Gods of New Orleans Page 8

  When he did look down the alleys, he found himself thinking about avenues of escape along the narrow streets that bent and juked their way through the Channel neighborhood.

  One thing Aiden promised himself when they landed in Metairie was that he’d learn the streets of this new city. Same as his friend Digs had learned Chicago City and knew every way in and out of trouble there. Aiden would learn New Orleans like that, in case he ever needed to lam it and stay safe. And he’d make sure his ma and pa knew it, too.

  “Aiden,” his ma said, snapping his attention from the empty alley he’d been staring down.

  “Yeah, Ma. I was just‌—‌”

  “You were daydreaming, Aiden, and that’s not a good thing to be doing in this city. It’s not a good thing to do in any city. People will see you staring off into the sky and the next thing you know somebody’s picking your pocket. Or worse. Now pay attention.”

  “Yes, Ma,” he said, feeling the blush rise to his cheeks again and struggling to hold in the angry shame that burned him under his shirt.

  “I’m going inside,” his ma said, aiming a finger at the dress shop behind them. “You’re to wait outside and stay alert. Keep an eye out for any . . .” Then she seemed to lose her way. Aiden was about to offer a few words to finish her thoughts, but she picked up again. “Any people who look like trouble. I’m sure you know what I mean, so I don’t need to say it.”

  Aiden did know what she meant, but the whole time they’d been walking through the neighborhood, he hadn’t seen a single dark-skinned person.

  “Sure thing, Ma. I’ll keep careful.”

  “Good,” she said. Aiden watched her knock on the dressmaker’s door before going inside. He figured it was okay to just go in, but maybe his ma was being extra polite so she could win the shop lady over. It probably wouldn’t take much if the woman was anything like his ma in her thinking.

  On the way to the streetcar stop back in Metairie, they’d passed other families, some with children in tow. Aiden’s ma gave a smile and a nod to the white ladies they passed. But when a Negro family walked by, she kept her eyes straight ahead. Aiden noticed how the Negro ladies would look shocked, almost frightened, when his ma did this, like she was something out of a monster movie.

  But she’d made it clear that her thoughts about dark-skinned folks were not up for questioning, so Aiden had kept hush. He did try to make up for his ma though, sometimes nodding or smiling at the Negroes they’d pass.

  A few smiled back. Mostly the children, but sometimes one of the older Negroes would tip a hat or send a wink his way, like they knew he was trying to make good while his ma pretended she didn’t see the dark-skinned people who stepped by them on the narrow sidewalks, with only inches to spare.

  That word. Negro. It still bothered him, but since he didn’t know any of these folks’ names, he figured it wasn’t a bad thing to think of them as Negroes. After all, they probably thought about him the same way.

  Just some white boy nobody knows.

  Aiden sat down on the sidewalk outside of the dressmaker’s, leaning up against a post that supported a balcony over the storefront.

  The street lived and breathed like any other he’d seen, but without the clockwork behavior he’d noticed earlier. While he waited for his ma, Aiden thought about his father sitting in that tavern, drinking and looking glum.

  Aiden wondered how Miss Farnsworth and Mr. Collins were doing and if he’d ever see them again. They’d all been through a lot already and it was just their first day in New Orleans. As the sun pushed out from behind the clouds aside, Aiden felt like maybe everything they’d been through would stay behind them, waiting to be forgotten.

  His ma stepped out of the dress shop behind him. He turned around as she came up to where he sat by the post.

  “Come along, Aiden,” she said. “We’ve got to get settled in.”

  “What do you mean, Ma?” he asked as he stood up and dusted off the seat of his trousers. He didn’t miss his mother’s glare or the way she heaved in a breath of shock as she watched him swatting at his backside.

  “Young man,” she said, “get yourself together.” She took him by the upper arm. “We’re in a new city. We don’t know anybody. It is important to make good impressions on people.” As she finished, she straightened up and put a hand to her collar.

  “Sorry, Ma,” Aiden said, shuffling to stand beside her and hating the way he felt inside. Like some kid, just a brat tugging at his ma’s skirts, asking for a penny for the candy man.

  “It’s all right, Aiden. Goodness knows your father won’t be setting the example this family needs.”

  “You aren’t going to leave him in that saloon, are you, Ma?”

  “Of course not, Aiden. What a thought to be having,” she said and stepped around him, slow and sure but angry, like she wished every step she took would be her last, just so she wouldn’t have to walk in New Orleans or even be in the city anymore.

  Aiden felt like he should press it about his pa, like his ma might just forget about the old man and let him sink into a barstool and stay there. But the way her feet kept hitting the pavement, one after the other, like the way people walked at a funeral‌—‌ Aiden figured it was better to just wait and see.

  If she doesn’t go back for him, I will, Adien told himself.

  His ma led him down the sidewalk at her deathly pace and around the corner, to the alley behind the dress shop. “It’s up to us to make sure people keep the right thing in mind when they hear the name Conroy. All right, Aiden?”

  “Yeah, Ma. Sure thing,” he said, staring into the alley. He heard a low humming like a machine working, and tried to get a fix on what was making the sound. It was close, whatever it was.

  “What’s that sound, Ma? And what’re we doing back here anyway?”

  “This is where we’re going to live, Aiden. For now.” She pointed to a staircase along the backside of the dress shop. The steps went up to a second floor balcony. Aiden could see a door up there, old and weathered with no glass in the window.

  Aiden saw another door under the balcony, just to their right. The window was fine in that one. Through the glass he saw a few ladies sitting at tables with sewing machines running. The light inside was pretty dim, almost nothing really. And all the ladies hunched over their work, like their backs might curl over at any minute and they’d turn into a ball and roll away. Or just fall over.

  His mother held a hand to her mouth and seemed to swallow a sob.

  “I’ll be working down here, Aiden. With these other women. The shop owner says the work is quite regular. So I expect to earn enough to get us into a proper home before too long.”

  “Are we all gonna bunk in there with you and them other ladies?”

  “Oh for‌—‌ Of course not, Aiden,” she said. “We’re to make do with the room upstairs. I’m sure it’ll need cleaning. We’d best get started.”

  She went for the staircase, beckoning him to follow with a hooked finger. “When we’re done, you’d better go and collect your father.”

  Aiden followed his ma up the staircase, thankful she’d at least mentioned going to get his old man. The worn and weather-beaten handrail left its mark as soon as he touched it. He reached the landing after his ma, scraping tiny splinters from his palm and keeping his arms in close to his sides in case the wall of the building decided to bite him, too.

  His ma pushed the door open. A rat’s nest of shredded paper and cloth greeted them, and the rat that lived in it squealed and lit out of sight. Aiden heard its scratching and squeaking in the walls. And he heard his mother’s sobbing.

  “It’ll be okay, Ma,” he said. “I’ll find work, too. Honest Abe.”

  His mother chided him with her weary and teary eyes. Then she pulled herself up and stepped into the room. He followed her into the squat space. Dust coated the floor. To the right, the room opened into a single space with a small table centered under a lamp that hung from a hook in the ceiling. At least it was e
lectric, Aiden noticed. He tried the switch by the door and the bulb warmed to life, casting a milky light across everything in the room.

  A small kitchen space took up the left side of the room. The floorboards met up with a line of chipped tiles that spread across the kitchen. It wasn’t anything like they’d had at home in Chicago City. Just a small sink, a tin basin it looked like. Some cupboards, all open and full of dust and cobwebs. A little iron stove stood on a square of bricks beside the kitchen. The stovepipe went up the wall, and it was covered in dents and bent to match up with the pipe coming from the roof.

  Across the open space, blankets piled in a corner showed signs of squatters: newspapers the rat had been using as a nest; an empty wine jug; a pile of cigarette butts spilling from a metal cup lying on its side.

  For a second, Aiden thought there might be a tramp hiding under the mess catching his rest before stumbling down the stairs and onto the stem to beg handouts and hooch. But he looked again and saw only blankets and junk. Trash he had to clean up. He walked over to the wine bottle and picked it up.

  Thoughts of cleaning up, and of liquor, put Aiden’s mind on his pa. They’d left him in that tavern sipping a drink before it was noon. Why’d Ma let that go? he wondered.

  “I could go get Pa now,” he said. “He could help a little. Nobody knows cleaning like him, right?”

  “Just leave the man be, Aiden,” she said. “He’s nursing his wounds, both of them.”

  “Both?”

  “There’s nothing a Conroy hates more than wounded pride. Your father will help once he’s had his little wake. Go down now and ask Mrs. Flannery for a broom and a mop. She said we could use them to get this place in order.”

  Aiden hesitated. His ma went to the little kitchen and pushed crumbs and dirt aside with her shoe. “I can get this place cleaned up faster with a broom, Aiden,” she said and kept up the scraping and pushing with her toes.

  “Okay, Ma,” Aiden said, and went to the door. He took one last look at the mess before he went down the stairs.

  He’d been right. He might as well forget all about everything he’d known in Chicago City. But what would replace it? Sneaking another glance behind him, Aiden saw the tattered rags hanging around the open door at the top of the stairs.

  What if all we end up with is a whole lot of nothing?

  Chapter 11

  A weak sun slid behind gathering clouds as Emma came into the cabin with Eddie trailing a few steps behind. She stopped at Brand’s desk and leaned against it. Eddie came around her and she helped him into the chair. They’d left Hardy’s deck at night, but only after they had caught a full day’s sleep in the bunkroom. Hardy had said they could berth for a while, and as much as she and Eddie both wanted to get away from the man, they were both exhausted and needed the sleep more than anything. Now, Emma’s eyes and mind were clearer than when they’d landed in Metairie. Her gut was none too happy with her, though.

  “A whole day with nothing but coffee to eat. We can’t do that again, Eddie.”

  “Ain’t but scraps left in the galley there, hey, Emma?”

  “Not even that,” she said.

  “That man, Hardy. He say we find some work here, didn’t he?”

  Emma cast a glance out the window at the mooring deck they’d come to. They were in New Orleans proper now, and tethered above a deck that looked more like what she was used to in Chicago City. All metal railings and concrete. No fancy ornaments or gearboxes that looked like they belonged in a castle or a museum.

  “He said that, Eddie. I just hope he wasn’t talking out both sides of his face.”

  Eddie grunted. “Only one way to find out, I guess. And we best be finding out. You look 'bout ready to fall over, Lovebird.”

  “Look who’s talking,” she said, letting a smile stretch her lips for a moment. Then she put a hand to her side to hold in the stabbing pain of hunger while she watched the last of the day’s light fade through the cockpit window.

  They’d made a deal with Celestin Hardy to berth the Vigilance at another deck in New Orleans proper. Eddie had asked about where he might get a horn, maybe play some music and make a little scratch to keep them under a roof instead of sleeping on the ship.

  Hardy had said he had just the thing. Emma wanted to believe the man because if he was being true, then their troubles in New Orleans would be shorter-lived than she’d feared. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something more would be asked of them, something that would make up for her and Eddie knowing, first-hand, that Celestin Hardy had shot Otis Martin just that morning, like it hadn’t been any harder than lifting a finger to point at the sky.

  Emma looked out the window at the deck one more time. Four smaller craft hung above the deck. All of them two-seaters, like the little joyride jobs Emma had known in her youth. Little cabins, tight and close for couples to stand in, hung beneath the envelopes. The pilot’s position was up front, with a ship’s wheel to control the rudder and pedals to move the flaps.

  Each cabin had a bench at the back, separating the interior from the small motor that propelled the ships. But since the bench was up against the motor housing, most couples went for standing side by side up front.

  Before she’d met Eddie, Emma had gone for a ride with a classmate from the school her father paid for. The young man was just like all the other young men she’d met at the school. Dashing, with a sharp suit, clear eyes, and a pencil-thin mustache. Too bad he had more interest in Emma’s skirts than in her smile, much less a single word that might come out of her mouth. But he could fly, and that had her thinking he might not be so bad after all.

  A couple of times around Chicago City airspace and she’d asked for a shot at flying them home. That’s when Mr. Dashing turned to Mr. Damned. He’d recoiled in horror, standing at the pilot’s position. His hands clenched the wheel as if he’d feared her suggestion would bring down a fiery bolt of retribution from above.

  If only he knew what the gods were really all about.

  Emma smirked at the memories and put her attention back on what mattered. Had they made a mistake coming to this spot? Would they be safe? Hardy said this deck belonged to him outright.

  “Bought it off Mistah Bacchus myself. Free and clear, just like the two of you now.”

  He’d laughed at his little joke and then told them about the watering hole under the deck. A one-room joint with a piano and a little stage beside it. The tavern owner used to play the horn, Hardy had said.

  “He might could have it still. Kickin’ it around waitin’ on the right mouth to come with the kiss of music.”

  Emma wouldn’t soon forget those words of Hardy’s. The man had kept his eyes on her mouth as he spoke, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she’d live to see her and Eddie get set up in a place of their own. Hardy’s face said hunger. The bad kind. The kind that doesn’t go away no matter how much a man puts on his plate.

  But he let them go with a wave, while his other hand rested on his breast just above where Emma had seen him tuck the gun he shot Otis with.

  “Think we’ll make it, Eddie?” she asked. “Think we’ll be okay?”

  “Sure thing, Lovebird. Gonna be fine. Just you wait and see. Got real family down here now. Not like in Chicago City when it was just me and the band to lean on. We got a whole krewe gonna help us out once they know I’m back in town.”

  She turned around to see him straining to stay upright in the chair. His lips peeled back to show his teeth as he pivoted and put his feet flat like he would try to stand.

  “Wait, Eddie‌—‌” she said, but it was too late. He lurched up and stood for second. She was on her feet in a flash and went to him.

  ~•~

  By some miracle Eddie stayed on his feet until Emma got him out of the ship for the second time that day. He’d even kept up beside her as they went down the stairs to the tavern beneath the deck.

  The neighborhood was in an old part of town. Hardy called it Old Storyville. The street they’d fl
own over on the way to the deck was called Iberville and, except for the deck and tavern, it didn’t have much along it. In all directions, a distant row of houses stood across an open area of freshly cleared land.

  Emma could see the ruins of a few buildings here and there in the space surrounding the tavern and deck. Piles of brick and wood waited for workmen to come along and clear away the remains. Emma got a flash of fear as she remembered the scrapyard in Chicago City: the stacks of furniture, railroad ties and coils of wire, fence posts, buckets, chains and tools, and all that idle machinery. Most of it had been stolen from her father’s power plant and everything in the yard was going to build the next World’s Fair beside Lake Michigan.

  Now, here in New Orleans, Emma wondered what would be built on the newly razed land around her and whether or not crime was involved.

  She almost laughed at herself for even thinking it could be otherwise.

  “Better get inside, Lovebird,” Eddie said. She turned to see him staring into the growing dusk around them. The clouds overhead made the darkness fall quicker and dusk would soon become full night. Emma put an arm around Eddie and let him rest his weight on her for a moment.

  The tavern not only stood beneath the deck, but inside of it, too. The scaffold holding up the deck framed the squat building, making it look like the tavern had sprouted from the ground and grown up into the scaffold like some kind of parasitic plant. Emma imagined a bottle being tossed off the deck one day and weeks later people coming by to see a roof sticking out of the soil, and then the second story windows. Finally the bottom floor would have risen out of the earth with its bright red door and soot-stained clapboards.

  Emma stared at the peeling red paint on the door until Eddie prodded her with his hip against hers.

  “Go on, Emma. Gettin’ cold out here.”

  She opened the door and helped Eddie across the threshold. Inside, a half dozen faces greeted them as they stood in the door.

  “Lettin’ in the cold,” the barkeep said. He was a white man in shirt sleeves with a shiny bald head and a little tuft of hair hanging off his chin. He stood behind a polished counter on the right side of the room. Glass bottles of all colors sat on a shelf behind him, against a mirror framed in dark wood. The barkeep picked up a pair of glasses and jutted his chin in their direction. “Go’on shut that door, Miss Emma.”