Color Blind (9 page)

I got up to get some cold water. “I started looking at the family photos today. Before I can organize anything, I need to ask you some questions, get some background, for the tags for the jpegs. F-Y-I, I left piles of pictures scattered everywhere in your office. Are you open to buying Photoshop? I might be able to clean up the pictures somewhat after I scan them.”

“Thanks for the heads up. I won't go into the office until you get more organized. Let me think about Photoshop, although it would probably be good to have it.”

“Okay, great! Oh, and Kate?”

“Yes?”

“I'm going with Miles tomorrow to help at the housing project where he volunteers. Are you okay with that?”

“You should have asked me first. I'll let it go this time, because I think it'll be good for you. You need to make friends here. Do you know if you'll be there all day?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, when you do, let me know, okay? It's late, you should get some rest. I need to get out of these heels,” said Kate. She started for the stairs.

“Kate?”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

I followed her up the stairs. We said our good nights in the hallway and closed our doors.

No longer ready to call it a night, I settled into my comfy chair, booted up my laptop and got to work. I typed in
Voodoo
and came up with 13,200,000 results. Even Wikipedia had a gazillion different categories to choose from. I needed to narrow my search parameters.
Where should I begin?
Scrolling down through the first page of choices, I came across “Louisiana Voodoo.” I opened the link and found that it, too, had subcategories, but not as many.

Okay, let's see what we have here. Basically, it's a religion with West African roots brought to America by slaves; it is distinguished from other practices by the use of gris-gris bags and Voodoo dolls. I totally get that!

What exactly is a gris-gris bag? I typed in
gris-gris bag
and found over sixty-five thousand results; one of the first links led to a book in my swag bag. Holy cow! Instructions for making a gris-gris bag! All I'd need was some red cloth or leather, herbs, charms, and maybe some bones.
Bones? What kind of bones? Where would I get bones and, hang on a minute, why am I even thinking about how to make one anyway? Okay, this is getting a little too weird.

On overload, I closed the browser, shut down the computer, and got into a steaming hot shower to relax the knots in my neck. I generously sprinkled the lavender powder over my damp skin, slipped into an oversized tee shirt, and climbed into bed. My phone vibrated from an incoming text:
looking forward to tomorrow. M.

I turned out the light and, with a smile on my face, fell into a deep and, thankfully, dreamless sleep.

Startled awake by the phone's alarm, I was groggy and grumpy and my tee shirt was wringing wet. I was nearing the end of my clean clothes and needed to do laundry, especially the sheets, which still smelled like Gumbo. I checked my phone for e-mails. Along with the usual junk mail, there was one from Sam letting me know it would take longer to settle my dad's estate than he originally thought. He asked if I needed anything.
How touching.
I wanted to send him a howler screaming,
“Yes, I need something! I need my life to go back to normal!”
But normal was never going to happen. I opted for polite:
Please send money and the rest of my clothes. Thanks for checking. A.

I needed to get ready or I'd be late for Miles. I raced through my morning routine, which now included a generous sprinkling of lavender-scented dusting powder, and headed to the kitchen. Kate wasn't there, but she'd left another note on the fridge:

Armed with juice and a muffin, I went outside to have breakfast. Kate was working at making me feel welcome, even though my arrival in her life was an unwelcome surprise. I was grateful to have some time alone this morning.
Alone.
That's what I was now. Raising my eyes to the sky, I wanted to scream,
“How could you do this to me, Dad? Leave me like this? You were my rock. You were always there for me. What am I supposed to do now? Get on with my life? How's that supposed to work? YOU never had a ‘what if' plan in case of emergency. YOU had to go and have not only an emergency, but a FATAL emergency. It's no longer ‘what if' but ‘what now?'”

I refused to cry, I was too pissed. I sat in the courtyard, agitated to the max. When the doorbell punctured my unhappy reverie, I realized I'd been wallowing in self-pity for so long, I'd lost track of time. Miles was here.

I ducked into the powder room for a quick once over in the mirror. I didn't look nearly as damaged as I felt. I plastered on a happy face and got ready for the day ahead.

“Mornin'!” said Miles.

“Good morning. Would you like to come in? Have you had breakfast? I could fix you something to eat if you're hungry.”

Miles stepped into the hallway, “Nah, I had breakfast already, but thanks for asking.”

He looked around, admiring the architecture. “Nice place.”

“Kate fixed some lunch for us. She's a chef, you know. Should I bring it?”

“A chef, really?”

“She is.”

“Then, yes, absolutely bring it! I made some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for us, but I doubt they would even hold a candle to what your aunt fixed!”

“Peanut butter and jelly? You are such a little kid!”

“Part of my charm, don't you think?”

Now my smile was real. “Yep, definitely part of your charm.”

Miles handed me a lime green tee shirt with a Tulane logo on the front and
VOLUNTEER
plastered across the front and back. “We should hit the road.”

I shrugged the tee over my tank and pointed down the hallway. “Would you please grab the insulated bag and thermos off the kitchen counter? I'll go get my purse.”

I raced up the stairs, reached for my purse, and, in my haste, knocked it over instead, spilling the contents everywhere. Hurrying to collect everything, I found the little bottle of anointing oil. I read the bottle again:
For spiritual strength, dab forehead and temples.
What could it hurt? I dabbed my forehead and temples, inhaled deeply and put the bottle on top of the dresser.

At the top of the stairs, I stopped and took a moment to appreciate how unbelievably handsome Miles was and to wonder what he saw in me.

He turned, looked up at me, and asked, “You okay?”

“Never better.”

“Nice perfume,” he said, opening the Jeep's door for me.

“Ummm, thanks.”

Miles guided the Jeep slowly through the French Quarter to avoid spooking the mule-drawn carriages filled with tourists.

Miles began again, “Jackson Square was named after . . .”

“Please! Enough already with the tour guide routine! I'm on information overload,” I faux-complained, putting my hands over my ears.

“You mean I can impress you no further with my vast knowledge of our beloved history? I am wounded to the core,” said Miles, doing his best Rhett Butler.

“Okay, then, tell me about yourself,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“My dad and I moved around a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because we just did. That's why.”

“You must have loads of friends all over the place. Anyone special?”

“No, no friends. Nobody special. Too many schools. No interest in getting involved.”

“Okay, then, what does your dad do?”

“Miles, can we talk about something else? Maybe you can give me another history lesson?”

“Okay, my mysterious maiden, we'll do it your way. How about I throw out some random facts that you could use at parties or when a conversation lags?”

I nodded. “Sure, why not?”

“Did you know that New Orleans was the first Confederate city to be captured by the Union and was occupied the longest by the Yankees during the Civil War?”

“I did not know that.”

“Did you know that in 1791, the first two West African slave ships to arrive in the United States landed at the Port of New Orleans?”

“I did not know that either. Should I be taking notes?” I asked.

“Okay, here's a really creepy one for your next Halloween party or Girl Scout campfire. Did you know that the small crypts that fill some of the walls in New Orleans's oldest cemeteries worked like ovens because of the heat and the humidity? That the vault interior heat accelerated the decomposition of bodies and created a process of slow cremation?”

Aghast, I stared at Miles. “Seriously? A weirdly disturbing factoid like that would certainly be an ice-breaker! I must say, this is quite the educational first date we're having.”

“Date?” said Miles lightly. “Let's just call this hanging out together. If by the end of today, you're still interested, we'll talk about a real first date . . . You will still be interested, won't you?”

“I'll think about it.”

“Of course, take all the time you need, as long as the answer is
yes
.”

“Yes!” I laughed. “Tell me about the work you volunteered me for today.”

“There are a number of humanitarian organizations that worked, and are still working, to restore the Ninth Ward. Habitat for Humanity and Make It Right are just two of them. Harry Connick Jr. and Branford Marsalis worked with Habitat for Humanity to build a new village and beautiful park for the displaced musicians of New Orleans. We're going to drive right by it.”

“Marsalis. He's a musician, right?”

“Yes, he is, so is his father and his three brothers. Brad Pitt—you may have heard of him—established the Make It Right Foundation in 2007. His commitment not only helped the community, but the environment as well. Everything has been built as ‘green' as humanly possible. There's a lot of innovative stuff happening here. For an aspiring—and might I add, handsome—architect, I've had the opportunity to work with cutting edge design and construction techniques. It's been a phenomenal experience for me.”

“That's great! How nice for you that you can pursue something you enjoy and obviously have a talent for.” I waited a beat, then eased into the next subject, “Miles, is there anything more you can tell me about Voodoo? I'm really curious about it and was thinking I might want to go to a real Voodoo ceremony.”

“You want to do what? Go to a Voodoo ceremony?
Why?
” asked Miles, bewildered. “It's not something you can just go to, like a concert or something. You have to be invited by someone in the inner circle, a devotee. Clearly, I'm
not
that guy.”

Miles's face clouded as we drove through the impoverished neighborhood in an uncomfortable silence. I chewed on my bottom lip while I processed what to say next.

“Um, I'm sorry, Miles. I promise I won't ever ask you again about Voodoo . . . Is this the part where I should drop in one of those random factoids you gave me because our conversation is lagging?” I tried to make light of the situation.

Miles shook his head and sighed. “You are a handful, Miss April, no doubt about it.”

He slowed the Jeep in front of the construction site. I was surprised to see we were just down the block from Angel's house, angered to see that parked at the curb in front of Angel's house was Kate's cherry-red Mini Cooper.

What's she doing here? Obviously, she doesn't trust me. She's spying on me.

I opened the Jeep door and jumped out, ready for a fight.

Before another angry thought could cross my mind, Angel, with Gumbo at her heels, ran towards me.

“You came! You came!” Angel skidded to a halt in front of me. “Your Auntie's already here,” she said, leading me down the cracked, uneven sidewalk. Angel looked back at Miles. “Well, don't just stand there!”

Miles pointed to the construction site, started to speak, but changed his mind and caught up with us. Gumbo galloped ahead and beat us up the porch stairs. Kate, surprised to see us, rose too quickly, splashing her skirt with tea.

“What are you doing here?” Kate and I asked simultaneously.

“I left my belt here yesterday. I brought this for Gumbo,” replied Kate, dangling a new leash in front of me.

I narrowed my eyes. “You mean you're not here to check up on me?”

“What? You can't be serious. How on earth would I even know you'd be here? You never told me where you two were going, remember?”

Angel tapped Miles on the arm, whispered, “Are they always like this?”

“Don't know,” said Miles, leaning against the railing to watch the show.

A loud crack caught everyone's attention. We watched in horror as Miles was propelled backwards into the yard, arms and legs whirling like helicopter blades, scattering broken railing pieces far and wide over the dirt. Miles landed with a horrendous thump.

“My Lord!” shouted Angel's mother. “You all right?”

Gumbo howled at the commotion as we scrambled from the porch to help Miles. He rose gingerly, avoiding a plethora of rusty nails.

“Take my hand. It's my turn to rescue you,” I said, helping Miles to his feet. “Are you hurt?”

“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?” asked Kate, eyeing the debris.

“I'm good. Not hurt. Recent tetanus shot. Mandatory for construction work.” Miles dusted himself off.

I circled him, looking for wounds.
Nice butt
, I thought.

Angel held Gumbo by his collar to keep him out of the rubble. Kate tossed her the leash. “Use this,” she said.