“The apartment’s right up there,” the man said, pointing to the second floor. This is a historic building. The apartment is an old slave quarter. You can take a look. I’ve got a bad knee, can’t make those stairs. I’ll wait down here.”
Lilly took the key and walked up the worn wooden stairs. Her heart sank when she walked into the tiny apartment. The stench of cat urine was overwhelming. Whoever had lived here previously had a cat, possibly many cats. The floor, covered with a muddy looking brown rug, creaked as she walked through the apartment. The walls were covered with dark paneling except for the bedroom which was painted Pepto-Bismol pink. Her stomach heaved, she shuddered walked swiftly down the stairs and returned the key. “It’s not exactly what I’m looking for, but thanks.”
“Okay, if you change your mind, come back. It may be available for a couple of days.”
Out on the sidewalk, Lilly looked up and down Rue Dumaine. She took the folded newspaper from under her arm and checked the classifieds. The next apartment she had circled was at 607 Rue Saint Ann. She wasn’t sure how to get to Rue Saint Ann. I’m not going to find it standing here she thought and began to walk. She had walked a block or two when the sound of a ship’s horn told her the Mississippi River was straight ahead. Arriving at the corner of Dumaine and Rue Bourbon, she stopped to take in the unexpected scene. The sidewalks were filled with young men sporting full beards, long braids or halos of black hair. The women shown like butterflies, colorful skirts swishing around knee high boots and shoulders covered by silky, fringed shawls dancing in the breeze.
Lilly smiled and her heart lept, ‘this is where the hippies live,’ she thought. She gave silent thanks to nurse Trudy as she stepped into an alternate world where freedom was celebrated.
Turning onto Bourbon Street, she passed a young woman sitting on the steps of an old shotgun house. She took a few steps past her, stopped and turned back. “Do you know how to get to Rue Saint Ann?”
The young woman nodded, “I do. Where are you going on St. Ann?” Lilly looked at the newspaper, “607 Rue Saint Ann.” The young woman smiled and gave Lilly brief directions “The French Quarter is laid out in a grid so it is easy to get around and find what you need. “607 is in the middle of the block close to the Square. You can’t miss it.”
Lilly easily found 607 Rue Saint Ann located one-half block from Jackson Square. She was surprised to find it was a shop, Panthea’s Pantry. She opened one of the tall narrow French doors, stepped inside and stopped in her tracks.
The strong, pungent scent of herbs filled the air of Panthea’s Pantry transporting Lilly to childhood summers in her Aunt Pearl’s country kitchen. Lilly, recalled happy childhood days spent in her Aunt’s century-old home. Built of heart-pine, the house nestled in the forest near the banks of the Abita River. Lilly had sensed the magic in the nooks and crannies of the old house and flourished under the gentle care of her Aunt.
Those same olfactory stimulants floating through the air of Panthea’s Pantry worked a bit of magic on Lilly’s taught muscles and anxious mind. Her shoulders relaxed as she took a moment to cherish childhood memories of summer mornings swaying gently on the porch swing, dashes into the cool Abita River in the heat of the day and late afternoon with Aunt Pearl in the garden, harvesting ripe vegetables and snipping herbs.
The year Lilly turned ten the unthinkable happened, her father disappeared while fishing in the Dark Bayou. Aunt Pearl was the only person who understood the depths of Lilly’s grief. She was the only one who could console her as she shared the grief of losing her youngest brother, Lilly’s dad, Avery. When summer vacation and holidays came around, Lilly fled to the sanctuary of Aunt Pearl’s arms. The scent of herbs filling the old house assured safety and acceptance, love, understanding, and guidance. The year Lilly turned sixteen, Aunt Pearl disappeared.
~
A pointed, “Can I help you find something?” interrupted Lilly’s memories. Glancing at the woman with curly salt and pepper hair, Lilly realized it was not the first time the woman had spoken. Her round, black eyes sparkled and crinkled around the edges as she smiled at Lilly.
“No, I mean yes, I am, uh, looking for, I mean do you have an apartment for rent?
The curly haired woman smiled. “Yes, I do. Number 4 is available,” she said as she rummaged through a cigar box full of keys. Picking out two keys she explained, “I am expecting a client any minute and my assistant is not here. Can you go up and take a look at the apartment by yourself, ma chere? It’s number 4 upstairs on the right. The one with the green ribbon is the key to the gate, and the other key opens the apartment.”
Lilly took the keys and stood still, unsure of which way to go. The woman saw her hesitation, “Oh mais non, you have no idea where it is. Go out the front door, take a right and open the wooden gate, go down the carriageway into the courtyard and up the stairs on the right.”
Lilly closed her hand over the keys, nodded understanding, opened one of the tall French doors and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The gate was a wooden door cut into a larger, taller wooden gate. An intricate circle of wrought iron decorated the center of the door,
