Color Blind (3 page)

“Later on, Harriet Beecher Stowe, a guest at the house, was inspired to write
Uncle Tom's Cabin
after seein' the nearby slave markets. In 1840, the home's new owner added the cornstalk fence as a gift for his homesick wife who wanted to return to Iowa. Isn't that just the most romantic thing?” she giggled.

“One of the most notable things about this bed-and-breakfast are the ghosts of the children who haunt the hallways. They can be heard laughin' and runnin' up 'n' down the stairs, all around the hotel. They love cameras, so don't be afraid when y'all look at your pictures, 'cause you may not be the only ones waving in the photographs!”

There were light murmurings as the crowd moved away from the hotel, some inspecting their digital displays looking for ghostly children, like what the guide said was actually real.

Must be a haunted history tour
, I thought as I trailed behind, pretending to window shop, since I hadn't paid to join the tour.

Everyone stopped again. The guide continued, “Here we are at one of our most haunted houses, the Lalaurie House, formerly owned by the high society couple, Dr. Louis Lalaurie 'n' his lovely wife, Delphine. Once celebrated for their grand balls and charitable work, the dark side of their souls came to light after a fire broke out in their home. Behind a locked door on the third floor, firemen discovered a number of dead or dying slaves, many of whom had been used in the doctor's experiments. It is believed that the cook, who they kept chained to her stove, started the fire. In the midst of the chaos, the good doctor and his wife escaped into the night, never to be heard from again.”

“Chained to the stove?” said one of the group as we moved away from the building.

“Our final stop tonight is the Hotel Monteleone, where dozens of former guests and employees are rumored to have taken up residence for all eternity. If any of y'all are staying here, think twice about opening your door tonight, it might not be room service that's come a knockin' . . . Thank you kindly for joining me this evening for a tour of this great haunted city of mine. Now go on in and check out the hotel bar, the Carousel. Get yourself a Hurricane or Sazerac or something to settle your jangled nerves.”

My stomach rumbled; I was famished, it had been a long time since breakfast. Up ahead, a cafe advertised soups and sandwiches. I broke away from the group and went inside.

The café was empty, except for a heavily tattooed waitress and the short-order cook. I took a table near the window and watched as a young, skinny musician dressed in black set up his street corner stage. He plugged in his speaker, hooked up his violin, lay down his case for tips, and began to play something jumpy. Cajun? He was quite talented. Soon a crowd gathered around, clapping and tapping their feet to the rhythm. I heard the clink of coins as tips dropped into the case.

“What can I get for you, hon?”

I read the chalkboard menu. The special sandwich of the day was “Oyster Po' Boy”; the very thought of it made me queasy. I ordered a turkey on wheat and some sweet tea. While waiting for my food, I listened to the music and watched the world go by, trying hard not to think about my life. But it was all I could think about.

Why did Dad have to die? Where is my mother? What does Kate mean by secrets and lies? What did I do to deserve any of this? What am I supposed to do now? Why can't I just have a normal life like every other teenager? Like maybe divorced parents, with me shuttling back and forth between homes every other weekend, each parent trying to win my affection by showering me with clothes, gifts, and too much freedom? Maybe even a dog? But noooo! I've been swept into this miserable life like Dorothy in the tornado.

I've heard that children choose their parents before they are born. If that's true, what could I possibly have been thinking? What's next for me? Who knew? Whatever it is, I doubted it would be good.

My head was spinning. I searched my bag for aspirin and took two. Like my favorite movie heroine, Scarlett O'Hara, I'd think about it tomorrow.

My food was served quickly; I dove in. Food and music—it was exactly what I needed. After another glass of sweet tea, with enough sugar to over-amp anyone, I paid my tab and headed up Royal Street, but not before tipping the hardworking, talented street musician.

Since I didn't know New Orleans at all and had no particular destination in mind, I just walked. I passed the police station, noticed a crowd gathering in front of a place called Café Beignet. Everyone was talking excitedly about the Voodoo and Cemetery Tour that started soon. With no real thought, I bought a ticket, took a brochure, and got in line to wait for the tour bus. Cemeteries and Voodoo temples suited me just fine.
I'll just go look at someone else's skeletons for a while.

The van rolled to a stop. The doors opened. A tall, hunky young guy with his oh-so-stylish stubble appeared in the doorway. When his gaze fell on me, I stopped breathing. One hand flew to my head to try to smooth down my frizzy curls, the other hand worked to straighten my clingy skirt. Darned humidity!

He came down the steps, smiled warmly, and greeted the tourists—“How're y'all doin' tonight? Y'all ready to be spooked? I'm Miles, I'll be your guide this evenin' as we explore the dark history of N'awlins”—his accent a little bit of France and a little bit of . . . Brooklyn? “Now, if y'all can't understand somethin' I say, let me know and I'll repeat. I never knew I had an accent until some Yankees complained they couldn't understand a word I said. Imagine that!” He laughed. “I speak Yat, a dialect born from the melting pot of Europeans which settled this great city.

“We'll be headin' out to Saint Louis Cemetery Number One, Congo Square, and Magique et Medecine, a Voodoo emporium and apothecary. Anyone here know anythin' about our cemeteries or our Voodoo?” he asked. Nobody raised a hand.

“Okay, then, let's get started. All aboard! Watch your step, now, heah?”

Miles collected the tickets while everyone settled in, their cameras at the ready. I took an empty seat by a window at the back of the bus and watched Miles watching me in the rearview mirror. He smiled and winked. With a whoosh, the door closed and the van rolled away from the curb.

Miles began his spiel. “Saint Louis Cemetery Number One is the oldest and most famous of the New Orleans cemeteries, opening for business in 1789. Today, the cemetery is no longer open to the general public, it is open only for tours or to family members who own tombs. Spanning one square block and housing over 10,000 deceased, it is truly a city of the dead. The dearly departed are entombed in above-ground vaults, either because of the high water table of N'awlins or the traditions of the French and Spanish settlers. Now y'all pay attention. This is not a place to wander about alone! When we arrive, DO NOT stray from the group.”

Miles continued, “Many famous Louisiana folks are buried in Number One. Probably our most famous resident of Number One is Marie Laveau, the infamous high priestess of Voodoo. She's interred in the Glapion family crypt, along with many of her fifteen children. Legend has it, if you mark her tomb with three Xs made from a soft brick she will either grant your desire or come to visit you in your dreams with solutions to your problems, after which you are to return to her tomb with an offerin' for her spirit. Does anyone have any desires they want granted tonight?” Miles grinned, looking in the rearview mirror directly at me.

Miles had his audience, including me, spellbound. I listened and watched as he charmed and informed our tour group. He didn't look much older than me. No apparent piercings or tattoos, which worked for me. I wasn't big on tats. He was tall, dark, and handsome and if I had a “type,” he would be it. Those dark eyes, the “come hither” look, the crooked grin, the whole package must work well on the ladies, both young and old. I was betting he had a huge tip jar.

The van slowed to a stop. “We have arrived!”

I looked out my window, stared into the cemetery, and was struck by the enormous city of the dead. There were hundreds of decaying crypts, a stark contrast to my father's manicured, evergreen final resting place. The tombs sat close together in a macabre urban sprawl, littered with broken walkways and dirt paths. A black cat ran stealthily past the open wrought iron gate. Was it really bad luck to have a black cat cross your path? I hoped not. No longer sure I'd done the right thing by taking this tour, I lingered in my seat while the rest of the group descended the stairs. Miles gave each guest a souvenir, a small red bag with the tour company information on its tag. He called it a gris-gris, a magic bag that should (but didn't guarantee to) keep us safe. I doubted a little bag would keep anyone safe in this frightful neighborhood.

Miles climbed aboard the van, handed one to me, and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” I lied. “Let's go.”

“Listen up, everyone! I'll guide you through the cemetery. However, please do be careful. The ground is uneven and the cracked sidewalks are a bit of a hazard. The ancient tree roots can sneak up on you if you aren't paying attention. Once again, we need to stay together. DO NOT wander from the group. This is a very dangerous place to be alone.”

The group, not wanting to get separated in the evening shadows, drew closer together and moved as one behind Miles through the cemetery towards the Glapion family crypt.

Miles continued, “Marie Laveau was both a Catholic and a Voodoo queen, sometimes practicing her Voodoo rituals in the Saint Louis Cathedral. She was a free woman of color who worked as a hairdresser to the upper class. Many believed she was all powerful, that her spirit still is. She was someone to be feared, either because of her Voodoo practices or her political influence. Either way, there is no denyin', she left her mark on N'awlins society.

“Okay, everyone, let's explore a bit more before it gets too dark. Let's all go check out the pyramid mausoleum, built to be the final restin' place of the Hollywood superstar, Nicolas Cage.”

The crowd, led by Miles, moved away without me. I knelt to inspect the offerings scattered in the dirt. Candles, flowers, neon-colored strands of Mardi Gras beads, handwritten notes; a variety of trinkets were left by believers in hope that the spirit of Marie Laveau would help rid them of their problems or, possibly, to hurt someone. Entranced, I touched the cool, rough surface of the ancient crypt, lightly tracing the Xs left by those seeking help. From somewhere deep within, Marie's energy pulled, compelling me to mark three Xs myself. I looked around for something to use, found a fragment of red chalk. Wild gusts of hot air whipped through the graveyard; gunmetal gray clouds gathered overhead, obscuring the rising moon. Chilled to the bone, I shivered in the silent cemetery, as if someone were dancing on my grave. Not sensing the presence behind me, I yelped when a hand grabbed my arm.

“Just curious, little lady—what did you not understand about getting separated from the group? Remember, dangerous? Bad neighborhood? Not alone? Any of that ring a bell?” Miles seemed genuinely concerned.

My heart was pounding. “I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't realize everyone had gone,” I stammered, embarrassed.

“You gave me quite a fright when I realized you weren't with us,” said Miles, annoyed. “I'm responsible for this group.”

“I said I was sorry”—shaking his hand away, letting the chalk slip through my fingers. Now I was annoyed.

“Maybe if you're up to it after the tour, you can offer a proper apology over coffee?” he flirted.

“I'll think about it,” I replied, knowing I wouldn't have to think too hard. Miles gently took my elbow and guided me safely back to the van.

Miles began again, “Congo Square, now a part of Louis Armstrong Park, was a Sunday meetin' place for slaves. Louisiana law forced slave owners to give their slaves a day off and a place to gather. Congo Square was the ‘in' place to gather for Voodoo and drumming rituals. Sundays at the Square gave the slaves a sense of community and the freedom to practice their beliefs. The Sunday gatherin's also attracted crowds of curious white folks. Eventually, Sundays at the park grew into a day of performance art and entertainment.

“Congo Square was also close by Storyville, now the Iberville projects. That's the neighborhood we just left, over by the cemetery. You may have already heard Storyville was the birthplace of jazz. Many of our jazz greats got their start on Basin Street between Canal Street and Beauregard Square, but that's a whole other N'awlins tour, the Magical Musical History Tour!” laughed Miles.

“Our last stop in the French Quarter tonight will be a house of Voodoo magic and medicine. Devotees say that Voodoo is not based on either white magic or black magic, but on spiritual power and the art of healing. That being said, their focus is also on retail power. If you are so inclined, you'll be able to purchase CDs and videos of haunting Voodoo chants and rituals performed by world-renowned practitioners!” said Miles, bringing the van to a stop in front of the building.

The rest of the group disembarked, but I stopped to speak to Miles, “Back there, in the cemetery, you lost your accent. What's up with that?”

Miles grinned sheepishly. “The stronger the accent, the bigger the tips! I need money for my school books, car insurance, dates, so I ham it up a bit.”

“A bit? There's enough ham in you to serve twelve people for Easter dinner!” I laughed. “Maybe you can tell me more over that coffee I owe you?”

I winked and went down the steps to explore the Voodoo emporium and apothecary.

The group was nowhere to be seen. Looking back, I watched Miles in the van checking his cell phone. The streets were empty except for the tour van. The air was thick, heavy with humidity. The hot wind blowing through the trees stirred eerie shadows around the porch as wind chimes danced on a hook beneath the rafters. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I reached for the doorknob. I looked around, then up, startled to see a baby alligator head hanging over the doorway, its mouth gaping in eternal surprise. Smoky incense drifted out the door, swirling past me and into the night like a ghost. Rhythmic drumming and low moaning could be heard coming from somewhere in the night.