Page 11 of Fragile Wicked Things
"Miss Jane E?" someone said.
I looked up to find a man staring at me, holding a crumpled sheet of paper. I nodded.
"Bin flashing this here sign for forty-five damn minutes. That all you bring with you?" He pointed to the carryall at my feet.
"Yes."
He scooped it up and walked away, turned back and said, "Well, come on then. I ain't got all day."
That was my abrupt welcome to New Orleans.
I followed him out onto a loud and busy street. Drivers honked at a vagrant sauntering on the roadway. Street trolleys squeaked past. Shoppers jostled along with bags—I devoured every bit of the chaos. The street was called Loyola, and I liked its name. New Orleans promised to be loyal.
My driver placed my bag in the trunk of a black convertible, seated himself behind the giant steering wheel and looked at me as I stood outside, waiting. "Aincha gettin' in?"
I got in, and off we went, driving so quickly past the street signs I barely made out "Canal Street" and "Storyville." Lincoln's Department Store advertised an "Amazing Sale" in big, red lettering. The pungent smell of boiled crawfish smacked my senses, and I covered my nose as we steered past the market where city dwellers loitered about in their office clothes, picking up fresh fish and vegetables. To my right stood Hotel Mackenzie. To my left, Le Grand Hotel. New Orleans was a vibrant place where people came from all over America to make a home. Its population swelled in numbers, a welcoming place for newcomers, except for me, who was being carried away.
"You have a nice car, Mr..." I shouted over the sound of wind and cars whizzing past us on the freeway.
"Ain't mine," he shouted back.
"What is it?"
"Caddy." The name didn't register, so he answered again. "Cadillac. It belongs to Rochester, but he's out of town, so I took it for a spin. The name's Buddy."
"I'm looking forward to meeting the Rochesters. Are they good people to work for?"
"You'll see," he said and turned on the radio, raising the volume in a gesture to silence me. Strands of hair lashed at my cheek. I pulled a clip from my purse and wound my hair into a bun to tame it, checking out my image in the sideview mirror. Behind me, New Orleans grew smaller in the distance.
The area was a farming community, flat and isolated, much like Lowood had been. Ahead stood a stone wall, about three or four feet tall, with the plaque "Thornfield Hall," but I could see nothing beyond the trees lined up against the road. Buddy swerved the car into the driveway, the back wheels spinning on the gravel, kicking up dust. I braced myself against the dashboard, and he grinned. If he meant to frighten me, he succeeded, but I said nothing and stared ahead.
A canopy of giant oak trees covered the driveway, branches reaching over to barely touch one another like a crisscross of bayonets. Later, I would learn of the post-Civil War home's history but the planting of those oak trees predated the home by one hundred years.
Stone columns encircled the classic Greek-revival two-story home; black window shutters set off the house's white color; two verandas wrapped around the building on each level. It was a grand home, but as we drove up, I noticed the cracked, flaking paint of the black shutters, the yellowing of the white brick and the uncultivated Japanese azaleas. To one side of the house sat a barn, the hee-hawing of horses emanating from within.
"They have horses." I didn't mean this to come out as a statement, telling Buddy something he already knew.
"Rochester loves to ride."
For the second time, I noticed he had dropped the preface "Mr.," yet I couldn't tell if it was from a closeness he felt to his employer or as a sign of disrespect. I suspected the latter.
As we stopped before the house, the main door flung open, and a short, stout Black woman hurried to us. Her eyebrows raised as she looked at Buddy.
"Buddy, you gone and took this car when you know Mr. Rochester doesn't like anybody messing with it. You were supposed to drive the ole pickup."
Buddy ignored her at first and slammed the car door behind him while I quietly closed mine. Standing on the drive next to her, I worried that I was in trouble too, but the woman didn't bother with me. Instead, she followed Buddy to the back of the car as he grabbed my luggage from the trunk and handed it to me. All the while she berated him. Finally, he had his fill.
"Rochester's outta town. A good wash and he won't know nothin'."
"Mr. Rochester left me in charge..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Buddy drove the car to the garage next to the barn.
"Mr. Rochester sees everything. That I know," she said to no one in particular. She then wheeled herself towards me and smiled, all tension from the argument gone. "Well, now. You’re younger than I expected. Everybody calls me Auntie Fairfax. Let’s get you settled before you meet Mizzez Cousins. You must be starved." Grabbing the bag from me, she motioned for me to follow her into the house.
"Is Mrs. Cousins Mr. Rochester's grandmother?"
Auntie hesitated a moment, looked down at the ground and mumbled, "Yes, his grandmother."
