The Woman Who Changed Her Men For Cats

I collect stories, and New Orleans obliges, dripping them down eaves into century-old puddles, rattling them in streetcar morse, and singing them across shop counters in clatter of coinage. Most stories evaporate, leaving naught but traceries, fingerprints in beignet dust, suggestive of what has been, and what has been gobbled by time. But a few are caught in my notebooks. The following was told to me by a whiskered neighbor of Chopitulip Street. As I passed his gate one afternoon, he stretched, yawned, and tossed it to me. I tell it now more or less in the words of the old gentleman.

"Wuhz an ole mansion uptown a-ways, an' an ole lady livin' in it. She go by Baba, but the young ones got it right callin' her witch. She wuhz scarin'ly ugly, uglier than a loup garou. It's a wonder she got even one husband, much less six. Or maybe t‘wuhz eight'? Don't nobody 'round here remember no more. That's for sure, chère. Wuhz a long time back."

And here, the gentleman crossed himself in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Other.

“Now, particulars of th'story I gotta tell ya happened my 18th summer. Those days were so hot, all the gates of the city meltin’ into puddles an’ folks mopping ‘em up. All the cemetery angels cryin’ real tears sizzlin’ down their marble cheeks. All the while, those rich folk idlin’ on their verandahs in the Fleurondissement, linens flappin' under fans a-spinnin’, an’ us young ones runnin' around doin’ odd jobs, keepin’ the linened ones propped up. But ya better move quick, else ya shoes’d melt to the pavement!

Well, between bouts o'matrimony, old Baba kept no company but cats, an’ her yard wuhz teemin’ wild wid ‘em. Cats built like railway planks. Cats spokey as wagon wheels. Dapper cats, an’ ratter cats. Cats stretched in windows, cats dreamin’ in patches of moss-fuzzed sunlight. Trippin’ ya up as ya pass, their yelly smelly eyes followin' after ya, sniffin' your breezeways, and knowin’ ya secrets.

Sof'n'fuzzy as a rotten peach, Baba would say to the milkman linger’n’ on her stoop:

Antoine has gone to St Louis to see about a property sale

and Milkman would tilt back, eyes squintin’ in his head, counting the towers of Baba’s mansion appraisin’ly. Amber-colored tabaccy juice would begin at Baba and land in the overgrown yard as Baba’s own yelly eyes lingered appraisin’ly over Milkman’s face, his shoulders, his arms. Then Milkman might find himself invited in for sweet tea.

Old Baba made the neighborhood uneasy, on account of bein' a woman minding her own, on account of the cats, and on account of the missing husbands. Stories sprung up; Baba had planted the missing husbands in the yard, or burned 'em up, or ground 'em down as feed for her cats. A couple of bolder young so-and-so's would call at Baba's lookin' for work. My pal Sam was one of ‘em, going around her place for the occasional chore. And then the occasional became the frequent. And then, before you know’d it, Sam’s puttin’ on airs, sayin’ Baba this and Baba that, how he wuhz Baba’s favorite, and sportin' a gold chain Baba gave him on account o' cleanin’ out her eaves. Sam’d laugh it up with the boys, saying how he’d do a good bit more than clean her eaves if it meant livin’ uptown in the Fleurondissment with the rich folks, drinking tea under whirlin’ fans.

‘Hadn’t Baba gone and gotten herself married again last year?’ I asked Sam.

‘Well, yah, but husband’s gone off. To settle a property Up River, Baba say. Or count his gold!’ Sam laughed, slappin’ his knee. “Or whatever rich folk do.’ With a face like Baba’s, couldn’t blame a husband for running wild when given leash.

‘She got money a’plenty in there,’ Sam grinned, with a wink and a flash of his gold tooth. Soon after, Sam himself went Up River, and one day I was passin’ Baba’s house and she hollers:

got a job for you child

'Sure, Baba.' I call back, inclined to say no, but sure could usin’ those extra pennies. That day, for a whole silver dollar, I oiled the squeak out of Baba’s gate. Then, next day, I'm passin’ Baba’s house and she hollers again:

got a job for you child

So I dug a hole for Baba. And this time she gave me a gold chain, not so d'similar to the one I’d seen Sam sportin’. And the day after? I'm passing Baba’s house, she hollers again.

got a job for you child

And so I set to fixin' some boards come loose on Baba’s porch. And each day, all the while, noticing a little ginger cat that would follow me, peerin' up. And I think to my-self, something mighty queer 'bout that little ginger cat, but I couldn’t put a-thumb to it.

By this time, I’d been courtin’ my pretty Sally for some months, and she warned me: “That old woman will fix the eye on ya.” But every day, Baba warmed me over, gettin’ friendlier and friendlier. So I paid no mind to Sally's fussin’, an' one day when I'd finished hammerin’ on the cat-scatted porch, Baba come up behind and put her hand gentlin' like on my shoulder, saying,

why don’t you come in for some cold sweet tea

And was that the chill breeze of autumn I felt comin’ on just then? But Baba said

no that’s just the molasses cookie waiting for you in the ice box

So I followed Baba, and the little ginger cat followed me, and into the parlor we went, with an audience of more yelly eyes peerin’ as Baba handed me a cookie and a sweatin’ glass of tea and settled herself into a spongy green chaise. Then a black cat jumped into Baba’s lap, askin’ for pets, which she obliged, all the while watching me, the cat purrin' and Baba smilin'. I drank that tea down in one swallow, with the m'lasses cookie followin' down in the next.

got another cookie for you child

I nodded, and Baba hobbled off to get that promised cookie. No sooner had she gone, then the queer little ginger cat jumped up in my lap. That cat looked me square in the face and then it smiled, flashing its gold tooth.

“Well, I'll be. Sam? Is that you! What are you doing in a cat?”

"Meow," said my old pal Sam.

Just then Baba returned with the cookie and I looked from the cat to Baba to my empty glass, noticing a clump of soggy fur floatin' at its bottom. Well I set the glass down real slow and when I looked back at Baba, Baba and her cats wuhz lookin' right back at me. Right then I ‘spected Baba was fixin’ to expand her cat collection. And right then I could feel the tickle of whiskers comin' in, an' the itchin' of a tail where a glass of tea ago, there'd been none. Baba's teeth flashed in a mean grin.

all the better to gobble you with my dear

Well, I weren’t ready to be that woman’s housecat! When I leaped, Baba sprang. When I ran, Baba bolted. Slam! went the front door behind Baba. And Lock! went the key a-turnin'. So, Up! the grand ole stairs I zoomed, a blur of legs (two legs now, or was it four?), and a flash of that ole Baba chasin’me, not hobblin’ now, but takin’ the stairs two and three clawfuls a-leap, a mess of boy and fur and commotion shooting up past yelly eyes watching drowsy from dark corners. We blew to the top of the stairs in a fury, and then the stairs ran out. Only place left wuhz the window ahead, and Baba behind. 

I chose the window. And from it, you can believe I lept. But Lord, Baba had me by the tail! As we tumbled through the open window, cat and boy and Baba, I shouted the prayer taught me by the good nuns of Lord’s Bend, though its corners were rusty with disuse:

Our Pops,

up in the clouds,

Your name be holy.

Bring Your kingdom here,

and make everythin' go down like it does up there.

Give us our grub for today,

and excuse our missteps,

like we excuse the missteps of others.

Don't let us get pulled into any bad stuff,

but get us out of the rough spots.

Amen, Pops!

As that ol' rascal Baba came tumblin’ out the window after me, I prepared to meet my maker. But splatter on the banquette I ne’er did, for the oak tree reachin' its branches had snagged the patch in my trousers put there by the thread and needle of that bestest of gals, Sally O’Mally! It’s hard to say if it wuhz a broken heart or the broken neck that killed Baba, but dead on the ground she lay.

When the undertakers came to collect her, an accounting was made of the ole mansion, attic to parlor, and it contained s’many hats as missin' husbands—an' then some! Bowlers, beavers, stovepipes, and canvas delivery boy caps. Covered in fur, every last one of ‘em.”

My neighbor sighed. 

“Cats don’t often wear bowler hats, chère, but they most certain’ly never sport gold teeth.”

“And Baba’s magic musta been somethin' awful strong ‘cause even now, symptoms of a catwitchin' persist. I’d rather have a saucer o’warm milk than beer any day. I cannot abide dogs or handsy people. Got a naggin’ distrust of sweet tea. An’ sometimes in the night, poor Sally wakes to me scratchin’ my ear with my foot.” With his tail thus told, the gentleman yawned and stretched to resume his patch of sunlight.

Baba's house still stands, where the trees shake off their banquettes and the wrought iron gate bows but never melts. And Baba herself is planted in the old cemetery just beyond that neighborhood. Her name on the stone is all worn away, but you’ll know the place by the cats. Or, so my neighbor claims. You won't find this story written down anywhere because the best stories belong to ears and mouths. 

And that’s the way it is in New Orleans, mon chère.