Little Girl Lost: The Return of Johnnie Wise
by Keith Lee Johnson
Dare to Imagine Publishing

Excerpt

“Bye, Mama.”

Johnnie knew it was time to keep the promise she had made to herself when she told Earl Shamus off on Christmas Eve about four weeks earlier. She had told herself that she would need to have a similar conversation with her mother even though she was dead and in the tomb she had purchased for her remains. She had put the conversation off far too long. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say when she parked her car and got out. Nor did she know what she was going to say when she reached the crypt, but she was determined to say whatever came to mind.

She entered the City of the Dead and tried her best to remember where her mother was. She hadn’t been to the cemetery since Marguerite’s funeral. She plodded her way through the graveyard, thinking she was close to the tomb, hoping she would soon find it. But when she neared the place where she and her brother had laid their mother to rest, she stopped in front of it, and seriously considered changing her mind. All of a sudden, she didn’t want to go in. Even though her domineering mother was dead, Johnnie was still intimidated by her remains. She was about to turn around and go back to her car when she realized she would never be free until she told her mother the truth. With that in mind, she walked into the burial chamber and went to Marguerite’s final resting place.

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Now that she was there, it seemed silly to talk to the remains of what was once her mother, but she was determined to get it over with and get out of New Orleans for good. Hesitantly she said, “I love you, Mama, but I hate you, Mama.” She closed her eyes and reflected for a few seconds, remembering all the events of the previous two years. “I was a good girl, Mama. I was a good Christian girl, pure before Almighty God, until you and Earl turned me into a whore. I know you meant well, but you were a jealous mother. You were jealous because I’m young and you were getting up in age.

“As far back as I can remember I could never do anything right for you. Nothing! Everything I did was wrong. Why, Mama? Why didn’t you love me? Huh? Why couldn’t you treat me like other mothers treat their daughters? Why couldn’t you be nice to me more often than you were? Why did I have to fight you to get you to show me the same respect you wanted me to show you? Most of the time it seemed as if I was nothing but a meal ticket for you. If you didn’t want me, why didn’t you send me to my father? And why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you tell me Sheriff Tate ran him out of town because he wanted to continue sleeping with you and my daddy wouldn’t stand for it? Why did you have to paint such a terrible picture of him, saying he left you and never came back to see about us when you knew all along he was run out of town?” Her tears were flowing freely now as she purged her mind and her soul. “You could’ve been a better mother if you tried to be. You could’ve loved more if you tried to. You could’ve protected me if you wanted to. But you didn’t, did you, Mama? And now, I’ve had to grow up quick and hard. Oh, and by the way, because of what you taught me, I had to end up killing my baby. I got pregnant, Mama. Pregnant! Pregnant before marriage, Mama. Do you have any idea what its like to give birth to children who don’t have a name? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? Of course you do, and yet you did to me what was done to you. You knew better, yet you didn’t do better by me. You took advantage of me for personal gain.

“How foolish can a mother be? You were supposed to protect me from the evil of this world, but instead, you forced me to participate in its depravity. Anyway . . . it was a little girl child, Mama . . . your granddaughter. Now that I’ve lost everything, I guess it’s just as well that I killed her. And I guess you’re happy now that I ended up just like you . . . broke and alone. I just hope the good Lord above forgives me for what I did. I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive myself though. But I know one thing, if the good Lord above gives me another child, I swear I’ll never kill another one no matter what or whose baby it is.” She looked at her watch, and then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “There’s so much to say, Mama, and so little time. So, let me say this before I go. You were wrong about Lucas. Lucas was good to me, and believe it or not, I was bad to him and bad for him in so many ways. No, Lucas wasn’t perfect, but he was better than most. If it weren’t for that whore, Marla Bentley, I think he would have been totally true to me. I hope I run into her one day so I can tell her about herself. If you and Earl Shamus hadn’t turned me out, I would have been good for Lucas, and we would have left this place long ago. I guess I’m more like you than I ever imagined. I guess sin is in the blood, and we are slaves to it.

“You once told me when we were at the Savoy Hotel, before those crackers burned it down, that I shouldn’t blame you for the rest of my life. That I should do whatever I wanted to do from that time forward. Well, as of this moment, I’m through blaming you, and I’m through blaming Earl. I’m in control now. Whatever happens to me from this moment forward is on me. Well, I guess that’s it. Bye, Mama. I hope you can rest in peace and somehow know that I’ve forgiven everything you and Earl did to me.”

When she had finished speaking, she left the crypt. She saw a white woman clutching the hand of a little white boy who was holding a red balloon. The boy had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. When the woman’s eyes met Johnnie’s, it seemed as if the woman recognized her. The woman smiled pleasantly and tugged her son’s hand, beckoning him to keep up with her pace. Johnnie forced herself to smile, too, even though that was the last thing she wanted to do. The woman walked faster as if she were all of sudden in a hurry, dragging the little boy with her into a nearby tomb. The name above the crypt read: PIERRE ST. JOHN.

Still looking over his shoulder at Johnnie, admiringly so, the boy let go of his balloon just before his mother pulled him inside. She could tell the boy thought she was pretty by the way he smiled and couldn’t take his eyes off her. She thought the least she could do was retrieve his balloon for him. A gust of wind blew, and the balloon floated away. When she was on the verge of catching up with it, another gust of wind sent it on its way again, taking her farther into the cemetery and farther away from the crypt of Pierre St. John. Finally, the balloon floated over a wrought iron fence surrounding an expensive-looking mausoleum that resembled a miniature house with smooth cement columns. A winged angel of stone holding a sword and shield sat atop of the crypt while carved male and female lions guarded two bronze doors. She opened the gate and went inside, hoping she could get the boy’s balloon this time. But when she reached for the balloon, another gust of wind caused it to rise where it hovered beneath the name BAPTISTE, which was chiseled into the stone facing.

The Red Balloon

Seeing her family’s name engraved in expensive granite sent an icy chill down Johnnie’s spine and shook her like she was suddenly standing directly on the North Pole without a stitch of clothing to protect her from the frigid wind. She looked to the left, and then to the right. Seeing no one, she considered going in. In fact, every fiber of her being was telling her to go inside and take a look around even though she knew the crypt would probably be locked. Again, she looked to the left, and then to the right. Again, seeing no one, she looked up, hoping to see the balloon, but it was gone. She looked for it, but it seemed to have vanished as if by magic. Then, tentatively, she took a few steps forward, still looking around, hoping no one would see her going into what in all likelihood was another family’s crypt as she was being pulled inside by an irresistible invisible force. On the chance that the crypt wasn’t locked, she wanted to get inside and see if she recognized any names that might be in there.

She hurried up the stairs and hesitantly reached out for the bronze door on the right, fully expecting it to be locked while praying it wouldn’t be. Her hand shook a little when she touched the door handle. Her heart was pounding. Holding it firmly, she closed her eyes and said, “Please, God, let it be open.” She pulled the door, and it opened. Surprised, she immediately closed it. Again, she looked around, thinking it wasn’t her family’s tomb. It was probably another Baptiste family—a white one, given the expense it would have taken to build such a structure.

It occurred to her that a family member probably left something in the car and hustled back to get it and would return any moment now. She turned around and was about to walk back down the stairs and leave when she again felt the invisible force that had guided her thus far. It seemed to be pulling at her flesh even more now, demanding that she enter and see what was in there. Her heart beat even faster as exhilaration threatened to consume her. She turned around and looked at the bronze doors. Then, she looked over her shoulder one last time. Seeing no one, she went inside before anyone could see her desecrating someone’s sacred burial ground.

In the vestibule now, the light of the sun poured in from stained glass windows. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it. She told herself she would be in and out in a matter of seconds. Who would know that she had trespassed? She figured there were probably only a few names on the vaults. She went to the first vault. JOSEPHINE BAPTISTE was engraved in the vault’s emperador brown marble facing. A burgeoning smile emerged and remained. She tried, but she couldn’t remember her grandmother. She didn’t remember when she died or even going to the funeral, but she was glad to finally make her acquaintance, albeit posthumously. At that instant, she remembered her grandfather, Nathaniel Beauregard, and the day he stood up and told his family the truth about who she was.

She was about to leave when something told her to look at the other names on the wall etched in the marble facings. She thought, Why not? She went to the far end of the wall, and then one by one, she read the following names: PRINCE AMIR BASHIR JIBRIL, LAUREN RENEE BOUVIER BAPTISTE. Amir and Lauren were together in a double vault. Beneath Lauren’s name was another name in parentheses—IBO ATIKAH MUSTAFA. Next to them was the name: ROKK BAPTISTE, beloved husband of Lauren, student of the Prince. She continued on and read the following names: ANTOINETTE JACQUELINE GABRIELLE BAPTISTE, PHARAOH BAPTISTE, SETI BAPTISTE, RAMESSES BAPTISTE, and finally, JOSEPHINE BAPTISTE.
She noticed that only Prince Amir Bashir Jibril didn’t have the Baptiste name. She wondered if he really was a prince, and if Lauren was married to Rokk, why was she in a vault with the Prince? She opened her purse, pulled out a pen and paper, and wrote all the names down so that she would remember them. Then, she left the crypt and descended the stairs. It occurred to her that she hadn’t written down the dates of their births and deaths. She was leaving New Orleans for good and had no idea if she would ever return. She wanted to see all the vaults and all the dates again, but when she tried to open the door again, it was locked. She tried and tried, but she could not get back in. That’s when she knew it was time to leave the city of her birth.
As she was leaving the cemetery, she saw the same white woman with the same little boy again, but this time they were about to come into the cemetery. The woman smiled pleasantly again as she and her blue-eyed son passed.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Johnnie said. “If you’re looking for your son’s balloon, I tried to retrieve it for him, but I couldn’t. If that’s what you came back for, I think it’s gone.”

The woman smiled and said, “There must be some mistake. You must have us confused with someone else. My son has a red balloon, but it’s at home.”

Johnnie offered a frown of confusion and said, “Are you sure, ma’am?”

“I’m positive. We just got here, so you couldn’t have seen us. You must have seen another boy with his mother who happened to have a red balloon, too.”

Johnnie was positive that this was the same woman and boy. The boy had the same blue eyes. She said, “Sorry for the mistake, ma’am. I could have sworn I saw you two going into a tomb that had the name St. John on it.”

“Now that’s truly interesting,” the woman said. “My name is Caroline St. John, and this is my son, Trevor. It must be some sort of coincidence. Or, perhaps you saw one of my relatives. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’m taking Trevor to meet our ancestors.”

“Sure. I’m sorry to have kept you.”

And with that, Johnnie took a few more steps toward the gate. When she realized she didn’t tell the woman the balloon was red, she turned around, looking for the mother and her son, but like the red balloon, they had vanished, too. She shook her head and wondered if she had imagined seeing the woman and her son earlier, the red balloon, the Baptiste tomb, and the names of her relatives. She was about to go back and see if she was losing her mind. She opened her purse, grabbed the list of names, and read them again. Then she smiled, got in her car, and left town.

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