Out of the Easy

  “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 r
olled 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.

  FOURTEEN

  I hurried through the noisy morning streets to get to Willie’s on time. I had written several notes to Sweety and finally just settled on Thank you for the pearls—Jo.

  I spotted Jesse on the corner of Conti and Bourbon, his grandad’s flower cart bursting with snaps of color. I stopped to buy two pink lilies.

  “Hey, Motor City. You look nice this morning.”

  “Aw, come on, Jesse.” I motioned to my cleaning clothes and laughed.

  He smiled. “Better than me in this flower apron.”

  Jesse and I had gone through parts of grade school and high school together. He lived with his grandparents on Dauphine but spent some years with family in Alabama. When he was in New Orleans, he helped his grandfather, who sold flowers in the Quarter. Once, when I was eleven, Mother was cranky and slapped me across the face in the street. Jesse marched up to her, threw a pail of water on her, and walked away. I wondered if he remembered that.

  Occasionally he stopped by the shop to look at engineering books, but he rarely bought anything. He spent most of his time working on cars.

  “How are Willie’s nieces doing?” he asked, pulling up the two flowers I had chosen. “Nieces” was the term Willie used for the girls in her house.

  “Everyone’s fine.” I smiled. “You?”

  “Just started my first semester at Delgado. It’s not Tulane, but I’m excited about it.”

  Jesse Thierry was going to college? “Oh, Jesse, that’s wonderful.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. And what about you? Don’t pretend you’re not the smartest girl in New Orleans.” A stray piece of hair, the color of dark cinnamon, fell over his ear. His voice dropped, and he looked at me with sincerity. “And now that your mom has relocated, maybe you’ll have more time on your hands.”

  I looked up from my coin purse. How did he know about Mother? I paid for the flowers, trying to avoid eye contact, and thanked Jesse as I walked away.

  Mother and Cincinnati had planned to hit the road after their dinner at Antoine’s. I had looked at an atlas in the bookshop before I went to bed, wondering how long the drive west to California would take. If they didn’t stop to see any sights, I estimated they’d make it in four days. It would take less than four days, however, for Cincinnati to hit her.

  • • •

  I walked into the kitchen at Willie’s. Sadie had Willie’s tray already prepped with the coffee and newspaper. She pointed to the tray urgently as soon as I walked in.

  “Willie’s awake already?”

  Sadie nodded. I handed her one of the lilies.

  “Thank you for ironing my blouse, Sadie. And for getting Willie’s tray ready.”

  Sadie looked from the flower to me, smiling, almost embarrassed. Her smile broke, and she pointed emphatically toward Willie’s room.

  I grabbed my apron and the tray and walked through the parlor, swaying around a man’s necktie hanging from the chandelier. As I approached Willie’s door, I looked down at the paper.

  MEMPHIS TOURIST’S DEATH

  DECLARED A HEART ATTACK

  I stopped just short of Willie’s door to read the article but didn’t have the chance.

  “Are you going to stand out there, or are you going to bring me my coffee?” growled Willie’s voice from behind the door.

  “Good morning, Willie.” I made my way into the room.

  Willie’s hair and makeup were perfect. She wore a smart beige suit and was sitting at her desk writing. “I want my coffee.”

  “You’re up early. Is everything all right?”

  “Can’t I get up early?” she snapped.

  “Of course, it’s just . . . you’re not usually awake, not to mention dressed, at this hour. Where are you going?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a meeting with my attorney.”

  “An attorney, this early? Is everything all right?”

  “Why do you keep asking that?” Willie continued writing, her head down. “Instead of asking me stupid questions, why don’t you tell me when your mother left for California?”

  I set the tray on Willie’s bed. “Did you see her?”

  “No, I didn’t see her. But dozens of people told me they heard her bragging on about going to Hollywood with that sad sack. In fact, everyone told me.” Willie turned and stared at me. “Except you.”

  I fiddled with my apron. “She asked me to wait until morning to tell you . . . so it wouldn’t disturb last night’s business.”

  Willie threw down her pen. “You know what? Your mother’s a stupid, stupid whore!” yelled Willie. “But don’t you dare follow in her lyin’ footsteps, and don’t you ever think I’m too stupid to know when you’re lying to me. I know your momma a lot better than you think, and there’s no way she’s takin’ me down.” Willie was screaming full throttle. Her chin jutted out and her face fired a full crimson.

  “Willie, what happened? Did Mother steal from you?”

  “What? Your mother’s a piece of tail to me, that’s all! The only one she’s ever stolen from is you! And God willing, now she’s gone for good. She can join all the other lying, washed-up losers in Hollywood. And you’ve got to let her go, Jo. Don’t
you dare look for her or let her back in. You’re not a child anymore. She’s on her own. Let Cincinnati shoot her full of holes.”

  “Willie, stop.”

  “Look at this room. You’re late and everything’s a mess! I’ve asked you for three days to clean my guns, and have you? No! You’re off flouncing around, letting people make fun of you at Uptown parties.”

  Willie grabbed her purse from the bed, knocking the coffee cup off the tray and onto the floor. It broke with a loud crash. She slammed through the bedroom door so hard I thought she might break it. Sweety and Evangeline were standing outside the door in their robes, bleary-eyed and eavesdropping.

  “What are you looking at?” yelled Willie. “Get to bed!” Evangeline stepped aside, letting Willie pass.

  “Worst whores ever!” Willie screamed from the rear hallway. She banged through the back door, and within seconds, we heard Mariah’s engine fire up.

  I bent down to pick up the pieces of the broken cup.

  “Hey, little wench,” said Evangeline, leaning in the door. “Move my stuff into your momma’s room. Make sure everything is washed. I don’t want her stink all over me.”

  “Stop it,” said Sweety, pulling Evangeline back and closing the door.

  I sat on Willie’s bed, holding the china pieces, still wet from her coffee. Willie said people were making fun of me. Were they?

  I had to get out of New Orleans. I had to get into Smith.

  FIFTEEN

  Sunlight filtered in from the window, creating a square patch of brightness on the end of the bed. Evangeline was right. The room definitely smelled of Mother. I opened the window and sat on the sill for a moment, looking at her high, canopied bed. I had seen Mother spin her guiles on men in public, but I had never seen her “work” in her room. The deep green wallpaper peeled at the corners, revealing the bare plaster beneath. In the quiet light, the cranberry bed linens showed their age, and the drapery sagging from the canopy split and frayed at the edges. I stared at the bullet hole in the headboard. I still didn’t know the story behind that one.

  Mother’s room was nearly empty. I opened a drawer in her bureau. A bottle of red nail polish rolled over copies of Hollywood Digest. I picked them up for the trash, and a piece of paper fluttered out. It was the police report from when Cincinnati beat Mother. After she was discharged from the hospital, Willie insisted she file a report. We took Mother to the station, and after a few minutes of filling out the form, she said she didn’t feel well and would finish the report at home. I stared at the form. She hadn’t included her last name and even lied about her age.