The Casquette Girls (5 page)

I rebandaged my wound, grabbed a small blue-fringed bag, keys, and sunglasses, and was out the door.

The shrill of a power tool unscrewing the boards came from the side of the house.

“Dad, I’m going for a walk! Be back soon!”

The drill stopped, and my father’s head popped through the side gate. “Please be careful. Call me if you need anything, and be back before lunchtime.”

“Uh, okay.” My father hadn’t told me to be back home by lunchtime since I was about nine years old. In fact, he was rarely awake before lunchtime.

Two blocks later, signs of life began to emerge: a lady walking her dog, a couple of gutter punks kicking a can, an elderly man shouting expletives while taking photos of his property damage. I turned onto another residential block and came across a shop hidden among the boarded-up homes. The doors were propped open, and the sign for Vodou Pourvoyeur gently swung in the breeze, making a faint creaking sound. Incense wafted out to the street. I’d never been inside the shop, but I’d referred many tourists from the café where I worked part time. Now, for no real reason, I found myself crossing the threshold.

Inside, everything was so bright, colorful and foreign, I couldn’t decide what to focus on first. The front room was filled with tourist thrills: make-your-own-Voodoo-doll kits, spell books, premixed bottles labeled “Love Potion #9,” vintage Ouija Boards and bright rabbit-foot key chains. To the right was a painting of Marie Laveau affixed atop an altar of flowers, melted candles and prayer cards. Visitors had adorned it with cigarettes, coins, candies, and a plethora of other small tokens to please the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.

The smell of incense grew more pungent. I couldn’t pinpoint the earthy scent – floral, with a hint of something sweet like vanilla. The shop was very long, probably a former shotgun house, and the deeper I walked, the more exotic the inventory became. Alligator skulls. Necklaces made of cowrie shells, bones and claws. Statues of Catholic saints carved from wax, wood, and ivory. A variety of other oddities that appeared to have originated from the local swampland, the Caribbean, or Africa. Both walls of the next room were covered by a sea of rainbow-colored Voodoo dolls decorated with neon feathers, sequins, and Spanish moss. The back of the shop was lit by candles and reminded me of an old apothecary.

How have I never been inside this place befor
e
?

I stood mesmerized by the floor-to-ceiling shelves of antique books and jars of all shapes and sizes, filled with herbs, powders, salts and oils.
Indigo. Ylang Ylang. Wormwoo
d
.
I recognized some of the names on the labels, but most completely escaped me.

Two women were near the rear of the room: one, a very old lady in a sleeveless, white, linen dress, sat behind the wooden counter. The old woman’s wild gray curls were half-tied up into a traditional head wrap. It was obvious she had been a beauty in her time. A tall girl with straight, black hair stood in front of the counter, her back turned to me. She was trying to coax the old woman into eating something from a bowl and was growing increasingly impatient.

To give them some privacy, I shifted my gaze to a shelf displaying an assortment of gemstone-encrusted daggers next to a
“Do Not Touch
”
sign.

“Fine, Gran, don’t eat. I’m still not going to the gathering.”

So as not to listen to their private conversation, I tried to focus on the small daggers – when suddenly, without warning, two of the weapons near my elbow shifted and clattered onto the floor.

The girl dropped the bowl onto the counter and spun around.

“I swear I didn’t touch anything!” I mumbled, double-checking the proximity of my elbows. The girl shot me a glare that meant either she was embarrassed or that I should leave. Probably both.

“Child,” the old woman called out to me. “Child, you need to protect yourself. You need protection.”

The girl let out an exasperated sigh.

I brought the daggers to her
and placed them gently in her hands. “It’s okay. My dad is a broken record about the crime in the city these days.” She rolled her eyes with annoyance and left them on the counter for the old woman to deal with. To say she was stunning was a major understatement. Long, black, pin-straight hair hung past her waist, and her toffee-colored skin was flawless. She towered over my average frame and could have easily passed for twenty-three, but judging from the private-school uniform and her attitude she must have been closer to my age. Immediately, I became self-conscious about the giant bandage across my cheek.

“So, your school has reopened?” I asked. The words came out rushed and slightly desperate sounding. “Do you go to school down here?”

“As if. I attend the Academy of the Sacred Heart.
Uptown
.”

Historically, Americans who had migrated down the Mississippi River had settled uptown, away from the wilder and more superstitious European, African and Caribbean Creoles who ruled downtown.

The Academy of the Sacred Heart was the most prestigious all-girls school in the city, possibly in the entire South. The campus was only a couple of miles away, in the uptown Garden District, but it might as well have been a world away. Supposedly, couples put their progeny on the Sacred Heart waiting list as soon as the birth certificates were inked. The school was chock-full of carefully curated pedigree – a mix of old money and
nouveau rich
e
,
southern debutantes, daughters of politicians and oil tycoons, and even the offspring of celebrities who made New Orleans their home to escape the limelight of Hollywood.

“So Sacred Heart has reopened?”

“Obviously. In fact, it’s better than ever. Holy Cross flooded, and we graciously took in their all-male student body.” She was now fully scoping me out. Her blatant gaze started at my feet, where my worn boots got her utter disapproval, and then moved up to my dress, where her disapproval faded to befuddlement. Perhaps she recognized it from this season’s runway?

“Nice dress,” she muttered.

After navigating Parisian boarding school for the last two months, I was a professional in these kinds of situations. “
Merci beaucoup
, I bought it in Paris. Just got back in town late last night,” I said, as if I flew to Paris every Saturday for shopping and croissants. As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wanted to slap myself, but I had her attention now. Her left eyebrow raised, perplexed.

“I’m late.” She flipped her hair and grabbed her bag.

“How did your family make out with the Storm?” I tried to change the subject but had maxed the quota of attention she was willing to allocate to me.

“We don’t have problems with storms.” She smirked and pivoted to the front door.

I stood, a little stunned by her resolute manner.

“Don’t worry about Désirée, my dear. She doesn’t understand yet.”

I turned to the old woman. “Understand what?”

“Her importance in the world,” she answered tenderly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe.

The comment caught me off guard. My paternal grandmother had died when I was little, and
ma grand-mère
certainly didn’t think I had any importance in the world. All she cared about was my French accent and cramming me into smaller and smaller dress sizes.

The old woman began to open and close jars, making meticulous selections. She held one under my nose.

“Lavender, my favorite.” I inhaled deeply. “By the way, I’m Adele—”

“Le Moyne,” a resonant female voice finished for me.

I turned to find a middle-aged woman standing behind me. She had the same long hair and almond-shaped brown eyes as Désirée, but she exuded authority. With her tailored turquoise dress, navy blazer and gold bangles, she was way more Jackie-O than new-agey Voodoo priestess.

“You are Mac and Gidget’s daughter,” she said.

“Gidget?” Trying to imagine my mother with a girlish nickname almost made me snicker. Even hearing the Americanized version of her name, Bridget, sounded weird. To me, she was only
Madame Brigitte Dupr
é
.

“Your mother was
—
i
s
an amazing woman.”

“Ugh…,” I fumbled.

Everyone in the French Quarter knew my father, and most knew me, but very few people knew my mother. She had lived here for only a few years before her sudden departure more than a decade ago.
Or maybe people did know her and just never spoke about her? At least not to m
e
.

“I’m Ana Marie Borges, Désirée’s mother, and this is my mother-in-law, Ritha.”

The old woman came from behind the counter.

“Borges? As in Morgan Borges?”

Ritha smiled in the way only a mother could. Lost in the moment, I didn’t notice she had drawn close behind me. “Ow!” I flinched when she plucked a few strands of hair from my head; my scalp was still sore from the bird attack.

She quickly retreated behind the counter to her herbs, muttering something indiscernible under her breath.

Borges was a household name in Louisiana, with deep roots in the political history of New Orleans, and like most political families, people tended to love or hate them. Morgan Borges had been elected mayor of the city of New Orleans earlier that year. Most of his campaign had revolved around bridging the socioeconomic divide.
It was pretty apparent which side of the divide his daughter stood o
n
.
It made sense that Désirée would attend the Academy of the Sacred Heart, being the mayor’s daughter and all. I wasn’t old enough to vote, but I had always thought the mayor seemed like a genuine guy, for a politician.

“It’s nice to see you again, honey,” old Ritha said.
Agai
n
?
“Take this.” She leaned over the counter and curled my fingers around something soft. She had a wide grin and seemed a little kooky. I liked her.

Ana Marie moved directly in front of me and examined my face. Before I could protest, she peeled back the bandage and smeared something across my cut. I winced as it tingled.

Overcome with awkwardness from all the matriarchal attention, I searched for purpose by inspecting a basket on the floor at my feet, and grabbing a few bundles of herbs.

“Sage,” said Ana Marie. “Smart choice. Wards off evil.”

“Right…” I produced a few dollars, which they refused to accept. “Well, it was nice to meet the both of you.”

“Send our regards to your father,” said Ana Marie. “It’s been far too long.”

Was she just being polit
e
?
I hoped she meant it.

I exited the shop and paused out front to examine the object Ritha had slipped me. There was a small muslin satchel attached in the middle of the long white ribbon. When I pressed my fingers against the little fabric pouch, I could feel dried herbs and stones.
And apparently my hair
, I thought, rubbing my scalp. Ritha’s warning about protection echoed in my head.

“What’s the harm?” I whispered as I tied the ribbon around my neck and hid th
e
gris-gri
s
underneath my dress.

The conditions of houses significantly worsened
after I crossed Esplanade Avenue. The change was so sudden, it almost seemed like it had been purposely engineered. Once I left the French Quarter, signs of life went from slim to none.

Historically, the Faubourg Marigny was a neighborhood where immigrants had settled to build homes and chase the American Dream. In more recent years, artists and bohemian types had moved into the neighborhood because it was cheaper than other parts of the city but still well located. Post-Storm, one could beg to differ whether it was really so well located – in between the Mississippi River and the Industrial Canal.

Pre-Storm, this neighborhood had been one of the most colorful in the city, literally. The cultural diversity of its inhabitants brought a distinct flavor to each one of the old Creole cottages. Chartreuse, orange, magenta – pick any Crayon from the box and you could have found it here. Now it felt like I was looking at everything through a dirty gray lens. Rust and mold were the new accent colors, and the neighborhood was more akin to a junkyard: tricycles, hi-tops, ceiling fans, and bunk beds were sprinkled on the lawns. The contents strewn about varied from block to block, but every street looked exactly the same – like it had drowned and then been left out to bake and rot in the Indian summer sun. Flipped cars and boats, some smashed into houses and storefronts, had become a common sight. The sidewalk lifted in various places, reminding me of colliding plate tectonics from seventh-grade social studies.

A cloud of flies swarmed an overturned refrigerator, and an accidental glimpse of the maggot-infested mystery meat inside made me gag uncontrollably. I tried to move away quickly, but there were still puddles the size of ponds and no clear paths. I took a giant step, barely avoiding a drowned rat, and said a quick thank you for my Doc Martens.