Out of the Easy (21 page)

“He was drunk, said he needed to be slapped to sober up. And poor Charlie was just lying there covered in blood. I was so scared, Willie.”

“Of course you were. Hell, I’d be scared, too. Cokie said you thought it was your fault. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Charlie’s obviously more pickled than any of us knew. I set up a trade with Randolph. He’s going to check on Charlie every couple days for a line of credit with Dora.”

“Thank you, Willie.”

“Now, Randolph can’t write prescriptions—he’s got problems of his own. I’ll still have to get those from Sully. But at least he can monitor and let us know what he needs.”

“The neighbors are probably becoming suspicious,” I said.

“Tell them Charlie’s in Slidell visiting a friend. I don’t want him in the mental ward with all the nut jobs,” said Willie. “Charlie’s a dignified man. Always helped me when I needed it. Randolph says the outbursts will pass, and he’ll go quiet.”

“You mean his fits will pass?”

Willie took another sip of her coffee. “Cokie also told me that you fixed Lockwell’s car.”

“I didn’t. Jesse Thierry did.”

Willie nodded. “Well, you sure made Jesse look like a hero. But I guess that’s why you did it. You’ve been seen around town together. You like him.”

She stated it as fact, just like Jesse did. It annoyed me. And who had told her I was seen with Jesse? It had to be Frankie.

“Jesse’s a friend, Willie, nothing more. He talks about cars and dirt racing.”

“Oh, right, and you’re on your way to becoming a Rockefeller. I forgot.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, don’t worry. There are lots of nice girls who will be happy to take your sloppy seconds. Hell, the Uptown women gawk at him like he’s sex on a stick. Jesse’s a good kid, even if he’s too lowbrow for you.”

Willie had a way of making me feel ashamed of myself without even trying. I watched her unfold the newspaper. She looked at the headline, then at me, then back at the headline. She coughed and continued reading. “So, someone slipped the Mick too fat. Killed him, eh?”

I nodded.

Willie read aloud from the story. “‘
The Memphis Press-Scimitar
further reported that administering knockout drops to tourists of visible affluence is a widespread practice in the French Quarter, where the nightclub is located.’ Such crap. They’re painting us all as thieves! Next we’ll be voted the most dangerous city, and that’ll grind tourism to dust.”

Willie slapped the paper down in fury. She got up, lit a cigarette, and began pacing in front of the bed, her black silk robe flowing loose around her.

She pointed at me with her burning cigarette. “This is gonna get bad, Jo. People will demand a cleanup in the Quarter. This fella was high cotton. Every Uptown wife is going to see this and think of her own husband. They’ll lock ’em down. The police will turn up the heat. They’ll be on the house like a bitch on a bone. Business will suffer.”

“Do you think they’ll catch the person who did it?”

Willie didn’t respond. She paced, sucking nicotine. She stopped and turned to me. “Don’t you talk to anyone. If someone comes asking questions, you tell them you know nothing. You come straight to me.”

“Who would ask me questions?”

“The cops, idiot.”

I looked down into my lap.

“What, they already came around?”

I nodded. “Like I told you, Mr. Hearne came into the shop and bought two books the day he died. The police wanted to know what he bought and if he seemed unwell. I told them that he bought Keats and Dickens and that he looked fine.”

“What else?” Willie took a hard pull on her cigarette. I watched the paper burn back.

“That’s it.”

“Well, that’s plenty. They could call you to testify.” She spun around toward me. “Was Patrick there? Did he see Hearne?”

“Yes.”

“Patrick will take the stand. Not you.”

“Willie, what are you talking about?”

“Shut up! Get out and get to work. You’re late. Dates will come knocking early, wanting a fix before Mardi Gras. And put some cold water on your face. It’s fat from all your boo-hooing. You look like Joe Louis in the twelfth round.”

THIRTY-THREE

I slept through Mardi Gras.

I used Patrick’s fan from the shop to mask the noise. We always complained that fan was loud, but on the floor next to my bed, it was perfect. I slept for fourteen hours, not waking once, not even to think about the Smith application.

I had mailed it the day before Mardi Gras, including a crisp ten-dollar bill for the application fee. I often thought about opening a bank account and loved the idea of having printed checks, but Willie didn’t trust banks or bankers in New Orleans. She said they were the wildest men in the house, and she wasn’t going to let them pay her with her own money. She also didn’t want anyone tracking her earnings.

The clerk at the post office said the envelope would arrive in Northampton by February 27. She had looked at the address on the envelope, looked at me, and gave a pitiful smile. She was probably thinking, “Oh, you’re not really trying to get into Smith College, are you? I heard they’re hiring at Woolworth’s on Canal.”

Charlotte’s most recent postcard was dated February 15, and it arrived on the twentieth.

The front of the card framed a large, beautiful building covered in snow. The caption running along the bottom said
Built in 1909, the William Allan Neilson Library at Smith College contains 380,000 volumes and adds 10,000 annually.

I flipped the card over, reading Charlotte’s tiny writing yet again.

Dear Jo,

Have you mailed your application? I hope so! Aunt Lilly says Mardi Gras is in full swing. I’m so envious of all the fun you must be having. I showed all the girls the postcard you sent from the Vieux Carré. The flying club has an aerial tag match with Yale this weekend, and next week our congressman will meet with the Progressives. Can’t wait for you to join us. Write soon.

Fondly,
Charlotte

I wanted to join them, to work on something important and meaningful.

“Hey, Motor City.”

The voice filtered in from outside, followed by a whistle. I peeked out the window. Jesse nodded from across the street, standing in front of his motorcycle. I opened the window and leaned out. The street was covered with remnants of celebration. Trash Wednesday, they called it.

“Did you get some sleep?” he called up. “I didn’t see you out.”

“I slept through the whole thing.”

“You hungry?”

I was starving. “Are you going to the cathedral to get your ashes?” I asked.

Jesse laughed. “I’m from Alabama, remember? Baptist. Salvation by grace. Let’s go find a muffuletta.”

We sat on a bench at the edge of Jackson Square. A good night’s sleep had helped. My mind had cleared, and the earth no longer shifted beneath my feet. Jesse’s head lolled against the bench, his eyes closed, the sun baking the comfortable smile on his face. It was nice not talking. Somehow Jesse and I could have a conversation without saying a word. I closed my eyes and leaned back, trying to bring the orange shadows behind my eyelids into focus. Birds chirped, and a breeze rolled over my arms. We sat that way for a while, cleansing ourselves of the chaos that had been Mardi Gras, content with the lunch settling in our stomachs.

“Jess?”

“Mm,” he replied.

I kept my eyes closed and felt my body relaxing further into the bench. “I did something.”

“That’s never a good intro.”

“For some reason, I want to tell you about it,” I said.

“Okay. Start tellin’.”

“Back around the New Year, I met a girl, Charlotte, from Massachusetts. She came into the shop, and we got on really well. We had never met before, but it was like she knew me completely. I felt so comfortable with her. Have you ever met someone like that?”

“Yep.”

The clouds shifted, and the glow of sun brightened on my face. “But she’s from a really wealthy family, a good family, and she’s a freshman at Smith College in Massachusetts. She even flies a plane. Charlotte kept telling me that I should apply to Smith. I know it sounds ridiculous, me being able to go to a prestigious school like that, but she sent me all the information.”

Suddenly, the insanity of the whole thing came into focus, and I nearly laughed.

“But for some reason, I began to want it, really badly. I told Willie, and she was mad. She said I had to go to school here in New Orleans, that I was out of my league trying to get into a college like that. Well, that made me want it more. So I did it, Jesse. I applied to Smith in Northampton. I told you I convinced that lout John Lockwell to sign a recommendation. I sent the application the other day. I’m scared to admit it, even to myself.” My voice dropped. “But I really want this.”

I felt a shadow glide over my face as the sun slipped behind a cloud. I took a deep breath and exhaled, feeling the weight of secrecy lift off of me and onto the breeze.

“Crazy, that’s what you’re thinking, right?” I said.

“What I’m thinking?” His voice was close.

I opened my eyes. Jesse was inches from my face, blocking the sun. I felt his breath on my neck and saw his mouth. My body jerked with panic and my fists leapt to my chest.

Jesse pulled back immediately. “Oh, Jo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly. “You . . . had something in your hair.” He held up a piece of a leaf.

Confusion flooded the space between us. I tried to explain. “No, it’s just . . .”

Just what? Why was I whispering? I knew Jesse didn’t want to scare me. Yet my knuckles were clenched, ready to fight him off. I felt ridiculous, and he seemed to know it.

“Wouldn’t it have been funny if you had popped me one?” He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Well, not funny, but you know what I mean.”

Jesse leaned back on the bench and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Okay, you asked what I was thinking. What I’m thinking is”—he turned to me and smiled—“you better get yourself a winter coat, Motor City. It’s cold in Massachusetts.”

I barely heard him. Jesse’s aftershave lingered all around my face. I was suddenly aware of how close we were sitting on the bench and was consumed with wondering if his hands were warm or cold in the pockets.

“How much does a school like that cost?” he asked.

“A lot,” I said quietly.

“How much is a lot?”

“For tuition, residence, and books, it’s close to two thousand dollars per year,” I told him.

Jesse blew a low whistle.

“I know, it’s crazy.”

“It’s crazy, but it’s just money. There’s lots of ways to get money,” said Jesse.

We walked up St. Peter to Royal, back toward the shop. Neither of us spoke. We moved through the afterbirth of celebration, kicking cans and cups out of the way, stepping over pieces of costumes that had been abandoned through the course of the evening. Jesse grabbed a string of milky glass beads hanging from a doorway. He handed them to me, and I put them over my head. The day had a peace about it, like Christmas, when the world stops and gives permission to pause. All over the city, Orleanians were at rest, asleep in their makeup, beads in their beds. Even Willie’s was closed today. She’d spend the whole day in her robe, maybe even have coffee with the girls at the kitchen table. They’d laugh about the johns of the prior night. Evangeline would complain, Dora would make everyone laugh, and Sweety would leave midafternoon for her grandmother’s. Did Mother miss it? Was she thinking about New Orleans, about Willie’s, about me?

“Looks like you’ve got an eager customer.” Jesse motioned to the bookshop.

Miss Paulsen stood with her face to the window, peering inside.

“Hello, Miss Paulsen.”

She turned toward us on the sidewalk. “Oh, hello, Josie.” She looked at Jesse. Her eyes unashamedly scanned him up and down.

“This is Jesse Thierry. Jesse, this is Miss Paulsen. She’s in the English department at Loyola.”

Jesse smiled and nodded. “Ma’am.”

Miss Paulsen stiffened. “I’m also a friend of the Marlowes’.” She addressed the comment to Jesse. “I’ve been trying to reach them for quite a while now. I’ve been to their house, but no one answered.”

“Well, I better get going,” said Jesse.

I didn’t want him to leave, to abandon me with Miss Paulsen, who would demand answers to too many questions.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Jesse backed away. “See you, Jo. It was nice.”

Miss Paulsen shot me a look as Jesse walked across the street. Her shoulders jumped when he fired up his motorcycle. I could see Jesse laughing. He revved the engine again and again, until Miss Paulsen finally turned around. He waved and took off down Royal.

“Oh, my.” Miss Paulsen touched her coiled bun, leaving her hand on the nape of her neck. “Is that boy in college?”