Out of the Easy

  I looked in the bag. “She sent all of them?”

  “With extra rounds in the front pocket. She said she told you to bring your pistol.”

  “Isn’t this a bit much?”

  “Well, you never been out here alone. What if someone comes by?”

  “Who, like Frieda Kole?”

  “Like Cincinnati.”

  It came out and then he couldn’t take it back. A chill pebbled across my neck. I heard his voice—I’m gonna get you, Josie Moraine. I pulled out one of the shotguns to examine what Willie had sent.

  Cokie rubbed his forehead. “I shouldn’t have said that. Now, Josie, I’m not sayin’ that Cincinnati goin’ be out here. Willie’s worried that he and your momma might want you as a character witness for her, and well, Cincinnati is tied to some pretty bad folk.”

  “Like Carlos Marcello?”

  Cokie looked on the verge of tears. Then I remembered Patrick hugging me so hard it hurt, like he was saying good-bye. Cokie sniffed and started carrying crates onto the porch. I grabbed his arm.

  “What’s really going on, Coke?”

  “Your momma done got herself into trouble, Jo. A rich man wound up dead from a Mickey, and someone said she was with him.”

  “Who told the police that?”

  “I don’t know. If anything big happens, it will be in the paper. When you go to the grocery, you can pick one up. But make sure you take your pistol with you and case the house good and careful when you get back. Set some little signs for yourself so you know if someone been here since you left.”

  I lifted the shutters on the windows and pulled back the curtains. Cokie put the supplies in the kitchen.

  “Now, don’t worry your head. Willie just takin’ precautions. You enjoy yourself out here. Get some rest and read all them books you brought. I’ll be back in a sneeze to pick you up.”

  Mariah rolled down the thin drive, kicking dust around her rear. I stood on the porch watching, gripping Willie’s shotgun.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I no longer wondered why Ray and Frieda were afraid of the dark. I was too.

  Each night I walked down to their house at dusk and joined them in the car. I lay in the backseat and slept while they pretended to drive to Birmingham, Montgomery, and someplace new each night. I made them a big breakfast at sunrise and then walked the mile back to Shady Grove with my pillow. Each day at lunch, I’d walk to the grocer to check for messages and mail.

  I loved Shady Grove and didn’t miss New Orleans a bit. But I missed Patrick and wrote for updates on Charlie every day. A week passed, and I hadn’t received a return letter from him. When I called Willie from the grocer’s, she said Randolph had seen Charlie every day and that he had settled down and was sleeping a lot. She wouldn’t tell me much about Mother, just that she returned, posted bond, and was staying at the Town and Country Motel. That meant she was with Cincinnati. Carlos Marcello owned the Town and Country. Willie said she had sent Cokie out to Slidell to mail the typewritten letter for Miss Paulsen that Patrick had given her.

  I tried phoning Patrick from the grocer, but no one answered.

  I had just finished washing my hair when I heard the noise. It sounded like the rumble of an engine but then went quiet. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the shotgun. I crept toward the front of the cottage and peered out the window. Nothing. I carefully pushed the screen door open with my bare foot. The hinges on the door complained, betraying my silence. I walked slowly out onto the porch, pointing the barrel of the gun in front of me at the drive. Something crackled on the side of the porch. I spun to my left, finger on the trigger.

  “Whoa, easy there, now.”

  Jesse Thierry was standing next to his motorcycle by the side of the porch.

  “I cut the engine on the drive and walked it down because I didn’t want to scare you. Obviously that didn’t work,” he said.

  I dropped the shotgun and let out a breath. “Look at you, locked and loaded, like Mae West of the Motor City.”

  It was hard to be angry when Jesse was funny. “I’m surprised to see you, that’s all,” I said.

  “Hopefully it’s a good surprise?”

  “Sure. You drove all the way out here?”

  Jesse took off his leather jacket and hung it over the seat of the motorcycle. “Weather’s great, so it was nice. I ran into Willie in the Quarter yesterday and she gave me directions. She also said I have to report back to her.” Jesse smiled. “So am I invited up on that porch, or are you still debating whether you want to shoot me?”

  “No—I mean, yes, come up.”

  The words had barely come out of my mouth before Jesse jumped up and was at my side.

  “I don’t know how you do anything in those jeans,” I told him.

  “These? They’re not tight, just shrink to fit. See, when you get a new pair, they never fit right, so you gotta get into a hot bath with ’em.”

  “You wear them in the bathtub?” I laughed.

  “Yep. The hot water shrinks ’em to your body and then they fit perfectly.”

  “But you have to walk around in a wet pair of jeans all day.”

  “Just for one day.” Jesse motioned to my hair. “Looks like you’ve been in the bath yourself.” He settled into a chair on the front porch.

  “I had just washed my hair, but then I had to go shoot someone. Do you want a cold drink?”

  When I returned, Jesse was reading my book of Keats. We sat on the front porch playing cards and drinking iced tea. He said he’d seen Mother on Bourbon and that she looked thin and tired.

  “That guy she’s with looks rough, Jo.”

  “Cincinnati? He’s worse than rough. He should be in jail. He’s a task man for Marcello’s crew. And my silly harlot of a mother adores him.”

  Jesse took another card. “I’ll see your silly harlot of a mother and raise you a reckless alcoholic father. So reckless he wrapped his car around a tree. Killed my mother, busted up my foot, and scarred my face.” Jesse put down his cards. “Gin.”

  “Oh, Jesse, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. It’s just the way it is. My foot’s fine now. It’s not like I’m three-toed Tyfee or something. But I’d never get into the service with it. How ’bout we play some poker?”

  “Sure.” I watched Jesse shuffle the cards, smiling at me. He said it wasn’t his fault. I wished I could feel that way about Mother. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong, but for some reason, I always felt guilty. Jesse dealt the cards to me, and I tried to remember all the poker hands.

  “So,” I said, “if you put my mother together with your father, that’s a full house.”

  Jesse took a sip out of his glass, his eyes on me the entire time. “Sounds like a pretty empty house to me.” He continued staring. “If the cops can pin it on your mom, it’s a murder charge, Jo.”

  “I know. Willie’s scared that they’ll want me as a character witness. That’s why she’s hiding me out here.”

  “You feel safe?”

  “I’m okay.” Something inside of me wanted to admit to Jesse that I spent the night in the back of a rusted-out Buick on a fictional road to nowhere.

  Jesse leaned back in the chair and looked out off the porch. “Gotta say, it’s a beautiful hiding place. I wouldn’t mind getting lost here at all. What’s further down the road?”

  “Want me to show you?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  I spread an undetectable layer of dirt on the front steps. That would allow me to see footprints or any trespassing while I was gone. I handed Jesse my pistol and asked him to put it in his leather jacket.

  “Man, you’re a regular Bonnie Parker.”

  “A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.”

  Jesse foun
d that hysterical. “Did Willie say that?”

  “Nope, Mae West. Now, how do I get on this thing in a skirt?”

  Jesse wheeled the bike around. “I thought about driving the Merc out here, but I don’t want you to see it until it’s done. It’s a great-looking car, Jo.”

  The clouds ran away and the sun burned overhead. Jesse explained how I should sit and where to put my feet. “Remember, keep your legs away from the muffler.” He put on his sunglasses. “Now, you’re gonna have to hold on to me. So try to control yourself, okay?”

  “Very funny. Why don’t I drive? Then you can be the one holding on.”

  “As much as I’d like that—and trust me, I really would—it’s not a good idea. This is your first time on a bike.” Jesse cranked up the Triumph, and I climbed on. I didn’t plan to hold on to him, but as soon as the bike moved, I grabbed his waist. I could feel the laughter in his stomach. At the end of the driveway, I told him to take a left. We coasted down the road toward the crossing at Possum Trot. It was nothing like riding in a car. The sky was on top of us, and I could smell the leather of Jesse’s jacket under the heat of the sun. The engine snarled. Jesse’s left hand reached down and touched the top of mine.

  “You okay?” he called out.

  “Faster,” I yelled back.

  He responded, throwing the bike into gear and taking off, flying down the road like a bullet from a barrel. I had no choice but to hold on. I was terrified. And I loved it.

  The air was all around us, blowing over my body, whipping through Jesse’s hair and into mine. We pushed to the edge of recklessness, yet I felt safe. Safe from Cincinnati and safe from Mother. Riding with Jesse felt like letting a scream out of a bottle, and I didn’t want it to end.

  We finally approached the grocer. I squeezed his waist and pointed. He slowed down and pulled in.

  I jumped off the bike.

  “You okay?” asked Jesse.

  “I loved it! My heart feels like it’s gonna jump out of my chest. My skin is on fire.”

  “That’s adrenaline. Sometimes I’ll accelerate, feel that freedom in my face, and it’s like I could ride forever.” Jesse started to laugh. “Look at you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re smiling this huge smile, and your face is all flushed. Come on, I’ll get you something to drink.”

  We stood next to each other at the soda cooler. I was still giddy from the ride and bumped him out of the way with my hip. He grabbed my arm and pulled himself back toward me.

  “You better be nice, or I’ll leave you out here,” he whispered.

  “Then I’ll just walk back, like I do every day.”

  He looked surprised. “You walk all the way out here alone?”

  “Every day. Me, myself, and I. Aren’t you jealous?”

  Jesse reached over and moved a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Yeah, I kinda am.”

  His hand lingered on my cheek. My eyes pulled to his.

  “Hey, Josie. No messages today, but I got mail for you.” The store owner handed me an envelope. I recognized Patrick’s handwriting, turned my back to Jesse, and tore open the envelope.

  Dear Jo,

  Sorry I haven’t written sooner, but things have been busy. Charlie is sleeping a lot, but Randolph said that yesterday he walked around his room. I saw your mom on Chartres with some wiseguy. The cops brought the bandleader back from Baton Rouge for questioning, and he claimed he thought Mr. Hearne was asleep at the table, not dead. Capote threw a party before he left town and asked me to play piano. No mail from Smith yet. That’s about all from here.

  Miss you—Patrick

  PS. Betty Lockwell has come by the shop twice. Write back and guess what she bought.

  Jesse and I sat on the wooden steps of the small grocery, drinking root beer and throwing rocks at a tree. I imagined the tree was Betty Lockwell and nailed it, every single time. Each branch was an arm, a leg, then her head. Salted peanuts.

  “So, how long have you been Patrick’s girl?” asked Jesse.

  I didn’t feel like talking about Patrick, especially with Jesse. “I don’t know,” I told him.

  I hurled a rock, taking out Betty’s last remaining appendage.

  “Does he kiss you right?”

  I stopped and turned to him. “Excuse me?”

  He gave me a smug smile. “That means no.”

  “And what about you? I’m sure you have lots of girlfriends.”

  “I’m not lonely. I don’t have a girlfriend, though.” Jesse took a swig from his bottle and leaned back on the steps. “That night at Dewey’s, you said you were meeting your guy. I followed you. It was dark, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. You went all the way down to the river. He stood you up.”

  Jesse had followed me the night I took the watch to the river. “No, I—”

  “Yeah, Jo, he never showed, and you started crying. And I stood there thinking, ‘Man, this guy is so stupid.’ So whatever upset you in that letter from him, just forget about it. You’re moving on, and boy, Massachusetts has no idea what’s coming for them. I bet you’ll be the first Mae West they’ve ever had.” Jesse drained the last of his root beer. “Come on, we better get going. I’ve got a three-hour ride ahead of me.”

  We drove back to Shady Grove, much slower on the return. I held on to Jesse and rested the side of my face on his back.

  The dirt on the steps was undisturbed. The cottage lay quiet, asleep in an afternoon nap. We ate a sandwich on the porch in silence, staring at the shawls of Spanish moss blowing slowly back and forth from the branches of the oaks. Jesse returned my pistol, and I followed him back down the porch steps to his motorcycle.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into his jacket and handed me a small card.

  JESSE THIERRY

  LUXURY AUTOMOTIVE SERVICE

  TEL: RAYMOND 4001

  “That guy Lockwell asked for my card, and I didn’t have one. It got me thinking. Those Uptown guys could probably use a discreet mechanic, and I can charge handsome for it. I gave a card to Willie, and she says she can turn a lot of business my way. Sure beats selling flowers.”

  “That’s a good hustle,” I told him.

  “We both got a little hustle, don’t we?” He pulled on his jacket. “But I like to think we got more heart.”

  “I think it’s great, Jesse. And you even have a telephone,” I said.

  “Nah, it’s the neighbors’. They said they’d take the calls and come get me. Well, I’m gonna hit the road.”

  “Thanks for coming all the way out here and keeping me company.”

  “See ya, Jo.” Jesse put on his sunglasses. “It was nice.”

  I sat on the steps and watched him drive away. I listened to the hum of the Triumph until it faded completely, replaced by a symphony of cicadas and bullfrogs. I sat until the sun dropped, then locked the door and began the walk down to Ray and Frieda’s with my pillow.

  We were on our way to Biloxi.

  FORTY

  Two days later, I received a postcard from Jesse.

  Motor City. Mae West. Massachusetts.

  Jesse

  Part of me hoped Jesse would come back, but the other part of me hoped for another letter from Patrick. I finished the box of books. To appease my boredom, I cleaned the cottage several times over.

  I stripped the bed in Willie’s room, scrubbed the floors, washed the walls, and aired out the closets. I didn’t dare reorganize anything. Willie wouldn’t want me rummaging through her belongings. I did gently move the items in the drawers to wipe them. That’s when I found the pictures. Tucked in the very back of Willie’s top drawer was a yellowed envelope. Inside were three photographs.

  The first was a tintype of a mature woman. She wore a long dark dress punctuated by a row of small buttons do
wn the front. She stood with her arm resting on a column, her expression conveying the desire to beat the photographer with a wrench or some other blunt instrument. The word Wilhelmina was scratched into the back. I looked closely and thought I saw a shadow of Willie in her face.

  The next photo had no name, just 1935 on the back. The man in the photo was incredibly handsome. I recognized the chair he sat in, but not the room. The chair was now Willie’s chair in the parlor at the house on Conti.

  The last photo was Willie, approximately ten years old, nestled in the crotch of a tree. Her hair poked out at all angles. Her face was abloom with mischievous happiness. Willie never spoke about her childhood. I stared at the picture, shocked that she had ever been a child at all. Somehow, I imagined Willie Woodley had been born with a rusty voice and street smarts to outwit any hustler. But here she was, a sweet child with a wide smile. What had happened to the Willie in the photo? I often longed to look at childhood photos of myself, but there weren’t any. Mother never had my picture made.

  I thought of the silver frames in Lockwell’s home and office. They displayed his history for everyone to see. Willie had hers hidden in the back of a drawer. My history and dreams were on a list in my desk and, now, buried in the back garden.

  The problem was taken care of. I had found an old praline tin in the kitchen. I wound life into Mr. Hearne’s watch, set the time, and placed it inside the tin with his check. I could see Forrest Hearne, hear his voice. He held out the check for Keats and Dickens, smiling at me, the watch peeking out beneath the shade of his shirtsleeve. Why didn’t I wipe it clean of prints and just mail it back to his family? The address was on the check. His wife and children would cherish it. They would be so grateful.

  I buried it near the crepe myrtle out back.

  A horn blew. I recognized it immediately. I ran out onto the porch and watched as Cokie rolled up in Mariah. I jumped down the steps and threw my arms around him.

  “It’s so good to see you. Are you thirsty? Do you want something to eat?”