Dollbaby: A Novel (10 page)

I
bby changed her clothes and came back down to find a dozen women dressed in maids’ uniforms buzzing around the picnic table on the back porch. Queenie was out there with them, standing off to the side, waving her hands around like a referee. Doll was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms across her chest, watching them.

“Who are all those people?” Ibby asked.

Doll twisted her mouth to the side. “You know that newspaper Miss Fannie was looking at this morning? Sometimes she spends all day with her nose stuck in that paper, figuring the odds, working the numbers. This afternoon she’ll be in her favorite chair in the front room, glued to the TV, just to make sure her team won.”

“I don’t understand.”

“See all those women out there shoving their way toward the picnic table? Their employers wouldn’t be caught dead coming down here themselves. The women who live in these big old houses on Prytania Street send their maids down here a couple of times a week just to place their bets with Mr. Henry.” Doll pointed to the only man on the porch, who was busy scribbling on a notepad. “Mr. Henry works for Mr. Salvatore, who owns the little grocery over there on Garfield Street. Besides delivering the groceries, Mr. Henry brings line sheets
with him every day so all the women in the neighborhood can place their bets. He’s kind a like a bookie.”

“Is that bad?” Ibby asked.

“No, baby. That’s a good thing, especially where Miss Fannie is concerned. You see, Miss Fannie, she’s got a good track record, she do her homework, knows what to bet on. She made a lot a money that way. People found out. Started coming around, asking Miss Fannie for advice.”

“What do they bet on?”

“Lawd, child, all sorts of things. Horses. Dogs. Football. Who’s gone win the next election. When the first hurricane’s gone hit. Right now, they betting on horses, baseball, Wimbledon, the Olympic trials, and a few golf tournaments. Your grandmother, she can recite the odds right off the top of her head. So almost every morning, the second Mr. Henry shows up in our driveway on his red bicycle, it’s like a stampede to the back door. That’s why Miss Fannie jumped up and got dressed so quick-like. She knew what was coming.”

Ibby pointed at the mob of women. “Fannie’s out
there
?”

“Sure is. Smack dab in the middle, settin’ at the picnic table yelling out her picks to Mr. Henry. It’s a little game she like to play.” Doll shook her head.

“Baltimore over New York, three to one,” Fannie said.

“What she say?” one of the women asked.

“Philly,” another one answered.

“No, Baltimore,” another said.

“Miss Fannie won’t write her picks down for nobody but Mr. Henry, so he don’t get confused,” Doll went on. “But the women, they have to listen close, see if they can figure out what she telling Mr. Henry. They get it wrong half the time, but still, they do pretty good.”

Fannie let the women argue among themselves before she threw out another bet. “Emerson over Stolle, three sets to one in the finals.”

“Who?” one of the women asked.

“Shhhh. I can’t hear if you keep talking, Millie,” another said.

Doll shook her head. “The ladies of the house, they happy with the extra money they make off betting, helps buy them pretty dresses or that extra pair of shoes they been wanting but their husbands won’t pay for. And all those women out there in those maid uniforms? They like it ’cause they make a few extra bucks each week on account they get to place their own bets when they come. Makes everybody happy.”

Ibby and Doll watched the women bickering with one another. Poor Mr. Henry was scribbling down what Fannie told him, but every once in a while, even he had to look up and ask her to repeat the bet.

“What was that you say?” Mr. Henry squinted.

“Broncos to pick up Billy Lott from the Patriots.”

Mr. Henry nodded and scribbled some more.

Doll sighed. “Miss Fannie has made a pretty penny on her picks. Everyone knows about it. Shucks, a few days, we even get the police coming around, asking Miss Fannie for tips. Used to scare the living daylights out of me when them blue uniforms would show up and knock on the door, but now I’m used to it. Most a the time, anyhow.”

Money was being shoved at Mr. Henry from all directions. He’d look around, trying to see who was doing the shoving, and each time he did, his head hit one of the plastic penny bags hanging from the rafters. It kept swinging around and hitting him in the face no matter how many times he swatted it away. Grab the money, swat, grab the money, swat the bag again. Ibby stifled a giggle.

Finally, Mr. Henry put his hand up in the air. “Please, ladies, one at a time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Doll pointed out toward the porch. “Like flies on flypaper whenever Mr. Henry comes by. Got some mighty big flies out there, too.” Doll chuckled. “Now come on. I’m supposed to take you over to Mrs. Friedrichs’s house so you can play with her girl.”

As they started down the sidewalk, Ibby asked, “How far is the Friedrichses’ house?”

“Just up the block,” Doll said, walking slowly, as if she were in no hurry to get there.

“You been working for my grandma a long time?” Ibby asked as they strolled along.

“Started coming by to do the ironing when I was about your age. Had to quit school. Mama said I didn’t need no more schooling anyway. Said all I needed was right there in that house.” Doll shook her head.

Ibby sensed regret in her voice.

“How long has Queenie been with Fannie?” Ibby asked.

Doll stopped and picked a flower from an azalea bush, studied it, then tossed it over the fence of the house they were standing in front of. “Long time, baby. She came with the house.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know, like the furniture, the rugs, the silver. It all came with the house.”

“And how long ago was that?” Ibby asked.

“The way Mama tells it, an old widow lady by the name of Miss Althea lived in that house before Miss Fannie. Miss Althea lost her husband when she was young. Never had any children. So when she died, the house went up for sale, lock, stock, and barrel. Mr. Norwood bought it for Miss Fannie right after they married. That first day when Miss Fannie and Mr. Norwood moved in, with nothing more than one little suitcase apiece, my mama was standing in the dining room like she did every morning. Mama say she remembers that day as if it were yesterday.”

The new owners of the house had just arrived. Queenie could hear the man talking in the hall as she stood nervously beside the dining room chair where she had waited for instructions from Miss Althea every day for the past fifteen years. Queenie brushed off her uniform and straightened her starched cap as she peered into the hall, trying to get a glimpse of the young couple.
Gal can’t be no more than eighteen,
Queenie thought.

The woman dropped her suitcase onto the ground. “We’re living here, in this old house?”

“Don’t you like it, Fannie darling?” her husband asked as he took off his hat and fingered it nervously.

“Norwood, it’s just that . . . it’s so big!” she cried. “Aren’t we in a depression? How can we afford it?”

“Sweetie, you don’t need to worry about that,” he said. “I told you when I married you that I’d take good care of you.”

Queenie didn’t quite know what to make of the couple. The young woman was all dolled up, wearing a tight-fitting skirt and a silk blouse that barely hid her ample bosom.

“You’ll get used to it, sugar,” Norwood said as he started up the stairs. “Now come on. Let’s check out the bedroom.” He gave Fannie a quick wink.

Fannie stood in the hall as if trying to decide what to do. Instead of following Norwood, she went into the front parlor and looked around. She tugged on the red velvet curtains, ran her fingers along the white marble fireplace, rubbed the fabric on the settee, then turned and walked into the dining room and began tracing the lines of the dining room table with her fingertips.

“How do, ma’am?” Queenie said when Fannie got to the end of the table, where she was standing.

Fannie jumped back. “Who are you?”

Queenie stood calmly, trying to hide her apprehension despite the tiny specks of sweat that had formed on her forehead. It was clear this young woman was nothing like old Miss Althea, a very proper lady full of manners and grace. This new woman was so rough around the edges that Queenie thought it might be in her best interest to find another position. On the other hand, did she really want to go to all that trouble when she already knew the house, the neighborhood, and the weekly routine? She had to make a decision, and she had to make it quickly.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? Get out!” Fannie ordered.

It took Queenie less than a second to figure out that this woman
had never had a maid before. She was going to be a challenge, for sure. Queenie drew in a breath.

“I’m the maid, ma’am. My name’s Saphronia Trout. I comes with the house,” Queenie said, trying to sound as if she belonged.

“I never heard a no maid come with a house before,” Fannie said.

Lawd, listen how she talks.
Working class—Queenie was sure of it now.
And that accent, she ain’t from the city. Probably country folk, the way she draws out her words like they is taking their time getting out of her mouth. But one thing’s for sure. She gone live in this neighborhood, I’m gone have to teach her how to talk proper so she don’t stick out like a sore thumb. Lawd, all I need is for the other help to make fun. Can’t have none a that. Maybe start her on the word of the day in the newspaper, to improve her vocabulary. Gone try to make her more like Miss Althea. Now that lady, she had manners.

“And what kind of highfalutin’ name is Saphro . . . Saphro . . .”

“Saphronia, ma’am,” Queenie interjected.

“What kind of name is that anyway? Just who do you think you are? Queen of the Nile? Huh, Queenie?” Fannie put her hands on her hips. “Now go on home, like I told you.” She gave Queenie a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Yes, ma’am.” Queenie left the dining room, grabbed her pocketbook from the kitchen drawer, and left.

The next morning, Queenie came back. And when Miss Fannie came down the stairs, Queenie was standing in the same spot as she had been the day before, beside the dining room chair.

“Queenie, what the hell you doing here?” Fannie huffed. “I thought I told you to go home and never come back.”

Queenie was afraid to look at her on account she had on a see-through nightie. Instead, she peered at her sideways, trying not to flinch. “What can I get you for breakfast, ma’am?”

“You cook?” Fannie folded her arms across her body, suddenly conscious she was standing there half-naked.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a mighty fine cook, according to Miss Althea.”

“I don’t need no cook,” Fannie said, waving her hand at Queenie. “Now go on home, like I told you.”

For the next week, Queenie came back to that house on Prytania Street every day. And each morning she asked Miss Fannie what she wanted for breakfast. Finally, on the seventh day, Miss Fannie gave Queenie a different answer.

“You know how to make eggs benedict?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Queenie answered.