“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.
“Appliqué!” 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.