The Time of the Fireflies by Kimberley Griffiths Little
I sat on the edge of the couch, and then my eyes swung to the doll case. Seemed like every one of those dolls was staring at me, studying me.
“Stop it,” I told them sharply. “Stop looking at me!” It was totally stupid to talk to inanimate dolls, but I felt spooked. Their eyes followed me as I got up, picked up my book from the floor, and went to find Mamma. I wasn’t gonna sit there with all those eyes on me.
Her growing stomach seemed to be getting even bigger as she leaned back in the recliner.
“Does the baby kick much?” I asked her.
“More and more all the time as he’s growing.”
“What do you mean he? Daddy said it’s a girl.”
“Well, we actually don’t really know. The ultrasound looked like a girl, but you never know. Doctors get it wrong all the time, and I don’t want to get my hopes up either way. I just used the word he because my — our other babies were — well —” She stopped, her voice dropping. “Our other babies were all boys in the past.”
I changed the subject. “Do you know if we have any Bibles stored away somewhere, like maybe the shed?”
“Did you already go through what we have in the store?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not a single Bible anywhere.”
“If we don’t have any on the bookshelves then we don’t have any at all. We don’t keep books in storage. All our stock gets placed on a shelf.” Mamma took a sip of her lemonade. “So why you got a yearning to see a Bible all of a sudden? Did they give you a reading assignment during Sunday school today?”
I hadn’t thought of that, but she’d given me the perfect excuse. “Um, yeah. They want us to read the story of Noah and the Ark.”
“Well, the only Bible we got on the premises is the one I keep in my closet. Top shelf next to a box of family photos and papers.”
“You have a Bible?” I tried not to appear as surprised or shocked as I felt.
“It’s an old family Bible, actually. My mamma gave it to me when I got married. It’s really old.”
“Can I look at it?” I wiped my hands along my shorts, sweaty and excited. It just had to be the Bible the girl on the phone was talking about!
“You gotta be careful. The pages are getting thin and brittle.” Mamma pushed herself up and waddled to the closet. “Grab that stool, will you, Larissa?”
I hurried to obey and then I stood on the stool, stretching my arms to grab a cardboard box with Family Pictures scrawled on the side in black marker.
“There are some hand openings on the side. Use those,” Mamma instructed.
Half a minute later, I had the box on the bed, and Mamma lifted the lid.
It was a mess inside. A few photo albums and a bunch of loose papers and individual pictures, plus manila envelopes stuffed with more pictures that needed sorting.
Mamma said, “Our more recent pictures are on the computer, so most of these are photos of me when I was growing up, and my parents and grandparents. Some cousins, aunts, and uncles.” Mamma snorted as she held up a snapshot. “Look at how funny those flowered pants are. And my hair was always ratty. What a mess I was at eleven.”
As I riffled through the albums and unsorted pictures, I noticed that some of the pictures dated back to the 1940s and 1950s when my great-grandmothers dressed in pencil-thin skirts and white gloves, their hair lacquered with hair spray.
“Funny how times change, huh?” Mamma murmured. “Oh, here’s the Bible.” She lifted it out, and the book wasn’t as big as I’d thought it might be as she placed it in my arms. “Now go do your reading. I’ll be napping until supper.”
“What’s for supper?”
“Leftover sandwiches and a cold salad. Too tired to do much else. But I made a lemon pie and it’s in the fridge for dessert.”
My parents always napped on Sunday afternoons, so I was free for a couple of hours. I lugged the Bible into my bedroom and laid it on the bed, carefully cracking open the cover. There was a Table of Contents with the Bible books all in a long column, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and so on. Written on the flyleaf were a few words inscribed with thin, spidery handwriting. The kind of writing people used to do with a quill pen and a bottle of ink.
This Bible presented to Miss Julianna Landry on her wedding day, April 19, 1898, in New Iberia, St. Martinville Parish, Louisiana, by her loving parents. Wedded to Mr. Blaine Normand of Bayou Bridge, owner of The Island.
Lightly, I ran my finger over Julianna Landry’s name. How pretty! I wished there was a picture of her.
“Wait a minute,” I blurted out. My stomach thudded straight to the floor. Quickly, I turned the cover of the Bible back to the front. Stamped in faded gold lettering were the words Family Bible. My mamma’s family Bible!
My fingers couldn’t move fast enough. I flipped through the thin, brittle pages, but there was nothing more about the Normand family.
Julianna Landry married a guy named Blaine Normand…. Normand was Miss Anna’s last name. If Julianna Landry was married in 1898 and Miss Anna was about twelve years old in 1912, that meant she was born in 1900. Julianna Landry Normand had to be Miss Anna’s mother! Right? I supposed she could be an aunt or a cousin, though.
Idly, I turned the blank end pages. This Bible didn’t end with the Book of Revelations like I first thought! The last few pages had genealogy charts filled with names and dates, as well as a picture of a tree with branches representing the descendants of Julianna and Blaine Normand.
I gulped, tracing all the names with my finger as I read them out loud.
“The first child of Julianna and Blaine was Anna Amelia Normand, born March 3, 1900, which means she recently turned twelve years old just like me.
“When Miss Anna grew up, she married a man named Charles Prevost, and they had a daughter named Daphne in 1925. Daphne married Henry Moret and they had two children, the oldest was a boy named William, and a daughter named Katherine Prevost Moret in 1952.”
The name Katherine was familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why, so I just kept going.
“Katherine married Preston DuMonde in 1975 and had a daughter named Gwen.” My voice started to shake. “They also had a girl named Madeline who was born in 1983! Maddie DuMonde married a man named Luke Renaud!”
My brain seemed to whirl with names and dates. “Maddie is my mamma and Luke Renaud is my daddy!” I exclaimed. “And Katherine — that’s — she’s my grandma in Baton Rouge! Which means …” I counted back the generations. “Daphne is my great-grandmother, which means that Miss Anna Normand is my great-great-grandmother.”
Miss Anna. I was related to her! I read the names of the family tree again. My name wasn’t there under Maddie and Luke Renaud, but I knew it should be. None of the baby boys, my brothers who’d died, were there, either. Mamma hadn’t kept the family Bible going, which made me feel left out. Was she just lazy? I felt my lips trembling, but I tried to brush it off and do some more figuring in my head as I studied the dates.
Julianna Landry’s and Blaine Normand’s parents must have lived during the Civil War. I wondered when my first ancestors had come from France.
I squinted my eyes, trying to remember what I’d seen when I’d crossed over the bridge — when I was still back in 1912. Sugarcane fields as far as you could see. My great-great-great-grandparents had owned a sugarcane plantation. They’d built that fancy mansion house once upon a time.
I tried to wrap my brain around the fact that Miss Anna Normand was my great-great-grandmother. I had to find out what happened to her. And there had to be a reason I was able to travel back to 1912. Maybe we were supposed to live in that house again. Maybe my family was supposed to fix it up like it used to be. We could live there instead of this ratty old antique store.
Unless Mamma balked. She was a good balker. After all, her sister died on that broken bridge. Maybe I was just a big dreamer, but I couldn’t help thinking about that beautiful house from long ago. I ached to see it again, and I ached to live in it, just like Miss Anna did.
&
After tossing stacks of clothes around the floor, I finally found a dress that wasn’t too big or too long. Anna had been wearing a dress that didn’t quite hit the tops of her stylish button-up boots. I held up a faded creamy white dress that was starting to yellow. It had long sleeves, which were hot for summer, but nothing else would fit.
I kept digging until I found a ribbon to tie around my waist. It wasn’t as wide and satiny as Miss Anna’s, but it would do.
I tried to curl my hair, but gave up after a couple of attempts to make my bangs do something. Besides, the curling iron was so hot it made me sweat. Stringy strands stuck to my forehead and chin. I found some clips and pulled it back, although my scar was bigger and uglier without my hair covering it.
It didn’t matter. I wasn’t planning on being seen. The costume was just in case something went horribly wrong and I was caught. I’d say I was an orphan. Or some lost cousin from Houma visiting relatives in Bayou Bridge.
I found some stockings deep in my dresser drawer and put on the pair of black button shoes I’d come across a few days ago. They were a little big, so I stuffed some tissue into the empty toe space and practiced walking. The heels weren’t too high. Hopefully, I wouldn’t trip. If dresses had been longer in 1912 I could have worn my sneakers or sandals and hidden them with the hem.
Sunday afternoons in Bayou Bridge were quiet, Main Street almost deserted. Only the gas station was open, and I crossed the street before I got too close so my clothes wouldn’t be conspicuous in case someone pumping gas saw me.
I was so focused on getting to the bayou I nearly jumped out of my skin when St. Paul’s church bells started to bong five o’clock.
As I got off Main and was passing some of the neighborhood houses, I could hear kids’ voices in the yards. An older couple sat on their porch reading a newspaper. A woman raised her hand at me and I lifted mine in a half wave.
Walking faster, I ducked down along the scraggly bushes hugging Bayou Teche. The lace at my neck was itching and my hair clung to my face in sweaty tendrils.
All of a sudden, I ran smack-dab into someone. A girl with brown hair and a stupid smile on her face. A girl named Alyson Granger.
“What in the heck are you doing out here?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, pretending I could hide the old-fashioned dress I was wearing.
“I’d say the same for you,” Alyson said stiffly. For some reason she was still wearing her Sunday dress. With white rolled socks and black Mary Janes.
“Just minding my own business. Now go away.”
“This is public property, and I can be here if I want to.”
I swept my hand out impatiently, wishing I could make her disappear into the earth. “Go somewhere else that’s public. There’s miles of it around.”
“I’m running an errand for my mamma,” she said, indicating a plastic bag.
“What’s in there?” I asked, curious in spite of myself.
“My mamma’s famous gingersnaps.”
“Since when did they become famous?”
“Everybody adores my mamma’s cookies. She could open a bakery if she wanted to.”
“We already have one. It’s called Sweet Ellen’s Bakery, in case you forgot.” I shook my head and tried to pass, but she stepped in front of me.
“What’s your problem?” Alyson asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re my problem. The biggest problem of my life. You’re just too prissy for your own good. All dressed up delivering cookies in a stupid plastic bag, of all things. Why not a pretty plate?”
Alyson bristled, but didn’t bite at my question. “Some folks like plastic bags. Maybe it saves ’em from washing and returning a plate. Besides, look at you all dressed up for Halloween or something. You’re five months early.”
“I know when Halloween is.”
She smirked. “Could have fooled me.”
“I think I could fool you on just about everything in the gol dern world!” My voice rose to a near shout. I hadn’t wanted to see anybody, and now here was the worst person to run into.
Alyson’s eyes traveled down my yellowing dress, the black sash, the buttoned-up shoes. “You are one peculiar girl, Larissa Renaud.”
My whole body turned hot. I was pretty sure my face was getting red, too, and when it does, the white ridge of my scar stands out even more. I wanted to yank Alyson’s perfect brown hair and throw her cookies into the bayou, but instead I clenched my teeth. “I. Am. Not. Peculiar!”
As soon as I said the words, I ran down the bank, hoping she’d leave me alone — for the rest of my life. But my ankles were so wobbly in the shoes, I had to slow down. I sneaked a backward look. “Dang!”
Alyson was still staring at me, clutching her stupid bag of cookies. Did she offer me a cookie? No. ’Course, I’d have thrown it into the muddy river and let the alligators snack on it. Actually, I’d like to see an alligator snacking on Alyson Granger’s toes. “Go away!” I yelled.
She finally wheeled around and continued marching into town. Once she turned the corner, I saw the lightning bugs straight ahead. They were more beautiful than ever as they danced and spun in dripping trails of light. When the fireflies formed a halo of golden light around me, I walked slowly across the bridge as they guided me to safety.
When they disappeared under the elephant ears, I ran up the path, scurried into the thick woods, and headed toward the house.
Not two minutes later, I heard voices and the sound of gaiety. Ribbons of cooking smoke rose like tufts of clouds. Next, the mouthwatering scent of barbecue spiced the air. Grilled chicken, links of sausage boudin, and pork cracklings spattering in their grease.
Keeping low to the ground, I brushed past shrubs of azaleas with their falling petals, staying close to the dense tupelo and low-hanging Spanish moss.
Finally, I found a spot where I could rest against a cypress trunk. Peering around a hedge of manicured shrubbery, I could see a summer party in progress on the lawn.
The whole family was there. I didn’t see Mister Lance, but I did see T-Paul in a pair of cotton pants that were too short for him and a buttoned-down shirt, his hair slick and wet. He stood near the banquet tables spread with white linen and loaded with salads and soft breads and cut-up watermelon. The boy stealthily grabbed a fresh hush puppy from a plate and popped it into his mouth.
I pulled my knees under my chin, mesmerized.
Several women sat in lawn chairs or chaise longues. Big hats decorated with ribbons and bows perched on top of their upswept hair. The hairstyles reminded me of the Gibson Girl hairdos I’d seen in old magazines in the antique store. Their dresses were satin with an overlay of lace and rear cascading ruffles, in shades of lavender and green and yellow.
One young woman held a white parasol over her shoulder, twirling it in her gloved hands. All the men, young and old, wore white shirts with rolled-up sleeves. A couple of them had suspenders or half-buttoned vests and they were playing catch with a baseball.
My stomach rose like it was floating on fizzy water. I wished I could join them instead of hiding in the bushes like a homeless girl or a spy.
Sudden shouts pierced the air as one of the men dropped the baseball and had to run for it across the lawn. The ladies clapped at the men’s successful plays, chattering together, their Southern voices drawling with charm and culture.
“Mamma!” Miss Anna called as she stepped off the porch. She planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek, nearly knocking her hat off. So that beautiful woman in the pale lavender must be Julianna Landry Normand. I gaped at her until my eyes hurt. “Uncle Edgar’s coming outside now!”
“At last,” her mamma murmured, smiling at the other ladies.
The sun skimmed the trees, painting the sky with pink and red. I spied Mister La
Miz Julianna rose from her chair, calling out to the men. The baseball game ended with a burst of shouts and clapping when one of the men crossed home plate.
“Time to eat!” T-Paul said with a whoop.
There were two men dressed in white aprons manning the barbecue pit. I could see deep red coals, catfish and chicken and boudin sizzling on a grate above. My stomach growled and I pressed my hand against it, although nobody could hear me in the cypress grove.
The chefs brought platters of steaming meat over to the tables and set them down among the salads and hush puppies and cakes.
A woman and a young girl about my age stood behind the food tables wearing starched aprons and shooing flies away with straw fans. The girl was dressed just like the woman, so I figured she was probably her daughter. They both wore their hair in braids tied in a round bun on the back of their heads.
The Normand family talked and mingled with their guests, urging them to fill their plates. The amount of food was enormous. Anna plucked a piece of watermelon with her fingers when her mother wasn’t watching and stuck it in her mouth. Behind the table, the servant girl’s forehead puckered in a tiny frown. Anna caught it and glared at her. The serving girl quickly smoothed back her features when her mother observed the exchange.
“Mind your manners to Miss Anna, Dulcie, girl,” her mamma said.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Dulcie softly. “May I fix you a plate, Miss Anna?” she added.
Anna shook her head. “I’ll do it myself. Then I can pick just what I want to eat without you giving me a plate of nasty brussels sprouts.”
“As you wish, Miss Anna,” Dulcie’s mother said. “But as you can see, there ain’t any brussels sprouts on the menu today.”
Miss Anna gave a sly smile. “That’s because Mamma ordered all of Uncle Edgar’s favorite foods — all my favorites, too.”
“You are a blessed young lady, and much loved,” the woman told her.
“Now where’s my favorite girl?” A tall man roared as he jumped down the porch steps and strode across the lawn. He had sunburned skin, a full mustache, and bright red suspenders. He caught Anna up and swung her around.