around our beds on the porch. She puts out a little pissoir so we won’t have to troop all the way inside and up the stairs to powder our noses.
We act so good and quiet that Mother thinks she has saints on her hands.
“Did yall thank the Holy Lady for helping you through the day?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” we all call out from our beds.
Mother is standing there on the other side of the mosquito net, already fingering her evening rosary. “Well, then tell your guardian angels goodnight.”
“Goodnight, angels,” we say.
“Goodnight, little girls,” Mother says.
We lie silently and watch her cross the gray planks of the porch and head back into the house.
When she is out of sight, Caro says, “We’re not little girls, we are Royal Indian Maidens.”
“Maybe instead of thanking the Holy Lady, yall should apologize for wiping her face off,” Teensy says.
That makes us giggle.
“Yall scrubbed off her lips and turpentined her skin,” Teensy says. “ Imbecile . I bet those Cubans would have neversold that statue to your father if they knew yall were going to ruin her looks.”
“Shhh!” I say. “Mother might be in the living room listening. If we’re quiet, then she’ll think we’re sound asleep and go on upstairs.”
We get quiet and just lie there for a moment, with our bundles of supplies stashed beneath the beds.
“Now are we going into the dark woods?” Necie murmurs.
“No,” I whisper, “we have to wait till the whole house is asleep.”
“How will we know?” she asks.
“I can tell,” I say. “Houses sleep like people sleep. I can tell.”
After a while, I climb out of bed to check. “The coast is clear!”
We pull out our stash from under the beds, lift up our nightgowns, and take turns rubbing a raw onion all over our bodies so the mosquitoes won’t carry us away. We’re lucky it’s been a dry summer so far or we’d never be able to go into the woods at night without getting bitten to death.
Then we sneak off the porch and into the backyard.
“ Stealthily! ” Caro says.
We cut across the Munsen’s alley, walk a few hundred yards, take a deep breath, and then slip into the woods.
We have Pete’s flashlight and a half-moon for light. I finger the piece of paper in the pocket of my nightgown. It holds our tribal story. I am the Mistress of Legend tonight.
“What if we run into a camp of hobos?” Necie asks.
Caro is holding the light since she’s the tallest. She also carries a rucksack with some pieces of wood in it. She’s the Mistress of Fire.
“The hobos are closer to the railroad tracks,” I say.
“Father says his friends at the police station have already run all the hobos out of Thornton,” says Teensy. “ Maman and he got in a big fight about it.”
“Mama fed some hobos a few days ago, right on our back steps,” Necie says. “But I am not supposed to talk to hobos, just feed them.”
“Hobos keep coming round your house because your mother won’t erase the hobo mark, even though the Mayor told everyone they should,” I say. “Mother only feeds them once a week now, or else she says we’ll end up joining them, as much as Pete eats.”
Necie is the only one of us who knows how to cook, so she has brought fudge in a paper sack. She is the Mistress of Refreshment. Teensy, the Mistress of Dance, has got four empty oatmeal boxes in her sack for our drums. And I’ve got the needle.
We keep walking until we are on the edge of the little bayou that runs back behind Teensy’s house. We all help Caro build a small fire. Caro is a swell fire builder, good as a boy. Mr. Bob taught her and she taught me.
When our fire gets going, we all sit around it.
I gaze into its flames and begin my telling the story of the Divine Tribe of Louisiana Ya-Yas.
T HE S ECRET H ISTORY OF THE L OUISIANA Y A- Y AS
Long before the white man showed up, the Mighty Tribe of Ya-Yas, a band of women strong and true and beautiful, roamed the great state of
We act so good and quiet that Mother thinks she has saints on her hands.
“Did yall thank the Holy Lady for helping you through the day?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” we all call out from our beds.
Mother is standing there on the other side of the mosquito net, already fingering her evening rosary. “Well, then tell your guardian angels goodnight.”
“Goodnight, angels,” we say.
“Goodnight, little girls,” Mother says.
We lie silently and watch her cross the gray planks of the porch and head back into the house.
When she is out of sight, Caro says, “We’re not little girls, we are Royal Indian Maidens.”
“Maybe instead of thanking the Holy Lady, yall should apologize for wiping her face off,” Teensy says.
That makes us giggle.
“Yall scrubbed off her lips and turpentined her skin,” Teensy says. “ Imbecile . I bet those Cubans would have neversold that statue to your father if they knew yall were going to ruin her looks.”
“Shhh!” I say. “Mother might be in the living room listening. If we’re quiet, then she’ll think we’re sound asleep and go on upstairs.”
We get quiet and just lie there for a moment, with our bundles of supplies stashed beneath the beds.
“Now are we going into the dark woods?” Necie murmurs.
“No,” I whisper, “we have to wait till the whole house is asleep.”
“How will we know?” she asks.
“I can tell,” I say. “Houses sleep like people sleep. I can tell.”
After a while, I climb out of bed to check. “The coast is clear!”
We pull out our stash from under the beds, lift up our nightgowns, and take turns rubbing a raw onion all over our bodies so the mosquitoes won’t carry us away. We’re lucky it’s been a dry summer so far or we’d never be able to go into the woods at night without getting bitten to death.
Then we sneak off the porch and into the backyard.
“ Stealthily! ” Caro says.
We cut across the Munsen’s alley, walk a few hundred yards, take a deep breath, and then slip into the woods.
We have Pete’s flashlight and a half-moon for light. I finger the piece of paper in the pocket of my nightgown. It holds our tribal story. I am the Mistress of Legend tonight.
“What if we run into a camp of hobos?” Necie asks.
Caro is holding the light since she’s the tallest. She also carries a rucksack with some pieces of wood in it. She’s the Mistress of Fire.
“The hobos are closer to the railroad tracks,” I say.
“Father says his friends at the police station have already run all the hobos out of Thornton,” says Teensy. “ Maman and he got in a big fight about it.”
“Mama fed some hobos a few days ago, right on our back steps,” Necie says. “But I am not supposed to talk to hobos, just feed them.”
“Hobos keep coming round your house because your mother won’t erase the hobo mark, even though the Mayor told everyone they should,” I say. “Mother only feeds them once a week now, or else she says we’ll end up joining them, as much as Pete eats.”
Necie is the only one of us who knows how to cook, so she has brought fudge in a paper sack. She is the Mistress of Refreshment. Teensy, the Mistress of Dance, has got four empty oatmeal boxes in her sack for our drums. And I’ve got the needle.
We keep walking until we are on the edge of the little bayou that runs back behind Teensy’s house. We all help Caro build a small fire. Caro is a swell fire builder, good as a boy. Mr. Bob taught her and she taught me.
When our fire gets going, we all sit around it.
I gaze into its flames and begin my telling the story of the Divine Tribe of Louisiana Ya-Yas.
T HE S ECRET H ISTORY OF THE L OUISIANA Y A- Y AS
Long before the white man showed up, the Mighty Tribe of Ya-Yas, a band of women strong and true and beautiful, roamed the great state of
Similar Books
