Dollbaby: A Novel (5 page)

T
he cane-seat stool squeaked across the linoleum floor as Ibby pulled it toward the kitchen table. Queenie was up at the sink humming to herself, her sturdy legs, with the stockings rolled down to just below her fat knees, swaying beneath her gray uniform. From the back, her head looked like a bowling ball, save for the tiny bun the size of a quarter set squarely in the middle of it.

The counter where Queenie was working was cluttered with tins of flour and sugar, a grease-filled coffee can, a ceramic container full of spoons and whisks, a cookie jar, a bread box, several wooden cutting boards stacked against each other, and a small transistor radio. She glided back and forth across the counter like a trolley on wheels—cutting, dicing, rinsing; pulling things from the shelves; stirring the big pot on the heavy relic of a stove; checking the oven and intermittently dabbing her forehead with a dish towel.

“Queenie?” Ibby asked after a while.

“Yes, baby?” Queenie answered without turning around.

“My grandma—is she going to be all right?”

Queenie tapped the spoon on the side of the pot, wiped her hands on her apron, then glanced over her shoulder and gave Ibby a motherly look. “Miss Fannie been mighty worked up ever since she got the news that Graham passed. And that urn you just set on the table in front of
her about did her in. Doll took her into the bedroom for a little rest. She’ll be just fine. Just give her some time.”

Queenie must have noticed the sweat running down the side of Ibby’s face. She took a rag from the drawer and ran it under the faucet.

“Hold this up against your cheek. It’ll cool you off. Ain’t no air conditioning in this old house. You’ll get used to it after a while.” Queenie grabbed a bottle from the icebox and tapped the metal top on the edge of the blue Formica counter until it popped off. She stuck a straw into the bottle and handed it to Ibby. “Here, drink this. Maybe something cool will help.”

Ibby couldn’t decide if she liked the almond soda, called Dr. Nut, but it was cold, and that was all that mattered. She glanced out the back window, where, beyond the reach of the tall pecan tree, several sets of sheets flapped from a clothesline. Just off the back of the house was a screened porch with a picnic table. Above the table, six or eight plastic bags filled with water dangled from the rafters, glistening in the sun like uncut diamonds. Queenie saw her staring at them.

“Those called penny bags. Each of them got a brand-new penny on the bottom. The light reflecting off the penny supposed to confuse the flies, so they don’t come around and bother the food, although every time I see a fly, they confused enough already. Know what I mean?” Queenie chuckled.

The smell from the cast-iron pot filled the air.

“What are you cooking?” Ibby asked.

“This here’s redfish courtbouillon.” The word came out of Queenie’s mouth sounding like
koo-bee-yon
. “Kind a like a fish stew. It got to cook a good while, know itself first, before it be done. Just waiting on the redfish that Mr. Pierce the fish man gone bring by the house later.” She began dicing up some vegetables and tossing them into a bowl. When she finished, she tilted the bowl so Ibby could see what was inside. “This here is the Holy Trinity. Onion, celery, and
poivron
, or what some folks call bell pepper. Along with a touch of garlic and a smidgen of cayenne pepper, the Holy Trinity goes into just about
everything I cook. Can’t use too much pepper, though. Miss Fannie gets indigestion, and believe you me, you don’t want to be around when that happens.” She tossed the contents of the bowl into the pot, stirred it a few more times, then put the lid on.

Doll came into the kitchen and tugged at her hair. Ibby was aghast when Doll pulled it completely off her head.

“Miss Ibby, you gone catch one of them flies in that mouth if you don’t close it,” Queenie said.

Doll laughed when she saw the look on Ibby’s face. “You thought that was my real hair? No, baby, just a wig.” Doll tossed the hairpiece onto the counter by the back window.

“How’s Miss Fannie? Should we call the doctor?” Queenie asked.

“She got a mighty fine bump on her head, but she’ll be all right.”

“You sure we don’t need to call the doctor?”

“No, Mama, she just needs a little rest, that’s all.” Doll sat on a stool near the back window and stared out into the backyard.

Ibby could tell something was on her mind.

Queenie placed a bowl in front of Ibby. “Go on, eat up, baby. You must be hungry after your trip.”

Ibby poked at the white blob in the bowl with the spoon. “What is it?”

“Taste it first, then I’ll tell you,” Queenie said.

Ibby didn’t like that answer. That was the kind of answer her mother used to give her when she was trying to get her to eat cauliflower, and the one thing she hated more than anything was cauliflower. She gingerly pinched off a minuscule portion and examined it before letting the tip of her tongue linger on the spoon, trying to decide if it was to her liking. To her surprise, the stuff was pleasantly sweet. She noticed Queenie watching her.

“You never had clabber before, I can tell,” Queenie said.

Ibby shook her head. “What is clabber, exactly?”

“You let the milk sit out for a day or two until it sours and the top part congeals. I sprinkled a little nutmeg and cinnamon on top to give it some punch.”

Ibby pushed her empty bowl away. “Glad you didn’t tell me what it was before I ate it.”

“Doll here tells me you like music,” Queenie said. “What kind you like?”

“Moody Blues,” Ibby said.

“Blues? We got plenty of blues in New Orleans,” Queenie said.

Doll gave a little laugh. “No, Mama, The Moody Blues, they a new band from England.”

“England? You don’t need no band from England when we got the likes of Allen Toussaint, Dr. John, and Irma Thomas right here. Ain’t that so, Doll?”

“I guess.” Doll shrugged.

“Girl, what’s wrong with you this morning?” Queenie waved the dishrag in Doll’s direction. “You love Miss Irma.”

Doll began plucking at her hairpiece as if she had a vendetta against it.

“I think maybe Doll’s upset that I’m here,” Ibby interjected.

“Now, Miss Ibby,” Doll said. “Where’d you get such an idea?”

“Because I know Fannie didn’t invite me to visit. My mama just dropped me off here because she didn’t have anywhere else for me to go.”

“You take that sorry look off your face and listen to me, little girl,” Queenie said as she pulled up a chair and sat next to Ibby. “Miss Fannie, she was beside herself when she found out you were coming.”

Ibby shook her head. “Fannie doesn’t
seem
to be very happy that I’m here.”

“That’s just Miss Fannie.” Queenie reached over and grabbed a brown egg from the counter, then placed it on the table in front of Ibby. She gave it a slight twirl. “Look at it this way. Your grandmother, she’s kind a like this here egg. If the egg wobbles, means it’s raw, so I throw it into the batter and make a cake. If it spins kind of even, like this one here, means it’s cooked, so I make egg salad instead.”

“Maybe you should get a cracked egg, Mama. Be more to the point,” Doll quipped.

Queenie glared at Doll. “Point is, you got to know whether the egg is cooked or raw before you know what to do with it.”

“Was she always like that egg?” Ibby asked.

Queenie got up and went over to the counter. “No, Miss Ibby. She didn’t start out that way. She start out fresh and new, like we all do. Did you see that big tree out in the front yard?”

“Yeah,” Ibby said. “Why?”

“Well, you see how big the trunk is and how those limbs kind of fall down all over the place? That tree didn’t start out that big. It grew over the years until it got so tall that it start to lean. Sometimes we got to prop it back up so it don’t topple over. Same as we do with Miss Fannie.” She put her hand on her back and winced.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” Doll asked.

“Got ninety-five-year-old legs on a sixty-year-old body,” Queenie said as she leaned back against the counter and nodded over at Ibby. “See what I’m telling you? Kind of like that tree in the front yard. My legs, they just don’t want to hold me up no more.”

“Now your mama,
she
another story,” Doll said to Ibby. “Put Miss Fannie and Miss Vidrine in the same room, be hard to tell which one come out standing.”

Queenie frowned at Doll. “Now why’d you go and bring that up? Miss Fannie wouldn’t like it if she knew we were talking about her. It ain’t our place.”

“Okay then, if you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to ask her myself,” Ibby said.

Queenie and Doll looked at each other.

“No, baby, don’t do that.” Queenie sat down at the table next to Ibby. She pointed a finger. “Rule Number One in this house. Don’t
ever
go asking Miss Fannie about her past. Gets her all emotional. Rule Number Two. She starts talking about her past, let her talk but don’t
go asking no questions. Rule Number Three. You see her hand start twitching, you better change the subject or she gone have one of her spells. Rule Number Four. You got something you want to know, you come ask one of us.”

“But you said it wasn’t your place to say anything,” Ibby said.

“You did just say that, Mama,” Doll added.

“So I changed my mind. Just remember them rules, and we won’t have no trouble.”

“Then tell me. Why do they hate each other?” Ibby said.

“All right, I’ll tell you what I know, but don’t
never
let on to Miss Fannie that I said nothing. That’s Rule Number Six.”

“That’s Rule Number Five, Mama. There ain’t no Rule Number Six,” Doll said.

“Doll, shut your mouth. Miss Ibby knows what I’m getting at.”

Doll rolled her eyes. “Maybe Rule Number Six should be, don’t argue with Mama.”

“That’s an unwritten rule. Don’t need no number.” Queenie paused for a moment. “You want to know about your mama and your daddy? I’ll tell you. Miss Fannie had Mr. Graham’s life all planned out for him. She figured as soon as he finished law school at Tulane, he’d take a job in town, get married, and move into this here house and start a family. Miss Fannie always wanted this house to be full of life, full of children running around. That all changed the night Mr. Graham went out with some of his law school buddies over to a restaurant on Carrollton Avenue, where he met a waitress named Vidrine Crump. Miss Fannie thought it was just a passing crush. There were plenty of other girls chasing after Mr. Graham. But somehow Miss Vidrine caught his eye. She weren’t the kind of girl . . .” Queenie cast her eyes down.

“Not the kind of girl Mr. Graham was used to going with. That’s what Mama’s trying to say,” Doll interjected.

Queenie narrowed her eyes at Doll before turning back to Ibby. “Fannie weren’t too happy about Mr. Graham seeing Miss Vidrine,
and she made her feelings known. She wanted Mr. Graham to marry someone, someone—”

“Someone better,” Doll chimed in. “Miss Fannie used to call her that good-for-nothing, big-busted, loudmouthed redneck from Dry Prong, Mississippi. Remember?”

Queenie pinched up her face. “Girl, hush your mouth. That’s her mama we talking about.” She put her hands on her knees and let out a big sigh. “Your daddy, he comes home one day and announces that he gone marry Miss Vidrine whether Miss Fannie likes it or not. Miss Fannie told Mr. Graham that if he did that, he weren’t to step foot in this house again. So what does Mr. Graham do? He elopes with your mama. Now, whose idea it was to move so far away? I think that was your mama’s doing on account I think your daddy loved living here, thorns and all. Been a good twelve years, and Miss Fannie ain’t seen Mr. Graham since. Miss Fannie didn’t even know she had a grandbaby until your daddy broke down and sent a picture few years back.”

All three looked up when the screened door off the back porch creaked open and a dark-skinned man dressed in overalls and a white T-shirt came into the kitchen. He took off his hat, scrunched it up in his weathered hands.

He nodded his gray head toward the ladies. “How do, Queenie? How do, Doll?”

“How do, Mr. Pierce,” Queenie said as she pushed herself away from the table.