Color Blind (6 page)

We passed astonishing road signs,
Gun-Free Neighborhood, Drug-Free Neighborhood.
We had definitely entered a different part of the city, one not frequented by tourists. People on their porches fanned away the heat, the insects, and the afternoon. The residents stared with curiosity as the cherry-red car with two white women and a dog rolled slowly through their bleak streets. They were suspicious of strangers, probably with good reason, although we hardly looked threatening. We made our way past empty, weed-covered concrete foundations and roadways that led to nowhere. Dangerously unstable, abandoned homes stood as monuments to societal failure on so many levels.

“What does ‘2DB' mean?” I asked, as we drove by a barely standing house, with boarded-up windows, its front wall spray-painted with some sort of code.

“Two dead bodies,” Kate replied quietly. “Homes were marked by search and rescue teams for collection of those who perished or needed to be rescued.” Kate slowed the car and pointed. “See the four sections?”

I nodded.

“Each quadrant indicates something different, like which battalion was here, or how many people were inside, if they were alive or dead, or if they couldn't get in at all. See, over there? NE means No Entry.”

There was no appropriate response for what I had just learned. I had never seen such abject poverty before. It was soul-crushing. I needed to get out of here. I looked for street numbers in earnest, trying to find Gumbo's home.

Once we turned the next corner, Gumbo began to squirm and whimper. We drew close to a yard where a tall, skinny African-American girl, somewhere north of thirteen years old, played alone. Gumbo began to bark, pulling at his makeshift leash. When Kate pulled to the curb, Gumbo launched himself over the side of the car, then knocked the girl down and greeted her with dog-slobber kisses. The girl squealed with laughter.

“Mama! Mama! Gumbo's back!”

I got out of the car. The girl stood up, brushed herself off, ran towards me and gave me the best hug ever. Gumbo jumped and barked, excited to be home.

“Angel! Honey, let go of that girl before you squeeze the life outta her!” An attractive, thirty-something, mocha-colored woman came down the steps, wiped her hands on her apron and approached the Mini. “Thank you for bringin' our Gumbo home. He's been missing about a week now, ever since he jumped out the truck when we were in the Quarter. Angel's been sorely upset.” Gumbo glued himself to Angel, happy to be back with his human.

“Please, y'all come in for some sweet tea and cookies. They're fresh from the oven. We'd like to thank you proper,” said the woman. “Angel, go fix up some tea, put some cookies on a plate for our guests. Napkins, too.”

“That's not necessary, we're just happy it all worked out. We have to get back. Let's go, April,” said Kate, motioning for me to come back to the car.

I watched Angel playing with Gumbo and felt really guilty for wanting to keep her dog. I threw a defiant look at Kate, turned back around and called to Angel, “I'll help you.”

Kate got out of the car, pushed the damp hair from her face, and said, “It is mighty warm out here today. Tea would be nice.”

“I'm Simone,” said Angel's mother, extending a rough, never manicured hand. “You've a pretty daughter there.”

“Thank you,” said Kate, slightly uncomfortable. “She's April, I'm Kate.”

“Let's all get to the shade,” said Simone, following me up the uneven walkway.

The railing wobbled as I climbed the warped porch stairs. I almost lost my balance. Their home was beyond run-down, but the porch was tidy and looked scrubbed. Cushions on the weathered wicker chairs were worn, but clean; the potted plants flourished. Fresh laundry dried on a line in the side yard under the unrelenting afternoon sun, near a well-tended vegetable garden. Clearly they cared for their home, but didn't have the money for maintenance.

Angel held the ragged screen door open for Gumbo and me. Gumbo raced ahead, his nails clicking on the old wooden floorboards as he ran into the kitchen. The hallway was a personal gallery filled with dozens of old family photos. It was fascinating, a family history in black-and-white. It was like I had stepped into a time warp. There was no computer in sight. There was no hi-def TV. There was nothing that spoke of the twenty-first century.

“What are you doin'?” asked Angel.

“Looking at this picture.”

“That one's my great, great, great, great maw-maw,” she said, pointing to the small tintype of a woman with a turban wrapped around her head.

“Very nice. You look like her. Very pretty. You have her eyes . . . Let me take the tray, you bring the cookies, okay?”

After serving Kate and her mother, Angel and I sat on the porch steps. Gumbo lay down beside Angel.

“He's a good dog,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Talking wasn't a problem, though, as questions flew from Angel.

“Where did y'all find him? Was he hungry? Did he miss me? Was he hurt? I was scared I'd never see him agin. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said and threw her arms around me again.

“These cookies are quite good,” said Kate, taking another bite and analyzing the flavors.

“My take on a old family recipe; I call them Angel Crunch Cookies. Lots of cinnamon, molasses, and pecans. My baby's favorite.”

When the glasses were empty and the cookies were gone, Kate looked at her watch, set down her glass and rose to leave. “Oh my, I didn't realize it was so late. April, we should go now. I need to get ready for work.”

“Will y'all come back sometime to see me and Gumbo?” asked Angel, walking with me to the car, Gumbo at our heels.

Kate opened the car door. “It was nice to meet you and your mother and Gumbo. I'm glad it worked out. April, let's go!”

Angel's face fell.

“I'll try to come back, I promise,” I said.

An impish grin split Angel's face. “You have to come back. I wanna ride in that car!” I watched Angel run back to the house, laughing, Gumbo loping behind her.

Kate pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and we were on our way. I got out my cell and texted Miles:
On our way back. Coffee?

“Well, that was different,” said Kate.

“Nice people . . . I feel sorta bad for not wanting to return their dog.”

“I can imagine. Clearly she loves her dog . . . By the way, April, I overheard you talking to Angel about their old family photos. There are two boxes of our family photographs stored in the attic. I intended to scan everything into digital albums but never got around to actually doing it. Is this something you can do for me? The photos might help familiarize you with some of your own family history. You know, fill in some of the blank spaces? It would be a great help to me.” Kate hesitated. “What do you think?”

“Paid position?”

“Free room and board not enough for you?” laughed Kate.

“Can I get a dog?”

“No!” said Kate, not laughing now.

We pulled up in front of Kate's house. Miles was already waiting on the porch, lazily rocking back and forth in one of her white wicker rockers.

Kate greeted Miles warmly. “Thanks for taking care of April last night. You two go have a nice time.”

Kate turned to me. “You and I will talk later.”

We made our way up Royal to St. Ann Street, headed towards Café du Monde.

Miles slipped into his tour guide patter. “Café du Monde opened in the French Market in 1862. It's open twenty-four/seven, except for Christmas Day and sometimes during hurricane season. Even though their property suffered only minor damage during Katrina, the owners closed for several months to renovate the dining areas and the kitchen. The café is famous for two things: French-style beignets, sort of like a donut only better, and their special café au lait, a slightly bitter coffee drink, half hot milk, half coffee with chicory. The only other menu items are fresh-squeezed orange juice, iced coffee, and milk, either white or chocolate.”

“What's chicory?”

“It's the root of the endive plant. During the Civil War it was roasted and blended with coffee to stretch their meager supplies.”

“You're a walking Wikipedia!”

We approached the shaded, bustling patio. “Before we grab a table, let's go around to the back of the building. I want you to see the kitchen at work.”

An enormous picture window was fitted into the back wall of the kitchen. A large man, wielding an oversized rolling pin, hands and arms covered in flour, flattened a massive piece of pastry dough on an old butcher-block counter. When the ancient wooden checkerboard-style cutter scored the smooth dough into small squares, the next batch of beignets was ready to fry. The cook stepped close to the fryer, turned around, and began to expertly flip the dough squares over his shoulder into the vat of bubbling oil.

“Look at this place! Look how fast everyone moves! Oh my gosh! I've never seen such a huge deep fryer! That oil looks pretty black—it's not lard, is it?”

“Nah, it's just plain ol' Louisiana cottonseed oil.”

“Look how the dough puffs up when it hits the oil,” I said, pointing to the little pastry pillows.

“After they hit the oil, they get flipped over once by the guy with the long-handled strainer, then they're ready to go.”

After they were drained and plated, the beignets were covered with a generous amount of powdered sugar and handed to waitresses, who practically ran them out to the customers.

“Shall we go in, partake of the fine fare this establishment has to offer?” asked Miles, using his silky tour guide voice.

“Well, yeah!”

When our order was delivered, I dove in. The first bite blanketed me with powdered sugar. Miles laughed and wiped my chin.

“Oh my God, that's good!” I said, finishing the first one.

I wiped my fingers and looked at Miles. “Your dad seems pretty cool. Where's your mom? Any brothers or sisters?”

“Hold on there. Slow down, little lady,” said Miles. “It's just me, my dad, and our bloodhound, Nosey. Mom lives in Georgia with my stepdad; no brothers, no sisters. I don't see them very often. I used to spend every school holiday and every summer with her, but now not so much. I don't have the time, I work nights full-time during the summer. Most days I volunteer for construction work, rebuilding homes for people in need. Believe it or not, there's still a lot of work to be done in the Ninth Ward.”

“I absolutely believe it. I was just there this morning to return the dog I told you about. This poor little girl and her mother, they need so much help! It was heartbreaking! I don't get it.”

“Well, until things change, it's up to the rest of us to do what we can to help . . . So, tell me, what's the scoop on you? Are you staying at your aunt's house for the summer? Are your folks on vacation or something? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No brothers, no sisters.” I hesitated. “My plans are a little up in the air. Can we talk about something else?”

“Ah, a woman of mystery!” Miles changed the subject. “Listen, would you like to spend tomorrow with me? I'm going out to work on one of the houses. You can tag along, if you like. Maybe you can help with food or something? Your aunt is probably busy anyway. I keep tee shirts in my car for volunteers, I'll give you one to wear. What say you, my fair lady? Are you game?”

My mouth full, I mumbled, “Sure.”

Washing down the last of the beignet with café au lait, I said, “
Laissez les bons temps rouler
. I heard that in a movie once.”

“Let the good times roll! You're sounding like a native already!” Miles checked his watch. “Would you like to take a carriage ride around the French Quarter?” he asked after paying our bill. “I promise to keep the running commentary to a maximum.”

“Will it take long? I told Kate I'd do something for her,” I fibbed, knowing what I really wanted to do was get rid of that creepy Voodoo doll.

“Maybe an hour or so, does that work for you?”

“That works.”

Mule-drawn carriages were lined up in front of Jackson Square, waiting for their next passengers. We walked across the street to the first one and while Miles paid the driver, I petted the mule's soft muzzle. The carriage squeaked and groaned under our weight as we climbed in and settled onto the worn red leather seats.

“Would you like to hear about Jackson Square? Or Jax Brewery?”

“No, I'd like to hear more about you.”

“Well, I just finished my first year in the Architecture program at Tulane. The rebuilding projects through their community outreach program is a win-win situation for me. I learn something new almost daily and I stay in shape from the physical labor.” When Miles flexed an impressive bicep, my heart skipped a beat.

“I get to give back to a community that desperately needs it and I get loads of practical experience in eco-friendly home building, which is my passion.”

“Why did you stay after Hurricane Katrina? So many people left and never came back.”

“My dad stayed. Mom and I moved to Georgia while New Orleans tried to pull itself together. The chaos here was unimaginable. Dad's sense of responsibility kicked into overdrive. He wanted to stay to help maintain some semblance of law and order.”

“Wasn't it really dangerous?”

“Well, yeah. That's why they needed dedicated police officers like my dad. I'm not sure New Orleans will ever fully recover. But the good news is our community is working its way back and we're proud of our efforts!”

“That's great,” I murmured. I hesitated briefly before continuing, “Uh, Miles?”

“Yes?”

“What do you know about Voodoo?”

Miles, taken aback by the dramatic shift in subject matter, became wary. “Why do you ask?”