Chapter Twelve

twelve

IT WAS NOON WHEN JEMMA woke the next day. The dried tears caking her face were no surprise. But the shallow bowl of gardenias on the nightstand was, the flowers floating on an inch of water, their fragrance filling the entire room. She tried to sit up, but her head reeled.

Laurence was her brother, not a cousin.

They had the same mother, this Inès who'd brought death and destruction down on all their heads.

Had she known, when she cursed all the Duchons, what she was doing, that she'd cursed her own children in her anger?

And why had she done it? That was the question. Perhaps, Jemma thought, if she started there, with the why of it, she'd get to the solution.

Their mother was dead. And their fathers, too. But Jemma shook her head at the thought. For all she knew, her father was alive, and maybe Laurence's as well. Honorine had lied to her about so much. All the family had, with straight faces and without a hint of guilt.

If it hadn't been for the deaths, Jemma might think the whole thing was a game.

Despite the warm October air suffusing the room, a chill washed over her, goose bumps springing along her arms.

As she slowly rose out of bed, she spotted a covered tray on the bench. Lifting the lid, she found a cold breakfast of croissants, grits, bacon and eggs. She gobbled it all down, including the chilled café au lait.

She peeked out the door before going to the bathroom, and she made quick work of washing up and getting dressed, slipping into her one pair of dungarees. She knotted a scarf around her hair and placed only her identification, her five dollars and the two checks in her pocket, although she couldn't explain why she did that and left her suitcase. She told herself she didn't want to arouse anyone's suspicion. If they asked, she'd say she was going for a walk along the grounds. Was she really going to run, without any clothes except the ones on her back? Was she going to leave her brother, with no explanation or goodbye? She shook her head. She hadn't even known Laurence was her brother before last night. They had no connection, except for the same mother, who sounded as mad as the rest of her family.

Jemma stopped short at the bottom of the stairs. Honorine had just entered the foyer from the dining room.

"You look well rested, despite the night's events."

"Is that what it was to you?" Jemma asked. "Nothing more than a night's events? I guess it's normal around here not to sleep at night but instead to find out that your cousin is actually your brother, that he's having relations with a cousin, that your family gave you away because you're darker than a piece of bread." A laugh that sounded nothing like hers escaped her lips. Wrapped within it was loathing, but also a small slice of satisfaction at knowing something Honorine didn't know.

If her words bothered the other woman, her grandmother didn't show it. "Are you going somewhere? You have work to do."

"I need some air right now."

Without waiting for a response, Jemma walked out the front door, and leaned against it after shutting it behind her. Not wanting a repeat of the last time she'd walked out the front gates, she hurried, not chancing a glance behind her. There was no Dennis working on the front lawn today, no one to stop her in conversation.

She touched the front gates, her eyes closed. She could do this. She could leave. Forever.

We are all you have. One of the few true things Honorine had said.

We owe you the truth, Carl Barker had told her, shattering Jemma's illusion of being his and Mama's natural child.

For the past thirteen years, she'd wondered about her real family, had hungered for them with a greed born out of Daddy's unkindness and Mama's impotence. Friendly faces had swum forward in dreams, dark eyes shining, brown skin glowing. Not once had Jemma dreamed of a family that looked like the Duchons. Of a brother that shared nothing with her besides their mother's blood.

If Laurence wasn't able to pass as one of us, we'd be reminded of that every day.

Of all the things Honorine had said to Jemma since her arrival, that was the most painful. And despite her grandmother's promise to give her what she wanted—her family history, a place—Jemma didn't see how she could stay.

A sound behind her made her turn her head. Her grandmother stood on the porch.

Jemma knew the woman wouldn't give chase, but the sight of her so near pushed her through the gates. With each tentative step down the lane, farther and farther away from the house, a lightness rose in her, full enough to lift her off her feet.

Glaring back at Honorine, who wore no sign of envy and just the faintest trace of astonishment, Jemma raised her fists to the sky.

"I'm free!" she screamed. "Free!"

And ran.

—

THE BUS SPIT JEMMA OUT at the edge of the French Quarter.

It was well past lunchtime, but delicious smells wafted everywhere, mixing with the people smells of perfume and perspiration. Riding along that was the scent of the river, strong as a current. Sweet and tangy, musky and marshy.

Jemma stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, greedily taking in the scenery. It was her first day here all over again, except the fashions had slightly changed. More navy blues and grays bobbed about, but the material was still light enough for the summertime climate. People passed by distressed open shutters, many of them in need of a fresh coat of blue or green paint. Ivy trailed down wrought iron railings, drifting from second floor galleries.

The music of horns flowed out of an open doorway, the sax low and sultry, out of place in broad daylight. That song was for evenings spent in dimly lit rooms before a hand pulled the cord under a tasseled lampshade and caressed a waiting body.

It wasn't until a white couple passed her, the man bumping her shoulder and telling her to get off the sidewalk, that Jemma's spell broke.

Ahead of her was a shoeshine stand, the Black owner collecting money from a departing customer. Jemma approached and asked for directions to Tremé.

"Head that way to Rampart, baby, and you'll run right into it."

She started off, then remembered the checks in her pocket. Pulling one out, she asked, "Can you tell me where First Citizens Bank is?"

"It's a few blocks from here, but you can't go in there. It's just for white folks."

"Where can I get a check cashed, then?"

"Try Cajun Mamou's on St. Philip."

Jemma thanked him and followed his directions, wondering what Cajun Mamou's was. She'd been employed by the Duchons for over a month, which meant she was owed over a thousand dollars at this point. She'd agreed to have her future pay deposited into an account at Honorine's bank, and it turned out she couldn't go inside. She frowned, wondering if she even had an account there, if her grandmother was actually paying her. Although Jemma had left the house with no firm plans in place, she had planned to cash her checks and withdraw any additional money from the bank. But with six hundred dollars in hand, she wouldn't have to make an immediate decision on whether to stay or go.

Snatches of conversation alerted her to the change of environment. White faces had been replaced with Black ones.

"…couldn't cool off nowhere 'cause Schiro closed the pools instead of letting us in. So nobody could swim, colored or white."

"What was you expecting? He was already mad about having to let us in the schools."

Despite the heat, Jemma grew more comfortable. The scenery differed from Chicago's, but the people reminded her of home. A woman rocking on her porch, silver hair arranged into short plaits, smiled as she passed. Lolling on the side of the dirt-packed road was a yellow dog, teats heavy with milk, and a group of babbling schoolchildren swinging book straps swarmed around her, only to melt into a single unit once they were past.

Cajun Mamou's store, painted a jarring shade of purple, was a hodgepodge of voodoo decor and five-and-dime merchandise. The freckle-faced owner, whose red hair was as diverse in texture as Jemma's wilted rag curls, took one look at the checks and dropped them on the rough wooden counter, refusing even to push them back across.

"Can't cash 'em here. Not those," she said, not meeting Jemma's eye.

Jemma raised her voice to be heard over the rusty fan whirring in the window. "They said you cash checks."

The woman shook her head. "Not with that name on 'em. And you ain't gonna find nobody here that's gonna do it, either."

She then called on the next customer, ignoring Jemma completely until she had no choice but to leave. Checks stuffed in her pocket, she weaved her way around tables crowded with crucifixes and rosaries, bowls full of small bones and tiny bags in various rich colors. Next to all that, the matchbooks and packets of Goody's headache powder looked out of place.

Deflation clapped Jemma on both shoulders as she stepped outside. She wasn't six hundred dollars richer, as she'd expected to be. Refusing to accept defeat, she walked until she recognized her surroundings. Glancing down an alley to her right, she spotted a café with a row of dolls in the window.

Lulu's.

She wasn't particularly hungry, but she could sit, get her bearings and maybe figure something out besides returning to that house. Soft chatter and clinking silverware greeted Jemma, so comforting in their ordinariness that tears stung her eyes. She wiped her face as she took a seat at a small table near a window.

"What can I get you, baby?"

She looked up into Lulu's eyes, and before she could wonder if the woman remembered her, Jemma reminded herself that dozens of people passed through the café every day. If she looked familiar to Lulu, it wouldn't be any more so than another customer.

"I remember you," Lulu said, without a hint of disquiet. "You work for the Duchons."

Jemma nodded once at the simple declaration, which only touched on her true relationship with the family, as if with a bony finger.

"You all right? You look like you been through it."

"Had a long walk is all. I could use a cool drink."

"How 'bout some tea with ice?"

When Lulu returned with the glass of tea, jagged ice already smoothing away under the warmth, Jemma ran it across her forehead before taking a sip of the unsweetened beverage.

The woman cocked her head. "I wondered how you was getting along. I don't know a single soul been out to that property in years, not since Celestina. When you came here before and told me you had a job with them, I thought maybe it was a mistake. But Charlie told us he took you all the way out there, talking 'bout somebody had a child."

Jemma didn't know how to respond, but Lulu seemed to be waiting for something from her.

"I'm all right."

"Yeah? 'Cause folks say some strange things about that place." When Jemma didn't take the hint, Lulu went on, placing both hands flat on the table and leaning in. "What they like?"

A straightforward question—with no simple answer, but Lulu didn't appear ready to go until Jemma fed her something.

"They are strange." This is your family you're talking about. "They keep to themselves."

"That's what I heard, but why? Did they really all grow ugly and deformed?"

"What?" A short laugh bubbled up. "No, they're not ugly at all."

Of course. The Duchons were at the mercy of gossip and lies, unable to appear and defend themselves. As she finished the tea, Jemma's mind cleared away fuzzy cobwebs of stress and heat exhaustion. Lulu had said something…

Not since Celestina.

"Who's Celestina?"

"Conjure woman. She went out to the Duchons' long time ago 'cause they had some kind of trouble. When she came back, she wouldn't see nobody for 'bout a week, just shut herself in. We thought she caught what they had. She finally came out, but never said much 'bout what she saw, only that something didn't rest easy in that house."

"Where does she live?" Jemma set a dime on the table, halfway out of her seat, ready to find this Celestina, the only person she was aware of who'd seen her family outside of the parish priest. But at Lulu's next words, she dropped back down.

"St. Louis Cemetery Number Two. She died 'bout ten years back." The woman looked at Jemma closely. "Something's troubling you, baby."

Jemma nearly laughed aloud. Something, she wanted to say. How about everything?

Glancing around at the other patrons, Jemma noticed how easy most of them appeared. Even Lulu. They didn't have the pinched expression she must wear most of the time.

"I feel strange here. Unwelcome," Jemma said. "Maybe because I'm not from here and not used to how things are done."

"Oh, New Orleans is a different kind of place, chère ," Lulu agreed. "Probably got more spirits than live people."

Jemma gave her a sharp glance. "Spirits?"

"This city is full of them." Instead of looking scared at the thought, Lulu smiled.

"You believe in ghosts?"

Lulu gave Jemma an odd look. "Who don't?"

"You ever see any?" Jemma didn't know how Lulu would take the question, but the woman only smiled more widely.

"No, chère , I don't see them. But all the same, I know they're around. People draw them, you see. Some more than others. Some got more of a light, and one thing about spirits, they love that light."

"They do?"

Lulu's gaze was keen. "You mighty interested in the dead."

Jemma shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "I've always been curious about ghosts, why they stay here instead of moving on."

"They got different reasons, I expect. Same as people got different reasons for doing what they do. Some died bad and can't move on. Others don't know they're dead. They keep doing the same thing over and over, maybe even dying over and over, but they don't know they're doing the same thing 'cause they don't have a good sense of time. Most of them don't mean no harm, though. They just want somebody to talk to."

"Talk to?"

"Yeah, just like us. But since most people can't see them, they get lonely. Probably bored. So when somebody comes along who can see them, they get excited. They try to get that person's attention any way they can."

As if bringing Lulu's words to life, a boy appeared.

He looked to be about six years old, with short, tightly curled hair hugging his head. He stood next to Lulu, who was clearly unaware of his presence. A small hand slipped around the woman's arm.

Five…four…

He grinned at Jemma.

No. No, go away!

She jumped up, knocking over her chair, ignoring Lulu's cries, the stares that followed her as she rushed out, the little boy who hadn't moved on. As Jemma staggered down the street, Magdalene's voice rode over the sounds of passing cars, barking dogs and mundane conversations.

It looks like you got something in common with your mama that can maybe help you. Instead of running scared, why not look at it as some kind of gift?

Seeing spirits was no gift. It was a curse. Hadn't Mama and Daddy told her that her entire life?

Jemma stopped, a chill covering her body despite its being slick with sweat. Mama and Daddy weren't her real family. Like the Duchons, she was bound by a death curse, but she was also cursed with seeing things that other people didn't. Yet it was something she shared with her mother. A link.

Laurence was another link, a tie to Inès.

Pressing her forehead against a lamppost, she shut her eyes, remembering that she was nearly broke, two useless pieces of paper in her pocket. She could call Betty, see if her friend would send her money for a bus ticket, although she wouldn't return to Chicago. But it didn't matter where Jemma went—the ghosts would follow.

Running is easy, until it ain't. How many times have you run from something?

All the running in the world wouldn't get her away. For now, there was only one place she could go.