Finding Someplace (5 page)

“You might as well have a look at your birthday cake,” Miss Martine said, motioning toward the Formica counter.

Reesie popped the tape on the lid of the large white box and lifted a corner. Three layers of coconut-topped goodness were nestled carefully inside. She took a deep sniff and couldn't resist swiping her finger along the edge of the cake. It was hers, wasn't it?

“Mmmm…” She smiled.

“Did you hear from your uncle yet?” Miss Martine was piling fried catfish on top of an open sandwich roll. “On the radio they're saying the mayor has all roads leading in one direction—
out
.”

“Yes, that's what my
parraine
told me!” Reesie raised her voice over the running water as she washed her hands at the sink. “But he's trying to get here another way.”

Miss Martine put the sandwich on her old-fashioned, chrome-edged kitchen table and opened the fridge to take out mayo and mustard. She looked at Reesie over the top of her cat-eye glasses as she sat down.

“I guess this Katrina's going to be more serious than we thought. If he can't get here, you might just have to wait it out with me.”

Reesie bit into her sandwich and thought for a minute while she chewed. “Miss M, would you ever leave New Orleans?”

Miss Martine shrugged and poured lemonade. “I'm too old, don't have anywhere to go. Besides”—she blinked—“the one time I did leave town, things didn't turn out so well.”

Reesie was surprised. For her whole lifetime, Miss Martine had always lived just up the street.

“What storm was it?” she asked, swirling the last bit of her sandwich in a puddle of ketchup. “Was it Camille, the one Daddy always talks about?”

Miss Martine shook her head. “It was a different kind of storm, child. Come on, I have some pictures that will show you what I mean.”

Reesie took her time gulping down the last of her lemonade. She wasn't into looking at pictures of the past—except for clothes. But Ma Maw had always gotten on her for not caring enough about
people
history. She eased her phone out to text Orlando.

FND DRE?

NAH. WRU?

@MS M.
She had never texted Miss Martine's name before today, so she hoped Orlando was using his whole brain.

TM2H!
Too much to handle? What was he talking about? After all his flakiness lately, he had texted to let her know he was evacuating. Then he had come to ask her about Dr
é
. And then that kiss! Why hadn't he explained himself?

Did it mean what she thought it might mean? Ayanna was always talking about kids at school who were “more than friends.” Was that what was happening with Orlando? Reesie really wished that she could talk to him now, live and in person.

She stared at the tiny screen, but she didn't call. And she didn't text, either.
Neither did he,
she told herself, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

“Teresa?” Miss Martine was calling her.

“Coming!” Reesie answered, hurrying up from the table. When she stepped into the shadowy dining room, her feet sank down into the thick shag carpet. She eased around the huge table, bumping into one of the heavy thronelike chairs.

The dining room opened through a curved arch into the living room, where Miss Martine had stopped. Reesie stood in the arch, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

There were books everywhere: piled on top of two faded velvet sofas and balanced on small dark tables. Behind the sofas, tall bookcases stretched up to touch the low ceiling; through their glass doors Reesie saw paperbacks jammed next to expensive-looking leather-bound volumes with gold letters on their spines.

Miss Martine flipped on a fancy brass table lamp, and the space was suddenly glowing. Every inch of the living room's wall space was covered in frames. Reesie gasped and moved closer.

There were yellowed flyers from shows on Bourbon and Rampart Streets, dated sixty years ago. She saw programs from plays at New York's Broadway theaters. There were wild old movie posters and black-and-white photos of people dressed to kill.

“Wow! This is like a museum!” Reesie stopped to read the autograph scrawled across the bottom of one photo.

Teenie, write a song for me sometime! Love, Louis.
Reesie's brain registered the man's round face and wide grin. She spun around.

“Louis Armstrong! You
knew
Louis Armstrong, Miss M?”

“Child, I've known lots of people.”

Reesie turned back to the picture to check out Louis Armstrong standing with his arm around a tall curvy-bodied young woman. She wore her wavy hair parted down the middle and slicked close to her head. Her dress draped low across her chest and flowed into a tight fit at the hips, with a scissor-pleated edge on the skirt. Thrown across her wide shoulders was a plump dark fur that seemed to have both an animal's tail and head attached to it. The woman was smiling wide, and she had dark full lips.

Those lips were the same as Miss Martine's ruby red mouth.

“But this is you!”

“It's me.”

“And you're wearing a killer dress, and a
fur
!”

“Called a stone marten,” Miss Martine said.

“Were you a singer?” Reesie tried to wrap her mind around Miss Martine and this long-ago glamorous life.

“Let's say that I didn't always make cakes. Here.” Miss Martine held out a small red book. Reesie dropped her eyes to the fading silver print on the leather cover.

Woman Everlasting … Poetry and Stories by Martine Odette Simon, 1949
. Reesie looked up at her neighbor in wonder. “Miss M! You're famous!”

 

Chapter Eight

“No, no.” Miss Martine gave Reesie a half smile. “I only wanted to be a writer. But none of my family even finished grade school, and they didn't think much of my trying to be different. I wanted to go to college. When I left that house on South Roman Street, I knew I wouldn't ever go back. I decided to run off to New York.”

“So that was your storm, huh?” Reesie perched on a fluffy velvet stool. “You left home to make your dreams come true.”

Reesie wondered what it would be like if she got the chance to fly all over the world, walk the runways, and see herself and her designs in magazines. That was her dream, but she couldn't quite picture leaving her family behind. She couldn't imagine them not backing her up, either.

“I met other colored writers—black, y'all say now—up there. They were people who treated me like family.…” Miss Martine's voice trailed off, and her eyes became distant.

“And you got a chance to write your book!” Reesie said.

“I got lots of chances.” Miss Martine nodded. “I tried writing for the movies too. Believe it or not, there were black folks making movies back then. The Johnson brothers, and Oscar Micheaux.” Miss Martine paused to laugh at Reesie's blank expression. “He was … uh … the Spike Lee of my day,” she explained. “Oscar liked one of my stories, gave me a piece of money for it. Not much. Then he went and made a movie that wasn't anything like it. I got invited to the opening anyway. That was his last film.”

Movie scenes swirled in Reesie's mind, first visions of the way-out dresses and evening gowns the women in the old black-and-white movies wore, then the fabulous clothes actresses wore on TV awards shows.

“Did you get to walk the red carpet?” She gasped. “Was your dress custom designed? Oh, oh! And did you wear that—that fur from your picture—what was it? A rock martin?”

Miss Martine laughed out loud and then looked thoughtfully at Reesie, pulling on her cat-eye glasses as if she wanted to get a good look for the first time.

Reesie froze, afraid she'd somehow said the wrong thing.

“A stone marten. And we seem to be going on and on about
me
,” Miss Martine finally said. “Tell me about what
you
do.”

“What? I just go to school and stuff.”

“What is
stuff
? I don't believe at all that you keep your head on your studies every single minute. You are too lively for that!”

Reesie didn't know how to answer. Miss Martine was somebody who'd been famous and had hung out with stars. Surely, she wouldn't care about an almost-teenager's dream to be a fashion designer! Reesie nervously fingered the edge of her baby-doll shirt.

“Did you make that?” Miss Martine asked. And she didn't ask it like it was impossible, the way some of the kids or teachers at school did.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Miss Martine came around and gently examined Reesie's flat-felled shoulder seam, and the lace pieces she had sewn around the neckline.

“Appliqu
é
!” Miss Martine murmured. “Child, you're good! Very good.”

“Thanks,” Reesie said proudly. “My Ma Maw taught me how to do it. Miss M—” A question burned at the back of Reesie's mind. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” Reesie hoped she wouldn't bring back bad memories; still, she had to
know
.

“Not at all,” Miss Martine said, folding her arms across her chest. “It's been good talking about the past.”

“Well … I guess I don't get how you—I mean anybody—could give up something you wanted so much! How could you give up writing? All that fame and everything?” Her voice faltered.

Miss Martine didn't react with anger. In fact, she looked a little sad.

“Oh, child. I wasn't ever famous! And anyhow, do you think this country was ready for anybody colored—trying to make a living off words—to be famous? I wrote my heart out. Yes, and got one book published. Never made much money off any of it. I stayed up North for a while, waiting for something big to happen. I went overseas after the war, where lots of colored artists and writers had done better. Wrote some more poetry and a few stories. Ran out of money, though. I ended up writing for love, and cooking for a living.”

Reesie thought of Orlando for some crazy reason. She blushed and pushed him out of her mind.

Miss Martine seemed to pick up on it. “I don't mean a man, either! I mean, writing was what I wanted to do, what I loved. Cooking was what I
had
to do to earn my keep. I've been cooking ever since.”

Reesie opened her mouth to ask what happened to the writing, when Aretha Franklin's voice belted out
“R-E-S-P-E-C-T,”
from her cell phone. She watched Miss Martine's eyebrows jump, and laughed. “It's my mom's ringtone,” she explained.

“Teresa Arielle Boone!” Her mother's voice was shaking.

“Mama? I'm okay! Didn't you get my text? I'm at Miss Martine's—”

“Oh my God, honey, forget about the cake!” There was so much commotion in the background that Reesie could hardly hear, and her mother was practically yelling.

“Mama? Mama!” Frightened tears welled in the corners of Reesie's eyes.

Her mother took a deep breath. “Boo, I wish I had followed my first mind and taken you away from here!” she said angrily. Reesie couldn't exactly tell who she was angry at, though.

“Look,” her mother went on. “Parraine called me. Things are so crazy that there's no way he can get into the city to pick you up. I can't find your father. You stay where you are, you hear me? This hurricane is coming, it's coming in bad. I don't want you to get caught by yourself!”

Reesie swallowed. She was aware that Miss Martine was standing quietly in the doorway, listening.

“But, Mama.” Reesie tried to sound calm. “I'm not
by
myself. I'm with Miss Martine!”

“Right. They don't expect the storm to make landfall until tomorrow morning, so your daddy will come for you.… Are you listening?”

Reesie was nodding without saying anything.

“Reesie! Teresa! Put Miss Simon on the phone!”

“I'm here. Yes, Mama. Just a minute—” A loud busy signal interrupted the conversation, and all at once her mother was gone. She tried redialing, but she got a busy signal, then a recorded message:
“We're sorry, but circuits are busy. Your call cannot be completed at this time
.
”

“Well, I guess I have company now, don't I?” Miss Martine said. “If I know Lloyd Boone, he's going to find a way to get his baby girl. You can count on that.”

Reesie wanted to say something, anything; but she was still dangerously close to crying. In her heart, she knew Daddy would do anything for her. He simply refused to believe anything would happen to his New Orleans—ever. He couldn't have known that the city would officially be shut down. Usually, when her parents agreed to disagree, everything worked out. But this time Katrina had jumped into the mix, and even Lloyd “Superman” Boone might not be able to make it right.

 

Chapter Nine

A
UGUST 28, 6:30 PM

Reesie looked out Miss Martine's front window. Clouds had finally rolled in, and a strong, steady rain was falling. There were no more slamming doors, or cars creeping along. She didn't see headlights or taillights, or even house lights. It was hard to tell if she and Miss Martine were the last people on the block.

What were her parents doing, and why hadn't she heard from them? Was Orlando having room service somewhere? Was Ayanna hanging out with her cousins? She even smiled to herself at the thought that Bernice might still be finishing up one last customer.

Maybe it would all be a bust, but Reesie felt the weight of waiting, and it was horrible. Waiting for her phone to ring or buzz. Waiting for Katrina.

“Let's take our minds off all this storm mess,” Miss Martine said, clapping her hands. “Child, when I'm upset, I cook. In fact, I bet I can
cook
up a bigger storm than old Katrina!”

Reesie couldn't help but burst into laughter.