Madam (9 page)

What he refused to think about was how many of those men, those partakers of sin, were acquaintances of his. Because this was too despicable to fathom, he blocked it out, like a child plugging his ears. If it were his choice, he would avoid associating with anyone whom he remotely suspected of sinning in this way. But given his higher calling, this wasn’t possible. His was righteous work, although it did require that he associate with all types, from Council members to judges to voters. If dealing with sinners and heretics would further his mission to create neighborhoods free from vice, to create an upstanding New Orleans, a pious New Orleans, then so be it.

Just as he preached others should do, Story abided by a strict Jesuit code in his own life. The Storys had been devout members of the Immaculate Conception Parish for generations, and the church held great significance in the city, for the land upon which it stood was a gift to the Jesuits by none other than the founder of New Orleans, Jean Pierre Lemoine Sieur de Bienville. Story was well versed in Jesuit history and knew of the tumult his people had faced—how the priests in New Orleans had lost favor and were stripped of their property and then forced from the city, only to prevail half a decade later by returning to New Orleans, repurchasing the same land (which, in neglect, had become swampland inhabited by alligators), and constructing an awesome, Moor-inspired church with the adjacent all-male College of Immaculate Conception, where Story received his education. Taking heart in the Jesuits’ struggles and redemption, Story viewed his own struggle for improving New Orleans as an extension of his forefathers’ journey—knowing he, too, would triumph.

The church had always provided him guidance and solace, especially when his father passed. Sidney was but a teenager when Story Sr. did the unspeakable, and it was the church that assisted Sidney and his mother in obliterating all evidence and squashing all rumors so as preserve the family’s dignity. For this, Story was eternally grateful, and driven all the more to spread the church’s teachings.

Even though it was nearing midnight, a warm light emanated from the front window of the Story house. Ever since Sidney was born, the family inhabited this house in the Garden District, a pristine neighborhood of upper-class white folks, considerable greenery, and distinctly American architecture. Also, and importantly, it was a good distance away from the ethnic areas of the city, like the white Creole quarters and the Vieux Carré, where, in Story’s opinion, there existed an overabundance of Spanish and French influence.

Balding, bespectacled Sidney was still perched at his desk, a tabby cat curled in his lap. Johann Strauss played from the phonograph, although a towel was draped over the barrel so as to mute the volume, dare he wake sleeping Mother.

Spread before him on his desk was this month’s issue of the
Mascot
. On its cover: a cartoon parody of a City Council meeting, where, in the midst of discussing legislature, the council members downed whiskey as women danced about, skirts raised and dresses plunging.

The alderman, with impeccable penmanship, was composing a letter to his favorite
Mascot
senior reporter—favorite for the primary reason that this particular reporter, Kermit McCracken, espoused the exact same beliefs as Story on every debatable subject.

Dear Mr. McCracken,

Once again, I must commend you for truly fine reporting in this latest issue of the Mascot. When I read your line: “Young men can no more be made continent by legislation than gamblers can be forced to cease gambling, yet the evil results of their intercourse with fallen women can be minimized by state regulation,” I nearly leapt from my chair with applause. It is voices like yours, joined with my own, that will set this city onto the path of change, the path of righteousness, and the path of truth.

I was, however, dismayed with this month’s cover art, entitled “Secret Session of the City Council,” which I know is not within your editorial jurisdiction, but nonetheless, I wish to express to you my opinion, as I trust my words will not fall on deaf ears. It is highly offensive to portray, even in caricature form, the valuable and dedicated work of the City Council as if important and confidential meetings take place in Babylon, where women of ill repute lift their skirts inappropriately high as they dance seductively amidst an inebriated spree. Please note that depictions of this kind only serve to undermine the passionate mission shared by you and I, as well as the Public Order Committee, which I head, and which is a most crucial arm of the City Council.

Yours in Christ’s Truth,

Alderman Sidney Story

Story held up the completed letter, blowing on it to dry the ink, then gave his work a nod of satisfaction. From a desk drawer that neatly held all his letter-writing paraphernalia, he removed a gold bar of sealing wax, then heated it over the oil lamp. Dribbling the wax onto an envelope, he pressed into the warm pool his favorite seal, that of a crucifix.

C
HAPTER FOUR

“L
eave it to Beulah to send me to this part of town,” Mary grumbled to herself. She’d never been to Rampart Street before, and never would’ve had reason to go except for the wildfire spread of the gleet on the Alley. From the talk of other whores, it seemed the john with the dark birthmark on his cheek was the culprit, and he’d lain in Mary’s crib same as he’d detrousered at several others throughout the week. The itching had only just begun, but Mary wasn’t keen on taking chances. More than once, she’d seen Beulah fly out of the crib, fiery-eyed, howling of the burning. And each time, Mary got on her hands and knees and scrubbed that crib top to bottom so as not to worry that the gleet would jump on her.

Whores would talk of their remedies for the gleet, and many swore by the Tan Tonic, which druggists and even cafés around the Alley sold. Others would visit the Gonzales Brothers cart and pay a whole dollar for a bottle of 7.7.7. But Beulah was the only whore Mary knew who had a remedy that saw her back in the crib in but two days and able to make her full shift without even a hint of agony.

So when Mary had come upon Beulah waiting at the door today, she had lowered her voice and asked who was the doctor her people went to see.

Beulah jumped. “No Needle Man comin’ near my folk!”

Mary pursed her lips. Why did Beulah have to go making a scene? Leaning in, Mary whispered, “I need a remedy.”

But Beulah just stared blankly. Mary leaned in closer and through clenched teeth muttered, “For the burning.”

Beulah raised an eyebrow, then gave Mary an up-and-down look, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that particular and scrubbed little Mary could be susceptible.

“Ain’t no doctor,” Beulah said, shaking her head. “She’s a Voodoo queen.”

Mary flinched. She didn’t want anything to do with Voodoo. But then again, she wasn’t in any position to lose a week’s earnings. She took a deep breath and, hoping to God she wouldn’t regret it, asked if she could go see her.

Beulah leaned back and let out a cackle. “Pretty girl gonna show her pale face o’er there on Rampart Street?” She laughed as if that were the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time.

Mary looked at her pleadingly.

Beulah crossed her arms over her chest then screwed up the corner of her mouth. “Awright, girl,” she said reluctantly. “Go by the corner of Piety and Rampart. Ask for Miss Eulalie Echo.”

Mary nodded her thanks and hurried off, knowing that Beulah was shaking her head, if not guffawing after her.

As Mary walked the unfamiliar cobblestone street, Haitian women strolled by with baskets balancing atop their
tignon
-wrapped heads. Barefoot children crowded around, calling back and forth to each other in song. Up ahead, a round woman in blue gingham stood over a small burner, frying the most delicious smelling rice fritters. She sang partly in French, “
Belles
calas! Clementine has lovely calas!
Tou cho
, quite hot!”

Mary arrived to the corner of Rampart and Piety, where Beulah had directed her, but the only building there was a cigar shop. Her fists clenched as she schemed that if she’d been lured all this way just for a laugh, she’d go find that gleet-infested john and pay him to infect Beulah.

Stepping into the cigar shop, she nearly swooned from the pungent tobacco odor. The place was dimly lit and cigar boxes filled rows of cramped shelves lined ceiling high. Behind a counter sat a brown, wrinkled woman counting short, fat cigars.

Softly, Mary said, “I, uh, was sent here for a remedy.” The woman didn’t look up. Mary piped up a little louder. “’Scuse me, ma’am . . . was sent here for a remedy. Would this be the right place?” Still, the woman didn’t look up, just continued tallying the cigars, moving them from one pile to another, mouthing the numbers and bobbing her head to the count. Was she deaf? Mary wondered. Oh, horse’s ass, Beulah!

Mary gave it one last try. “Ma’am, I’m lookin’ for a Miss Eulalie Echo.”

At this, the woman’s head rose. Neatly resting the handful of cigars, she motioned for Mary to step behind the counter. There, she lifted a thick velvet curtain to reveal a doorway and, with a sweep of her arm, bade her through. Silently, Mary followed her down a dark hall, where she was left to wait alone on a stool outside a closed door. The cigar smell was now mixed with a spicy clove scent, and Mary could hear a strange, crackly chanting coming from the other side of the door.

“
Eh, eh. Bomba hen hen. Canga bafie te. Canga ki, canga li.
”

Voodoo spells, Mary thought, and this sent shivers through her.
Oh Saint Teresa, please forgive me, I’m not wanting to tempt no demon spirits!

Just then, the door opened and the crackly voice beckoned. “Come.”

On command, Mary rose and shakily stepped through the door. The flickering light from dozens of candles cast long, eerie shadows across a tiny room. She glimpsed drooping shelves piled with dusty old books and scattered with bones of all shapes and sizes. Surprisingly, there were also just as many statues of the Virgin—little ones, big ones, wood ones, porcelain ones, on the shelves, on the floor, hanging on the wall. There was even a Negro Virgin, holding her hands out to beckon, while the whites of her eyes against her charcoal skin seemed to bore into Mary, asking,
Don’t you know you don’t belong here, white girl?
Mary jerked her head away.

Her gaze then fell to a crooked table lined with rows of different-sized jars. In one, a turtle swam furiously, trying to scale the jar and free himself, as if he knew a bad fate was in store. In the next jar, a floating eyeball stared emptily across the room. In another, a fleshy blob, gently bobbing, looked almost like a miniature baby. Mary couldn’t help but lean in closer to examine . . . oh my, she could make out little tiny fingers!

A hand touched Mary’s shoulder and she jumped. Flipping around, she was suddenly face-to-face with a rail-thin, brown-skinned woman, one piercing amber eye looking fixedly at her, the other wandering off into the distance. The woman had a head of thick, wild hair, pieces of it knotted around small, glass medicine bottles, making the shadow of her leaping onto the back wall look like the Snake Lady herself. Mary held her breath that she wouldn’t turn to stone.

“Don’t be afraid of Eulalie Echo,” the woman said, her voice deep and husky. “Lay.” She motioned to a gnarled-wood table lined with a featherbed.

Quivering, Mary willed herself to move forward and climb onto the table, even though her legs wanted to run as fast as they could out of there before she accidentally got cursed—or before some part of her wound up floating in a jar. She managed to squeak out, “I come looking after a remedy for—”

She was silenced by a bony finger in the air. “Eulalie knows. Now, show me the promised land.”

Mary leaned onto the featherbed and felt Eulalie pull at her bloomers.