How would she fit in? She longed for an opportunity to throw herself blindly into something that would make her forget Bob. Would the Mardi Gras bring her forgetfulness? Could anything do that?
Then her teeth grated together angrily as she found her thoughts had again swung around circuitously to Bob.
“Damn!” she murmured viciously.
“Why’d yuh say that?”
Barbara opened her eyes quickly to see a chubby-faced girl of about five years of age regarding her gravely. She had brown eyes, a delectably stubby nose, and a dirty chin. A fat hand tugged at Barbara’s dress.
“What did you say?” Barbara rubbed her eyes in amazement.
“I said why’d yuh say damn?” The brown eyes regarded her unblinkingly. “That’s uh bad word. M’mama allus said so.”
“So it is,” Barbara assented. “And I’m a bad girl to say it.”
“You don’ look bad,” the little girl assured her.
“Thanks,” Barbara chuckled.
The little girl climbed carefully up on the seat beside her. “I’m goin’ tuh Mwada Gwa,” she said happily. “You goin’ too?”
“Yes.” Barbara pinched her fat cheek. “You’re pretty young to start going to Mardi Gras, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I’m fi’-goin’-on-six,” the child confided. “My name’s Boots an’ my bruvver’s name’s Buddie,” she explained. “He’s on’y four an’ he’s wi’ daddy back there.” She gestured toward the back of the car.
“Is that so? And you’re truly going to Mardi Gras?”
“Yes,” Boots said happily. “Mammy wouldn’t let us go before, but mammy died an’ went to heaven an’ it almos’ seemed like God took her so’s we could go to Mwada Gwa.”
“Oh no!” Barbara protested, shocked. “You mustn’t say that.”
“Tha’s whut my daddy said,” Boots insisted.
“I beg yo’ pahdon, miss.” A tall form loomed beside Barbara in the aisle. “I reckon Boots is botherin’,” he went on apologetically. “Come on, sugah.” He held out his arms toward the little girl.
He was tall and lanky. With a rough mop of black hair, wide forehead, deeply lined face, and quiet eyes which gleamed from beneath bushy brows. His neck was thin and a protuberant Adam’s apple moved up and down nervously as he spoke. A loosely knotted tie was awry, and the sleeves of his black coat were too short, exposing bony wrists.
“That’s all right,” Barbara said quickly. “She’s been amusing me. Her name is Boots and she tells me she has a younger brother named Buddie.”
“Jest my pet names,” the tall man muttered shamefacedly. “Foolish, I reckon, namin’ ’em after the funnies that way.”
“I think it’s darling,” Barbara assured him.
“Mammy wouldn’t let us be named that,” Boots broke in. “Usta make her mad when daddy’d call us that on the sly.”
The tall man moved uneasily. “Her mammy wasn’t much for funnin’,” he observed awkwardly.
“So I guessed.” Barbara looked at him reproachfully. “Your little girl had just said something that didn’t sound very nice for a child to say when you came up.”
“I jes’ said it seemed like God took mammy so’s we could go to Mwada Gwa,” Boots told him. “An’ you said that.”
A shade seemed to pass over the tall man’s face. “I didn’t know it would sound like that,” he admitted. “Fer uh fact, I didn’t.” He sighed heavily and looked at Boots reproachfully.
“Oh! There’s Buddie,” Boots said brightly.
Buddie slipped around his father and crawled up on the other seat, facing Barbara. He was fatter and dirtier than Boots, and his smile was cherubic.
“You might as well sit down, too,” Barbara said smilingly to the man. “I seem to be elected.”
“Thank you, miss. But I don’t want to be uh bother.” The man spoke apologetically.
“Sit down. They’re sweet children,” Barbara said impulsively.
“Yes’m... I... My name’s Simpson,” the tall man said simply. He sat down carefully beside the little boy.
“You should teach your children not to go around saying such things about their mother,” Barbara told him severely.
“Yes’m. I... didn’t really mean it that way,” Mr, Simpson said slowly. “But it did seem like, sorta, that God musta took Maria so’s... so’s me an’ the children could... could laugh again,” Mr. Simpson said apologetically.
“I don’t understand.” Barbara leaned forward frowningly. “You’re a widower?” she asked.
“Yes’m. Maria jes’ died las’ summer. Yuh see...” Mr. Simpson hesitated and gestured vaguely. “Maria was a good woman,” he said defensively. “An awful good woman. I... I reckon maybe she was too good tuh live on this here earth.”
“But what has that to do with Mardi Gras?” Barbara asked in perplexity.
“Maria, she didn’t hold with havin’ no good times. She thought ’twas a sin to laugh an’ jolly. I bin layin’ off tuh take the young-uns to see uh Mardi Gras ever since they was born... but Maria, she wouldn’t hear of it. She said ’twas uh sin... an’ that ended it. But we’re agoin’ this year,” he ended strongly.
“An’ daddy says maybe we’ll fin’ uh new mammy at the Mwada Gwa what won’t mind lettin’ us go nex’ year,” Boots said triumphantly.
“Oh!” Barbara gazed at Mr. Simpson helplessly. She didn’t know whether to laugh at him or scold him.
“I didn’t hardly mean it that way,” Mr. Simpson protested. “But they bin devilin’ me fer uh new mammy, an’ I tol’ ’em that if we found one in New Orleans that she’d be the sort that’d want tuh come back fer funnin’ every year.”
“I’ve got uh cowboy suit.” Buddie spoke suddenly. “With uh lasso ’n’ever’thin’.”
“He sho’ has,” Mr. Simpson beamed. “An’ Boots, she got uh fairy costume. We’ve bin plannin’ ’em for this Mardi Gras fer three years,” he went on proudly.
“Oh!” Barbara closed her eyes again. A vision arose before her of this family that had been waiting patiently for three years to attend a festival which the mother thought was sinful. And God had taken the mother away, and they looked forward confidently to finding another mother who would not be quite so sternly “good.”
Barbara shivered in spite of herself. The spirit of Mardi Gras was the spirit of freedom. Was it not exemplified by this gaunt widower and his two lisping children? What would Mardi Gras hold for them? For Buddie and his cowboy suit? Boots and her fairy costume?
In her fantastic vision she saw them swept into the whirlpool of Mardi Gras. What would they find there? And she saw an unceasing procession, wending its way with wistful faces toward the magic of Mardi Gras. Was the answer there? It was a challenge to those who have neglected to laugh. Was there something for each?
She opened her eyes and saw that Mr. Simpson was preparing to arise. He smiled apologetically and his Adam’s apple leaped mightily.
“We’re comin’ into New Orleans,” he said gravely. “I’ve got tuh get our truck together.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you there,” she smiled. Then she bent impulsively and kissed Boots’ head. There was something infinitely touching in this trio who sought delayed happiness at this Mardi Gras spectacle.
She gazed eagerly out of the window when the Simpsons had gone back to their seat. A deep-rooted thrill went over her as the myriad lights of the city gleamed close by. They seemed to beckon joyfully. There was a subtle change in the very atmosphere. The call of romance, of freedom. Mardi Gras awaited her! Her spine tingled at the thought.
The train slowly jolted to a halt, and she was one of a joyful crowd who surged in the aisle toward the door. Men smiled when their feet were trampled upon, and women laughed as they struggled with their bundles. The station seemed full of travelers and those gathered to greet them. Barbara set her suitcase down carefully and looked about for Ethel. There were several masked figures in the throng, and all wore gay costumes as though it was against some unwritten law to appear during Mardi Gras in drab clothing.