Out of the Easy (12 page)

EIGHTEEN

The days unfolded slowly out at Shady Grove. Willie’s cottage sat on over twenty peaceful acres. You could breathe deeply without fear that something putrid, like urine or vomit, might slip into your nostrils. In the summer, I didn’t wear shoes for days at a time. I’d kick my flats off in the grass the moment we arrived, and they’d sit on the front porch until we left. The winter was mild this year, more wet than cold. I’d need to build the fires, but not for warmth—just to dry the cottage out a bit. An old friend bought Shady Grove for Willie. She’d never tell me who it was, or what happened to them, just that she got the better end of the deal.

New Orleans was full of noise all hours of the day and night. But the countryside was so quiet. You could hear sounds at Shady Grove that the din of New Orleans swallowed whole. The cottage wasn’t secluded, but the closest neighbors, Ray and Frieda Kole, were over a half mile away, and we never saw them. Ray and Frieda were terrified of the dark. They slept during the day and sat locked in a rusted Buick in their back field at night, with the ignition and headlights on, ready to run if the boogeyman ever showed up. Willie wasn’t interested in neighbors or socializing. She said she came to Shady Grove for peace and quiet, to get away from people. She even wore a cotton dress and a rose shade of lipstick at the cottage, instead of her usual red.

I took long walks each afternoon, reading while I made my way two miles down the dirt path to the crossroads at Possum Trot. Willie had barely said a word to me for three days. The silence gave me more time to think about Mr. Lockwell, Forrest Hearne’s watch, Smith, and Mother. All four made me nervous. I was relieved when Willie finally started talking.

“Get my guns. Let’s go shoot,” she said.

I got the golf bag from the trunk of the Cadillac. Six years ago, one of the tricks lost a set of golf clubs to Willie in a poker game. She had me pawn the clubs and put her rifles and shotguns in the green leather bag. Frankie and I often joked that Willie had become an excellent golfer. I set up the cans on the back of the fence.

“You want to use the shotgun?” asked Willie.

“No, I’ll just use my pistol,” I told her.

“Suit yourself. Give me the shotgun.”

I was ten when Willie taught me how to shoot. I once forgot to put the safety on and fired the gun accidentally. Willie whipped me so hard I ate my dinner standing up that night. But I never forgot the safety again. “Be in control of your piece, Jo. The minute it takes control of you, you’re dead,” Willie would tell me.

I blew the first can off the fence. “Nice shot,” said Willie.

“It’s easy—just pretend it’s Cincinnati,” I told her. I thought about Cincinnati saying I was like Mother and took another shot.

She laughed. “Trouble is, I got a lot of Cincinnatis. Don’t know which one to choose. Has Patrick figured out that Cincinnati’s the one who robbed his house?” Willie blew a loud shot and missed the coffee can. She rarely missed.

“No. And I pray he doesn’t. He told me he saw Mother near the Roosevelt Hotel with a guy whose suit didn’t fit him. He still has no idea who Cincinnati is. It’s all my fault,” I said, moving down a few steps to the next can. “I was always telling Mother what beautiful things Charlie had. I should have known when she asked me about his house out of the blue like that. If you could have seen it, he took everything, Willie, not just the expensive things, but Patrick’s bronzed baby shoes, and even a pack of cigarettes on the counter.”

“I’m still surprised he didn’t get that expensive piano somehow.”

“He probably tried. Maybe that’s when Charlie came home and . . .” I dropped my arms. “Who could do that to a man like Charlie?”

Cincinnati had beaten Charlie so badly he was in the hospital for over a month. When Patrick came home and found Charlie in a puddle of blood, he was sure his father was dead.

“Made it easier for me to shoot Cincinnati when he beat your mother,” said Willie. “And come on, you know burning him with that hot coffee was more for Charlie than for your mother.”

“Patrick thinks the robbery and beating is what set Charlie crooked,” I said, firing another can off the fence.

“Nope. He was already touched in the head when Cinci robbed the house. Your mother knew that. She had seen Charlie at the bookstore and said he was talking ten sides of crazy. She gave Cincinnati the tip he’d be an easy target. She went with him, you know. I still wonder if Charlie saw her.”

I stared at Willie. Charlie had been as good to Mother as he had to me. He was always patient with her and tried to steer her straight. Sure, my mother would stuff something in her brassiere in a department store dressing room. I knew she’d hustle drinks from tourists and steal tips from tables. But to stand by and watch Cincinnati do that to Charlie?

“No, she couldn’t have actually been there,” I told Willie.

“Oh, yeah, your mother’s real helpful that way,” said Willie.

Pain surged at my temples. I held my pistol out to Willie. “Give me the shotgun.” As soon as it was in my arms, I began firing, pumping shell after shell. When the cans were gone, I started blowing holes in the fence.

“Stop! That’s my fence, you idiot!” yelled Willie.

I lowered the gun and looked at Willie, trying to catch my breath.

“Nice round,” said Willie. “What do you think those East Coast petits fours would say about that?”

I nodded. “Pretty salty.”

We drove to the nearest town for milk and eggs. I stared at the sunlight gleaming off Mariah’s hood and thought of Mother telling Cincinnati all about Charlie and Patrick’s house. Who could deliberately take advantage of a poor man like Charlie? And Charlie had done so much for us before falling ill.

Willie paid the store owner to let us make a phone call. She rang the house to check in. I heard the warble of Dora’s voice through the receiver but couldn’t make out the words.

“Tell ’em to come by tonight at ten. I can be back and ready by then,” said Willie. “Call Lucinda and have her bring a couple girls with her. No, of course not the redhead. I don’t need another catfight. Okay. All right. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

Willie hung up the phone.

“Six johns from Cuba. They came by last year and dropped nearly five grand in four hours at the house. Dora said she put them off as long as she could, but they’re going back to Havana tomorrow. We have to go.”

I nodded and followed Willie out of the store and back to the car.

“Oh,” said Willie, stopping next to Mariah, “Dora said that Patrick’s called a bunch of times for you. He says it’s important.”

NINETEEN

“Take my bags to my room and then get out of here,” ordered Willie, handing me her things.

Girls in evening dresses paraded in front of Willie for approval. She checked their fingernails, looked at their jewelry, and asked if their brassieres and panties matched. They all wore a smear of glossy lipstick. Prostitutes had patent-leather lips, all except Sweety, who always blotted her lips.

“Welcome back,” said Dora, dressed in apple green satin with a huge bow that looked like a melted rainbow.

“What the hell is that?” said Willie.

“Something special for the rich Mexicans that are coming,” said Dora. She twirled around for Willie.

“They’re Cubans, not Mexicans! Go change into your velvet gown. You’re a prostitute, not a piñata, for God’s sake.” Dora sighed and started up the staircase. “Where’s Evangeline?” asked Willie.

“Sulking. Her big spender hasn’t been by in a while,” said Dora.

Mr. Lockwell. Maybe he really was scared to come back. But what if his appetite for pigtails trumped his fear of humiliation? I had to get that letter from him as soon as possible.

“What, are you just gonna stand there and gawk?” Willie asked me. “I said drop my bags and get out. Vacation’s over.”

I carried my suitcase, heavy with books, back to the bookshop in the dark. I watched for Cokie, hoping he might drive by and give me a ride. But he didn’t. Cars whizzed through the street, and music spilled out from the windows and doorways of each building I walked by. Cast-iron balconies sagged like sad, rusted doilies. I passed Mrs. Zerruda scrubbing her stoop in brick dust to ward off a hoodoo hex. Somewhere behind me a bottle broke on the sidewalk. Shady Grove felt a million miles away.

The bookshop was locked. The sign said
CLOSED
, but the lights were on. I made my way up the stairs to my apartment. A package leaned up against my door. My heart leapt when I saw Charlotte’s name on the return address. Taped to my door was a note from Patrick:

Please come to the house.
It’s Charlie.

I pounded on Patrick’s door and leaned over the railing to look in the front window. “It’s Jo!” I yelled.

The door flew open, and Patrick stood barefoot, clothes filthy, his face a wreck.

“Patrick, what is it?” I asked. I heard a yell from inside the house.

“Hurry.” He pulled me inside and locked the door behind me. The smell stopped me, as if I had smacked into a wall of rotting food and filthy diapers.

“Oh, Patrick,” I said, plugging my nose, “you have to open a window.”

“I can’t, then they’ll hear him. Jo, he won’t stop. It’s never been like this. He won’t snap out of it. He has no idea who I am. He’s terrified of me and won’t stop screaming. He only sleeps a few minutes at a time. I’m worried they’re going to haul him off to Charity. I haven’t slept for days, I—I . . .” Patrick’s chest puffed up and down in desperate breaths.

“It’s okay,” I told him, taking his hands. Patrick’s bloodshot eyes had sunk into deep wells of gray. The skin around his nose and mouth was mottled with red blemishes. What had been going on?

“Have you tried playing the piano?” I asked.

“The usual songs don’t work.”

“Have you given him the medicine?”

“I did, but now it’s gone and I can’t find it. I think he flushed it down the toilet. It’s all my fault.”

“Slow down, Patrick. Where is he?”

“In his room. If he sees me, he’ll go into complete hysterics.”

I passed the kitchen and spotted crusty plates stacked on the counter. I walked up the stairs slowly, listening. The old wood groaned underfoot as I reached the top and was immediately answered by a blistering yell from behind Charlie’s door.

“See! I told you,” whispered Patrick from the foot of the stairs.

“Shh.” I waved at him to be quiet while moving my face near the doorjamb. “Charlie, it’s only me. May I come in?” No response from behind the door. I put my hand on the cool glass knob. “I’m coming in, Charlie.” Still no response. The door creaked as I pushed it open and peeked inside.

The room was destroyed. The drapes had been torn from the windows, contents spilled from drawers, the floor covered in clothes, soiled sheets, shoes, the typewriter, dirty dishes, and cups.

The smell. I gagged and pulled my head back into the hall for a breath. I told myself I had seen worse, but I wasn’t sure I had. I steadied my grip on the door, took a breath, and walked in the room. Charlie sat in his underwear on a bare mattress, wild-eyed, clutching the Valentine box.

“Lucy?” he whispered.

“Hi, Charlie,” I began.

“Lucy, Lucy! Lucy!” he continued to whisper, rocking back and forth. It was more than I had heard him say in months.

I nodded, fearful that any disagreement might set him off. I picked up the pillow from the floor and placed it on the bed, which resulted in several rounds of Lucys.

“Time to rest, Charlie,” I told him. I smoothed his hair away from his eyes and nudged his shoulders down toward the pillow, trying to smile instead of gag.

He lay down and looked up at me, gripping the pink heart-shaped box against his chest. “Lucy.”

I thought about trying to take the box but didn’t want to push my luck. I began sorting through the items on the floor, finding horrible surprises under each towel or piece of clothing I picked up. Some things were not salvageable.

I worked for over an hour, placing things outside his door and tying up items for the trash in sheets. Once Charlie closed his eyes, I crept out of the room and shut his door.

Patrick was sitting in an armchair near the window in the living room, staring off with a blank face.

“He’s lying down, but I don’t know how long he’ll stay that way,” I told him. Patrick said nothing. “Patrick?”

“Lucy—Lucille—is his aunt. She’s been dead for over fifteen years.”

“He needs his medicine.”

“I don’t know what he did with his medicine. The druggist is closed now,” said Patrick, still staring into a void.

“I’ll call Willie. She’ll arrange something through Dr. Sully.”

Patrick nodded, silent.

“It’ll be okay, Patrick. Once we get the medicine, it will be all right.”

He turned to me, almost angry. “Will it? Or will it just continue to get worse? Just the sight of me makes him go mad, Jo. I couldn’t restrain him, couldn’t bathe him. He acted like he despised me, like I was going to hurt him.”

“He’s sick, Patrick.”

“I know. He needs professional help, a hospital. But I can’t bear to have him treated like a lunatic in Charity’s mental ward. He’s not crazy. Something’s just . . . wrong. He changed after that beating.”