wander. I ambled down Pirate's Alley between the St. Louis Cathedral and the Faulkner House Books store and ended up at Jackson Square. The Square pulsated with activity. Fascinated, I watched a rather large man costumed in a massive, brightly hued feathered headdress and loincloth dance for the crowd. He was a Mardi Gras character in need of a float. Nearly every inch of the black wrought iron fence surrounding the park displayed art crafted by local artists. Numerous vendors had set up tables to sell their wares, everything from handmade jewelry and candles to Tarot card and psychic readings. Tourists strolled hand-in-hand soaking up the festive atmosphere.

I bought a soda from a kid with a cart, then sat down on the steps in front of the Cabildo museum and drank it all in. Music was everywhere in the air. Cajun banjo sounds twanged out of the open doors of a nearby restaurant. A saxophone player fingered a bluesy melody over on the far side of the park. A violinist plucked out a vigorous up-tempo piece while wandering amid the mass of sightseers. New Orleans is a living soundtrack. There's an unmistakable energy in this city. Of course, I was completely unaware of it until now; I'd been too wrapped up in my own personal drama to notice. The ancient Cathedral clock rang out the hour.
Time to go.

I made my way back home through the French Quarter, pleased with myself for not getting lost. I was finally learning my way around. I checked on BG, who was sleeping peacefully on her blanket. Upstairs, I got back to work on Kate's scanning project. Kate had cleared her office floor of the piles of photographs that had already been sorted. I sat down and started over again, dividing everything into piles of color and black-and-white, trying my best to sort according to what appeared to be the logical date sequence, based on cars and clothing.

I didn't recognize anybody until I got to the early years of my mother's childhood and Kate's infancy. In the beginning, the sisters, the cherished Doucet daughters, looked happy. Their precious, priceless moments were frozen for all time. But, as I ordered the years, the girls looked less happy, more forced, more artificial. It made me sad for disrupted childhoods, theirs and mine. If only . . .

I carried on until late in the evening. I was so deep into the project that I didn't hear Kate come in. I jumped at the sound of her voice.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. It looks like you've made quite a bit of progress.”

I stood, rolled my neck and shoulders and arched my back. The floor wasn't all that comfortable for working.

“I didn't hear you come home. Yes, I've made some progress, but not much. I don't know any of the people, except you and Mom. Can you help me after dinner?”

“I'd like that. I brought dinner home from the restaurant. Would you like to try the vegetarian gumbo, maybe have some jambalaya? You do eat seafood, right? Not allergic or anything?”

“I'm good with seafood. I'll go set the table. Wine for you?”

“Not now, maybe later. Let's eat, I'm starving! By the way, I appreciated your voicemail this afternoon. Thanks for letting me know you needed to go out. And congrats on the interview tomorrow!”

Over dinner, I told Kate about the phone pre-interview with Josie. She said if I needed any help to let her know, she'd gone to high school with the owner. I thanked her, but declined her offer. I wanted to get the job on my own. We talked about the three different high schools. Kate agreed it was time to set up tours. She'd get back to me with her availability. Hopefully, we'd knock all of them out in one day and have a nice dinner afterwards. She also said not to worry if tuition was involved, it wouldn't be a problem.
Does Kate mean she'll cover the expenses?
I took her at her word and didn't ask. Kate also said that in between school tours, we would take some time to swing by the facility where I'd be volunteering. She wanted to introduce me to everyone. After I landed a paying job, the supervisor would sort out my non-paying work schedule.

“Finished?” I asked, clearing the dishes.

“I am. Did you like your dinner?”

“Yes. It was really good, not spicy like I thought it would be.”

“You can leave those in the sink, I'll get them later,” said Kate.

“No, that's all right. You sit, I'll load. After I finish, we'll go through the photos.”

“Deal! While you do that, I'll feed BG.” Kate hesitated, “By the way, I left a message for the landscaper about our four-legged friend. The assistant manager said the owner would be more than happy to take BG off our hands. She's out of town for a few more days, but he planned to e-mail her tonight and will get back to me with a pick-up date.”

I frowned, turned my back on Kate, continued rinsing the dishes and didn't say a word. It would hurt me deeply to see BG leave, even though I knew it was best for her.

Kate lightly squeezed my shoulder. “I'll be sorry to see her go, too; I've grown quite fond of her. But we both know this is her best option. Besides, I haven't given up on the idea of making goat cheese. There'll be ample opportunity for us to keep tabs on our little friend, as well as her new friends. Who knows, if this works out, we could end up with a nice little side business for you and me, making artisan cheeses and selling them to local grocers or at farmer's markets. I could even put our cheeses on the menu! Give it some thought.”

I finished the dishes and changed the subject. “Let's go look at the pictures.”

Upstairs in Kate's office, we both settled down on the floor, Kate with a glass of wine, me with a bottle of water. While Kate perused the individual stacks of pictures, I explained my process.

“You've done a nice job, April. You've accomplished a lot today. Kudos!” She raised her glass to me and started looking at the pictures individually.

I watched her face as she studied the photographs. I couldn't read Kate at all until she came to the snapshots of her, my mom, and their parents. Scrutinizing each picture, tears and sadness filled her eyes. One by one, she set the family photos aside, stacking them into a tidy little pile.

“Are you okay?” I grabbed the box of tissues off the desk and offered it to her.

Kate removed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. She drank a long swallow of wine before answering.

“Memories, you know? Not always easy. Sometimes better left boxed up.”

“Why did you want everything scanned?”

“I don't really know. I guess because it seemed like the right thing to do. After my father died, I felt disconnected and alone.”

I could relate.

“Funny thing is, April, I don't recognize most of these people either. I've never looked through these boxes before. I thought when I got around to scanning, I'd know everybody. I just assumed our lives had been well documented up to a certain point . . . I guess I was mistaken.”

I picked a photograph out of the pile, held it out to Kate, and said, “Tell me about this day. Where were you and Mom? How old were you? What were you up to? Look at your faces, you were definitely up to something, I can see it.”

Kate brightened. She told me about the surprise birthday cake she and my mom had planned to bake all by themselves for their father. A total kitchen disaster followed when she dropped the container of flour and my mother knocked a bowl of fresh eggs off the counter. The cook, Sadie Lee, was mad as a wet hen and banned the two girls from the kitchen for a week.

I handed her another photograph, then another. We continued like that for hours, me giving her photographs, her telling the stories behind them.

“You know, April, this is pretty much the first non-confrontational conversation we've had since you got here.”

Embarrassed, I murmured, “I'll be right
back” and left the office.

When I returned, Kate's printer was humming with my print job. I grabbed the still warm papers, sat back down, and pulled the photograph of Marie Laveau out of my pocket.

Kate took a sip of wine, looked at the photograph, nodded at the papers, and asked, “What do you have there?”

“I started a family tree. Our tree,” I said, pointing to the branches of the tree. “So far, I've added you, me, my parents, my other grandparents, what little I know about your parents, and Marie Laveau. That's as far as I got. Maybe you could help me?”

Kate gaped at me, her face a blank mask.

She finished the last of her wine and stared into the empty glass. “I think a refill might be in order.” She left the office and returned a few minutes later with a tray filled with a cheese and fruit plate, a small glass of amber liquid, and more water for me. Kate placed the tray on the floor and settled down across from me.

“What's that?” I pointed to the glass.

“Sherry, it pairs well with the blue cheese, the Brie, and the fruit. Would you like to taste it?”

“No thanks.”

Kate took a sip from the delicate crystal glass. “Let's see what we can do, shall we?” she asked, reaching for the papers.

“There's one more thing we should talk about.”

“What's that?” asked Kate.

“Angel and Simone.”

“Why? What about them?”

“Angel told me that Marie Laveau was her great, great, great, great grandmother. Based on my research of Marie Laveau, I'm pretty sure we're related.”

“Your research? . . . Related? . . . How?”

I began, “It all started with the photograph that hangs in Angel's house. It meant nothing at all to me, until I found this one in your box of family pictures. They're identical.”

I picked up the photo and handed it to her. Kate didn't say a word, she just sat there. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.