Upside Down

46

The knowledge that Horace Pond's time was growing shorter by the second propelled Faith Ann Porter's steps. It was early afternoon when she crossed North Rampart Street and made her way up the sidewalk beside the brick wall that protected Saint Louis Number One, the most famous cemetery in the country after Arlington, from unauthorized visitors. Faith Ann had visited voodoo priestess Marie Lebeau's tomb in there.

She turned the corner and strode down the street that separated the Iberville housing projects from the cemetery. Her mother's friend, Sister Ellen Proctor, lived in a unit in the projects her Catholic order kept there for the sister's ministry to help the underprivileged. If anybody could help her now, the world-famous Sister Ellen could.

She didn't know which building Sister Ellen Proctor lived in. She had been there twice with her mother to pick up the anti-capital punishment nun, who was the spiritual adviser to several Death Row residents and wrote books on how bad the death penalty was. On both occasions, the nun had been waiting on the sidewalk for them to pick her up. Both times there had been people waiting there with her. Even though she was white, Sister Ellen liked living there instead of in a convent, and she'd told Kimberly that she wasn't in any danger in the all-minority projects. Kimberly had told Faith Ann that the people in the place loved the nun and protected her. Some of the automobiles parked on the street looked nice, while others like they belonged in a junkyard.

The two-story brick buildings stood lined up on land that was mostly bare dirt divided by sidewalks with a few shade trees scattered around. Some of the units had sheets of weathered plywood covering their doors and windows. On several of the concrete porches and around the buildings, people congregated, enjoying the autumn sunshine. Some were already drinking beer, while others seemed to be outside to keep an eye on the children, who were playing noisily.

As Faith Ann crossed the street, she was aware that people were watching her, as if trying to decide whether she might represent a threat. Faith Ann had assumed that since Sister Ellen was a resident and accepted as a friend of the community, that she would be too. As she approached a group of teenagers however she learned she was wrong.

A skinny boy of perhaps sixteen, whose crisp jersey and new denims would have fit someone twice his size, turned from his friends and faced her head-on. His reddish hair was in dreadlocks, his skin was almost as light as her own, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. His eyes reflected an arrogant surliness. And his front teeth were veneered in gold.

“You looking for something, zoo boy? You looking for a hookup?”

“Yes,” Faith Ann replied, stopping five feet short of the red-haired teenager.

“What it is? Chronic? Somethin' lil' heavier?”

“I'm looking for Sister Ellen.”

“Never heard of her. Y'all know no sistah name of Ellen?”

The others exchanged looks; the fattest one giggled nervously.

“You packin' any presidents?” the leader asked her.

“Yeah,” the heavyset boy joined in. “What you gone buy rock with?”

“Rock?” Faith Ann really wanted to turn and run, but another sullen boy moved up behind her.

“You lookin' to score, or what?”

“I'm looking for Sister Ellen Proctor, the nun. She lives here.”

“White lady?”

Faith Ann nodded.

“Sheeeeet. This look like a place for white nuns?”

“Maybe he thinks this is a Catholic school.” The fat boy stepped closer.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Faith Ann said, feeling scared.

“Maybe you got the wrong projects.” The leader held out his hand. “Let me hold your lid for a second.”

Before Faith Ann could respond, he jerked off her cap and was studying it.

“How much you give for this here?” the red-haired leader asked her.

“Twelve dollars.”

“I'll sell it back to you for five.”

“That's a good deal,” the fat boy piped up. “Cute-ass hat like that gots to be worth twenty.”

“Keep it,” Faith Ann managed to say.

“I don't want no zoo hat. Zoo hats for faggots. I look like a fag to you?”

“He called you a faggot,” another boy jeered. “You gone let him do that?”

The blow came out of nowhere, and Faith Ann was surprised to find herself sitting on her butt, looking up at the boys, the one in dreads smiling malevolently, showing her his fist. “You fall down, zoo boy?” Faith Ann felt the numbness where the sharp knuckles had connected with her cheekbone. She had never before been punched in the face and she was scared.

The skinny leader tossed the hat onto Faith Ann's chest, held out his open hand. “I said five dollars for the hat. That other was for calling me a faggot, faggot. You lucky I don't put one between your eyes.” He put his hand inside his large shirt, suggesting he had a gun.

“What you got in the book bag, bee-otch?” the fat boy demanded.

“Nothing,” Faith Ann stammered.

“Give me some money, zoo boy.”

Faith Ann weighed her options. Nobody was going to rush up to help her, she couldn't fight them all, and she sure wasn't going to let them have the backpack because of what it contained.

“Okay,” she said, standing, with the hat clasped in her left hand. “I'll give you some money.”

The leader backed up, his bright eyes filled with anticipation.

Faith Ann faced the wall of boys, reached into her pocket and slipped her fingers around the wad of bills. She jerked her hand out, then tossed the currency that came out with it, where the breeze caught it and turned the wad into a fluttering cloud of bills. Faith Ann turned and ran.

“Come back here!” the leader hollered-like there was some chance of that happening.

Faith Ann didn't slow down until she was back across North Rampart Street and two blocks into the French Quarter. If Sister Ellen was in there, she was beyond Faith Ann's reach. Maybe she was at the prison telling Horace Pond that Jesus loved him.