Out of the Easy (32 page)

Dear Miss Moraine,

I write to you at the suggestion of Barbara Paulsen, my dear friend and fellow alumna of Smith. I am a professor of literature at Smith, an author of historical fiction, and a patron of the arts in the state of Massachusetts.

Barbara has informed me of your strengths as a clerk in the bookshop and also as a housemaid. I am a single woman, living alone, and am currently in need of such assistance. Although I cannot finance relocation expense, if you are able to travel to Northampton, I am prepared to offer you a weekly salary of eight dollars and a private bedroom with en suite bath in exchange for your duties as a housekeeper and administrative assistant. The position requires a five-day workweek with occasional weekend obligation.

I am hopeful for a favorable reply within the month.

Yours sincerely,
Ms. Mona Wright

The letter confirmed what I knew in my heart all along. They didn’t want me. I was good enough to clean their bathrooms and dust their books, but not to join them in public. Miss Paulsen had met Mother at Charlie’s funeral and probably contacted Smith. Maybe she told them to deny my application, that I was unsavory. To soften the blow and satisfy Patrick, she got in touch with some spinster and suggested I empty her ashtrays. Eight dollars per week? Sweety got twenty dollars just to dance with Walter Sutherland for an hour. I was getting fifteen hundred to . . . to what? I heaved into the trash can.

Lockwell had told me to take the fifty dollars and go to Maison Blanche. That was too risky. What if I ran into someone and they started asking questions? I went to a pawnshop and bought a small pistol, then took a bus to a store in Gentilly. I chose a sky blue cocktail dress with a bateau neckline and matching gloves. I told the saleswoman I was attending my uncle’s retirement party. The dress felt tight through the chest and hips, but the saleswoman assured me that it was stylish to look shapely, even for a retirement party. She helped me pick out stockings and undergarments. She suggested shoes to match, but I opted for a pair of black pumps. Black was more practical. I could be buried in them if things didn’t work out. I teetered on the high heels at first, my pale ankles rubbery. She suggested I walk in the shoes a bit to get used to the feeling. I went up to the top floor for a shampoo and wave in the beauty salon. While the beauty operator worked on my hair, another woman buffed my nails and applied makeup. She tried to get me to purchase the makeup set, claiming that I looked ravishing.

“I just need to look good tonight. For the retirement party.”

“Well, all eyes will be on you, that’s for sure.” She propped her elbow on her hip, a menthol cigarette dangling from her fingers. “That’s a compliment, honey. Most girls would kill for shiny hair and a classy chassis like yours,” said the woman. “Wait till your boyfriend sees you.”

I stared at my reflection in the broken mirror on my wall. The dress, gloves, shoes, makeup, hair—they looked pretty, but felt like a costume. I tilted my head. Was the mirror crooked, or was I? The new brassiere made my bosom look larger and my waist smaller. I walked around my room, trying to adjust to the heels.

Lockwell said he’d have dinner brought in. And then what? My stomach rolled. I remembered Mother talking about it in the kitchen at Willie’s. She said she trained her mind. She’d smile and close her eyes and then she’d just think about something else, like eating oysters or going to the beach, and before she knew it, it was over. For fifteen hundred dollars, could I mentally eat oysters or walk along the beach?

I put the lipstick in my new purse, along with a pen and tissues. I looked at the pistol on my desk. I’d bought it to feel safer in the shop, in case Tangle Eye decided to stop by. I wouldn’t need it tonight, would I?

I tried to lock the shop as quickly as I could. I didn’t want anyone to see me, especially Frankie. I walked the opposite way, taking a circuitous path that would eventually lead to St. Peter. But each time I approached the street, my feet kept moving, and I ended up in the other direction. Men tipped their hats to me on the street. Others turned around and smiled. A chill draped across the back of my neck and shoulders, quickly becoming a cold sweat. Something bubbled at the back of my throat, making me think of the red beans and rice incident on Gedrick’s sidewalk.

I had spent so many years trying to be invisible. The stares and smiles meant people saw me. Could makeup and a nice dress really do that? The chapters of
David Copperfield
fluttered in front of me:

I. I am born.

II. I observe.

III. I have a change.

IV. I fall into disgrace.

Light fell, and so did my confidence. I turned down another street. Three young men stood on the sidewalk in front of an auto repair shop. One of them whistled as I approached. My stomach knotted. One of the boys was Jesse.

The other two called out. Jesse didn’t even look up, consumed with an engine part in his hands. Relieved, I quickened my pace, praying he wouldn’t lift his gaze.

“Where ya going in such a rush, beautiful?” said one of the boys, stepping out to block my path.

Jesse glanced briefly my way and quickly returned his eyes to the pipe in his hands. His head suddenly snapped back up. I looked down and tried to walk around his friend.

“Jo?”

I stopped and turned to him. “Yeah. Hey, Jesse. What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to turn the conversation to avoid the inevitable questions.

Jesse looked at me. His eyes didn’t roam my body like his friends’, and his lips didn’t twitch like the men I passed on the street. He just looked at me. His hand, sleeved in grease to his elbow, loosely motioned to the auto shop behind him. “My car. This is where I work on the Merc.”

One of the guys elbowed Jesse. “Show the pretty lady the Merc, Jess. Wait till you see this car.”

“Maybe she’d like to go for a ride,” said the other with a grin. “You got any friends for us, doll?”

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to take a ride with Jesse Thierry, leave New Orleans, drive straight to Shady Grove, tell him everything, and ask for his help. But his face had the same confused look it did when he’d dropped the hammer in front of the bookshop. It made me feel uncomfortable, guilty.

“C’mon, Jesse, aren’t you gonna ask her out?” asked the friend.

Jesse stared at me and shook his head. “Obviously someone else already has.” Jesse walked into the auto shop. His friends followed, looking back at me.

Jesse was judging me. How dare he? He didn’t know me. I turned around and marched straight to Lockwell’s, a blister burning at the back of my heel.

FIFTY-TWO

The sky hung low and dark when I walked through the gate. Gas lamps flickered, and banana palms swayed, sifting shadows on the decrepit, trickling fountain in the center of the courtyard. A chill tightened the skin on my arms. Music floated from Lockwell’s apartment in the corner. He stood leaning against the wall under the gas lamp outside his door, smoking a cigar. He watched me approach, smoke furling around his face and shoulders like gray organza. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel them. First the shoes, up my stockings, pausing at my groin and again at my chest, leading up to my lips, and then back down again.

He opened the screen door for me, silent. The sultry alto sax of Charlie Parker pressed at me with a swell. The lights were a low gold. I swallowed, trying to free the moth that was trapped in my throat, fluttering and making it difficult to breathe. I felt the heat of him behind me.

“Thought maybe you had changed your mind,” he said quietly into my ear.

I shook my head and took a step forward to escape the cage of his presence. I put my hand on the back of the sofa to steady myself. Sweat from my palms leached through the new blue gloves. I tugged at my hand to take them off. His hands were immediately on mine.

“Slower,” he said, circling around in front of me. “One by one.” He walked to the table and picked up a tumbler of liquor. He watched as I removed each finger from the long blue gloves.

“Have a seat.” He motioned to the sofa. “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“You’ll have champagne. All girls like champagne.”

All girls didn’t like champagne. I preferred root beer. Willie preferred anything that smelled like gasoline and burned her throat. She could hold her liquor better than any man, and I wished she was there to help me navigate John Lockwell.

I stared at Lockwell’s back, his hair freshly trimmed across the neck, revealing a golf-course tan. His white shirt, once crisp with press, was now damp with humidity and anticipation. He held a linen towel to capture the cork and then poured the champagne. He sat down close to me and handed me the tall flute.

He raised his glass. “To new beginnings.” He took a big swallow. I tilted the glass and let the champagne touch my closed lips. I put the glass on the table in front of me.

“You look gorgeous, Josephine. The neckline’s a little high, but your modesty makes you even sexier.” He slid his hand onto my thigh.

The moth flapped harder at my windpipe.

“So this is what fifty dollars does?” he said. “I like it.”

I swallowed hard, hoping to force the nervous bile from the back of my throat. “Actually, I have change for you. I didn’t buy any perfume, just used the tester of Chanel at the counter.” I reached for my purse.

“You’re serious?” he said.

“Yes. You should be more budget conscious. You gave me money for clothes, and if I didn’t use it all, I need to give it back to you. I might need money, but I’m not a thief, Mr. Lockwell.”

“I’ve told you, call me John,” he said, loosening his tie at the throat. “And I think you are a thief. You’re stealing my heart.”

He grinned, pleased with himself. I tried desperately not to roll my eyes at the pathetic line, a line that would have melted Mother to mess. The thought of Mother brought me back to reality.

“You do remember our financial arrangement,” I said.

“Look at you, getting right down to business. I like it. I’m anxious too.” He hopped up, went to his desk, and pulled a banded stack of bills from his drawer. He handed it to me for inspection. I flipped through it. Fifteen hundred. Why didn’t I ask for three thousand? I was a fool. He snatched it from my hands and put it in his front shirt pocket.

“Dance with me.”

He pulled me off the sofa by the arm and swung my body into his. In heels we were the same height. Nose to nose. I turned my head and felt his hot breath against my cheek. Charlie Parker’s sax lamented a broken heart, and Lockwell’s right hand pushed into the small of my back.

He stopped moving. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, you don’t know how to dance, do you, Josephine?”

I didn’t know how to dance. I didn’t want anything to do with his biscuit.

“Well, now, it’s easy. Just move with me.” He pushed my groin to his and inhaled deeply at my neck. I tried to mirror his steps. He liked that. A lot. He danced me into the sideboard and moved himself harder against me. I trembled with nausea. I looked up at the ceiling and tried what Mother had described. Eating oysters. His hand moved up toward my chest. The beach. It wasn’t working. His grasp was hurting me. He slid his thumb into my mouth and told me to close my lips. I thought of the cool earth and the floorboards under the porch where I once carved my name and vowed that I would not become like my mother. He grabbed my hand and started to move it toward his waist.

I shook my head and pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” he said, following me toward the couch. “Are you scared?” He looked at me, perversion fully inflamed. “God, your mouth.”

“Stop it,” I said.

“Now, now. Don’t be a tease. Come here.” He tugged at his belt.

I reached for my purse, but he grabbed my arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t want me to call Smith and tell them not to accept you, do you?” His mouth was on my ear. “Come on, Josephine. Earn your money. Be a good little whore now.”

I heard his jaw pop as my fist connected to it. He overcame the initial shock and lunged at me with the fury of a bull, but my feet were already planted, pistol drawn. He jumped back, stunned.

“Put your hands on your head,” I told him. He didn’t move. I aimed over his shoulder and blew his hunting picture to pieces.

“Okay, okay!” he said, putting his hands up. I waved him into the corner.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I was moving too fast. Just put the gun down, Josephine,” he pleaded. “Please, put down the gun.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. Sit on the floor,” I commanded. “Now.”