Out of the Easy (9 page)

“That’s a lovely photo of you,” I said, pointing to the frame.

“Oh, that’s a couple years old now. I just had a new photograph taken at Smith. Here, let me introduce you.”

Charlotte pulled both Patrick and me over to an attractive middle-aged couple across the room. “Aunt Lilly, Uncle John, these are my friends Josephine Moraine and Patrick Marlowe.”

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Lockwell. “Marlowe, I know that name. John,” she said, swatting her husband’s arm, “why do we know the name Marlowe? Is your mother in the Junior League, dear?”

“No, ma’am,” said Patrick. “My mother lives in the West Indies.”

“Is your father an attorney?” asked Mr. Lockwell.

“No, sir, my father is an author and a bookseller. We own a bookshop in the Quarter.”

“Well, now isn’t that quaint. We just love books, don’t we, John?”

Mr. Lockwell paid little attention to his wife and instead looked about the room, eyeing all the other women. “And where are you in school, Patrick?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.

“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick, gratefully accepting a beverage from one of the waiters that was circulating.

“And you, Josephine? Have I seen you at Sacred Heart with our Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.

“Josephine lives in the French Quarter, Aunt Lilly. Isn’t that exciting?” said Charlotte.

“The Quarter. Oh, my,” said Lilly Lockwell, putting an affected hand to her chest. “Yes it is. What did you say your last name was, dear?”

“Moraine.”

“John.” She swatted her husband’s arm. “Do we know the Moraines in the Quarter?”

“I don’t believe we do. What line of business is your family in, Josephine?”

Mr. Lockwell looked at me. Mrs. Lockwell looked at me. Charlotte looked at me. Their faces felt an inch from mine.

“Sales,” I said quietly.

“What a lovely piano,” said Patrick, quickly changing the subject. “A Steinway baby grand, isn’t it?”

“Why, yes. Do you play?” said Lilly, speaking to Patrick, but with her eyes still fixed on me.

Patrick nodded.

“Well, then you certainly appreciate a nice piano.” Mrs. Lockwell smiled, raising her glass in a private toast to her Steinway.

“Yes, I have a Bösendorfer grand,” said Patrick.

Aunt Lilly’s eyes snapped off of me and locked onto Patrick.

“A Bösendorfer? Well, well, now, that’s a piano!” roared Mr. Lockwell.

“Indeed. You must play for us tonight, Patrick. Don’t be shy, now,” said Lilly.

“Oh, Aunt Lilly, don’t steal my friends. I was just going to give them a tour of your magnificent house,” said Charlotte, pulling us away from her aunt and uncle, who stood, heads cocked, staring at Patrick and me.

Charlotte didn’t give us a tour of the house. She grabbed a plate of canapés from a server, pulled us into a library on the main floor, shut the doors, and flopped down on a sofa.

“It’s exhausting, I tell you. And embarrassing.
‘And what did you say your last name was?’
” said Charlotte, mimicking her aunt. “My apologies to you both. They drink like fish and ask the most probing questions!”

“Welcome to the South.” Patrick laughed.

We talked with Charlotte for over an hour in the library. I tried to keep my posture straight in the thick leather chair and from time to time put my hand to my neck to make sure I hadn’t lost Sweety’s pearls. Charlotte settled right in and kicked her shoes off, folding her bobby socks under her skirt on the sofa. Patrick focused on inspecting the books in the Lockwells’ collection, pausing only to comment on a certain title or volume. We hooted and howled when Patrick discovered Candace Kinkaid’s
Rogue Desire
tucked away on a high shelf.

A man poked his head into the library. “Can I hide out with you? Sounds like it’s more fun in here.”

“Dad! Come meet Josephine and Patrick,” said Charlotte.

An elegant man in a blue suit entered the library. “Well, now, you must be Patrick with the Bösendorfer grand.”

“Ugh—are they still talking about that?” said Charlotte.

“Yep. And, Patrick, I’m afraid that you’re going to have to play. My sister won’t stop until she hears what Bösendorfer fingers sound like on a Steinway. George Gates,” he said, extending his hand to Patrick. “And you must be Josephine,” he said, turning to me. “Charlotte hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

“Most people call Josephine Jo.” Patrick smiled. I shot him a look.

Mr. Gates discussed books with Patrick, inquiring about some rare volumes he wasn’t able to locate out East. He then convinced Patrick to get the piano recital over with, and they left the library.

“Your father’s so nice. Funny, too,” I told Charlotte.

“Yes. Is your dad funny?” she asked.

I looked at her, wondering if my expression gave me away. “My father . . . my parents aren’t together,” I told her.

Charlotte sat up at once and put her hand on my knee. “Don’t worry, Jo. Half of the married couples here tonight aren’t together. Not really, anyway. But they’d never be honest about it like you. Right before you arrived, Mrs. Lefevre told us that she held a gun to her husband’s head in the bedroom last night because he smelled like Tabu.” Charlotte shook her head, whispering. “Mrs. Lefevre does not wear Tabu. But a gun? Can you imagine the insanity of that?”

I shook my head, feeling the cold steel of my pistol against my leg under my skirt. Unfortunately, I knew that insanity all too well.

“No one’s life is perfect. I find it much more interesting when people are just honest about it,” said Charlotte.

Honest. But what would Charlotte think if I told her the truth? That my mother was a prostitute, that I didn’t know who my father was, that most men scared me, so I created make-believe dads like Forrest Hearne.

“Charlotte!” A tall, spindly girl with an overbite ran into the library. “Mother says you’re friends with that boy Patrick Marlowe. You must introduce me!”

“Elizabeth, Patrick’s too old for you. You’re still in high school. I don’t think Aunt Lilly would approve.”

“I don’t care what Mother thinks,” said Elizabeth. “He’s really handsome. And have you heard him play the piano?”

“Jo, this is my cousin Elizabeth Lockwell.”

Elizabeth didn’t even glance my way. She twisted her hair around her finger and slung her hip to the side. “Mother said Patrick came with some sad-looking waif from the Quarter. Is she his girlfriend?”

I made a quick exit from the room.

THIRTEEN

I found Patrick by the piano, surrounded by women in expensive dresses. Patrick caught sight of me and cut through the crowd.

“Ready, Jo?” said Patrick, putting his arm around me. “Save me,” he whispered.

“Yes, unfortunately, I have to get back,” I said loudly.

Elizabeth appeared, still twirling her hair around her finger. “Hello, Patrick. I’m Elizabeth Lockwell. Call me Betty. This is my house, and that’s my piano.”

“Well, now, sweetheart, you haven’t learned to play yet.” Mr. Lockwell laughed.

Mrs. Lockwell continued to stare at us. “Such a shame you have to leave already, Patrick. John and I will have to stop by your shop in the Quarter. We love books and have quite a large library.”

“Yes, I saw. Candace Kinkaid is a big seller in our shop too,” said Patrick with all sincerity.

“Thank you for having us,” I said.

“Our pleasure, Joanne,” said Mrs. Lockwell.

Patrick pulled me toward the door, with Elizabeth trailing close behind like a bucktoothed puppy.

Charlotte grabbed my arm as we reached the foyer. “Jo, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Her face crumpled. “My relatives are so obnoxious.”

“No, there’s nothing to be sorry for. Really.” I saw Elizabeth bouncing on her toes, talking to Patrick.

“But you haven’t even met my mother yet,” said Charlotte. “She’s in the backyard.”

A woman near the door burst into sobs. “They’re all just pigs in nice suits! Here he is, pretending he’s a good husband when just last night I found dime-store lipstick on his chest. Now I know where my jewelry went.” The woman continued to cry, spilling her drink down the front of her dress.

I turned to Charlotte and she shook her head. “Obviously one too many juleps.”

“This town is filthy!” wailed the drunk woman. “Poor Forrest Hearne. They told his sweet wife it was a heart attack. It’s criminal! They ought to burn the Quarter to the ground.”

I turned back and stared at the woman.

“Jo!” called Patrick from across the foyer.

“I’ll write to you as soon as I get back,” said Charlotte. “I’ll send you the information on Smith.”

I nodded. Patrick grabbed my arm and herded us through the door and down the front walk, trying to escape Elizabeth Lockwell, who trailed alongside us, close enough to be Patrick’s shadow. People stood in groups, smoking and drinking under mossy oaks in the front yard. A husky boy about Patrick’s age stood alone at the end of the hedgerow.

“Patrick, this is my brother, Richard,” said Elizabeth.

Richard stared at Patrick. His eyes narrowed. “I saw you on New Year’s Eve with your friend.”

“Fun night, wasn’t it?” said Patrick, not stopping to shake his hand.

“Is that what you consider fun?” said Richard, turning to watch Patrick exit. He grabbed his sister’s arm. “Stay away from him, Betty.”

We walked a few steps, silent. Richard Lockwell certainly seemed the brutish type. The chaos of the party dissipated and was replaced by the thrum of cicadas. And how did the woman at the party know Forrest Hearne?

“You okay, Joanne?” asked Patrick.

I burst into laughter.

“Seriously, Jo. That’s Uptown. What do you want with idiots like that?”

“Charlotte’s not an idiot,” I said.

“Agreed. She’s great, and her dad’s swell, too. Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Patrick.

We took a step into the street to cross. Headlights snapped on and approached, blinding us.

“Who is that?” I said, grabbing Patrick’s arm.

“I can’t see. Move, Jo!” Patrick pulled me back onto the sidewalk as the black sedan approached. I recognized the car. Mariah.

Cokie’s head appeared in the driver’s window. “Come on, get in,” he said.

I looked around and quickly jumped into the backseat. “Cokie, what are you doing here?”

“Willie sent me, said she didn’t want you walkin’ or takin’ the streetcar.”

I ducked down in the backseat as the car rolled by the Lockwells’ house, praying Richard and Elizabeth Lockwell were not standing on the sidewalk.

“Now, Josie girl, how can you be embarrassed of this here fine automobile?” Cokie beamed. “Oooeee, no one can catch me in my black Cadillac.”

“Yeah, it’s those people who should be embarrassed, Jo.”

“Was there a lot of carryin’ on in there?” asked Cokie.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know?” said Patrick, turning around from the front seat. “Jo, they have a baby grand piano, but no one in the family plays. They have shelves of books they’ve never read, and the tension between the couples was so thick it nearly choked us.”

“Let me tell you something ’bout those rich Uptown folk,” said Cokie. “They got everything that money can buy, their bank accounts are fat, but they ain’t happy. They ain’t ever gone be happy. You know why? They soul broke. And money can’t fix that, no sir. My friend Bix was poor. Lord, he had to blow that trumpet ten hours a day just to put a little taste in the pot. Died poor, too. You saw him, Jo, with that plate on his chest. But that man wasn’t soul broke.”

“Soul broke. That’s it.” Patrick nodded.

“They had family photographs in nice frames,” I said as I shrugged further into the musky leather interior. I wished Willie hadn’t sent Mariah. Was she trying to spy on me?

“And you be careful of that Richard Lockwell,” said Cokie. “He’s a kitten killer.”

“He’s a ladies’ man?” Patrick laughed.

“Aw, no, that ain’t what I mean. When he was young, he hung four kittens in the Quarter. Lord, you should have seen people chase him. He’s not right in the head.”

I looked out the window, humming “It’s Only a Paper Moon” as the Cadillac rolled down St. Charles toward Canal. The Uptown women were wary of the Quarter and everything associated with it. They thought the Quarter was responsible for all corruption. They wanted to believe their husbands were virtuous men of society—good men, like Forrest Hearne—and that the Quarter sucked them in against their will, grabbing them by the ankles and pulling them under.

Mother was probably enjoying oysters Rockefeller at Antoine’s now, washing it all down with whiskey and smoke. I could see her. She’d drape her arm across her chest for everyone to admire her stolen jewelry and then slide her foot into Cincinnati’s crotch under the table. Mother was prettier than all the women at the Lockwells’ party, but she didn’t carry herself with the same poise or confidence as the other ladies. I didn’t agree with Cokie. It wasn’t just rich folks.

Mother was soul broke, too.