“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Why don’t you come by on Friday?” he suggested.
“I’m not interested in a job. I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Lockwell. In the interest of time, why don’t you give me a sheet of your letterhead? I’ll type up the recommendation and bring it by for your signature. Discreet and effortless.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I really want you to work for me.”
“A diploma from Smith would make me a more desirable hire.”
“Honey, you’re already a desirable hire . . . in a dirty Cinderella kind of way. Call me John.”
“On second thought, Mr. Lockwell, give me two sheets of letterhead. Best to have a backup.”
THIRTY
Once I fed a new ribbon into Charlie’s typewriter, it worked without issue. Charlie sat across from me at the kitchen table in his stained undershirt, staring at the typewriter. I spoke to him as if he understood everything. My biggest fear was that the old Charlie was in there somewhere trying to communicate, but a synaptic disconnect made his behavior erratic. Some responses were still there. If you put him in front of the steps, he’d walk up or down. But then it was hard to get him to stop. There were moments when his eyes flashed with clarity or when his head turned at conversation. But the sparks were gone as quickly as they came.
“Lockwell’s a real piece of work, Charlie. He thinks he’s the cat’s pajamas because he has money. He has a picture of himself framed in his office. If he didn’t have a family pedigree, he’d be a hustler in the Quarter. You know the type.”
I pecked at the keys on the typewriter.
“Okay, this is what we’ve got.” I rolled the cylinder to move the paper up off the print bracket. “You ready, Charlie?” Charlie stared at the typewriter, silent.
To the Attention of the Director of Admissions:
It is with great pleasure that I write this letter of recommendation for Miss Josephine Moraine.
I peeked at Charlie. “I put Josephine because that’s what he knows me as. Long story. I put Josie on the actual application.”
I became acquainted with Miss Moraine through my niece, Charlotte Gates, who is currently a freshman in good standing at Smith College. Miss Moraine is of sharp intelligence, strong moral fiber, and possesses an impressive work ethic. While most girls her age might pursue extracurricular activities that are social in nature, Miss Moraine has dedicated herself to the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment through literature.
A warble came from Charlie. I looked at his face but couldn’t decipher the expression as one of laughter or pain. “I know, the word enlightenment is a bit much, but I’m trying to make Lockwell sound evolved.”
Since her early teens, Miss Moraine has invested her time and talents running one of the most reputable bookstores in the Vieux Carré of New Orleans, owned by celebrated author Charles Marlowe.
I winked at Charlie.
During her tenure at the bookstore, Miss Moraine has developed a cataloging and inventory system, and assists with commercial buying, antiquarian acquisitions, and restoration. In addition to working at the bookstore, I understand that Miss Moraine is employed as a personal assistant to one of the families in the French Quarter.
Charlie’s chair creaked with comment.
“What? Willie’s is kind of a family, isn’t it? Wait, I’m almost done.”
Considering her scholarly and professional merits, I have offered employment to Miss Moraine within my corporation. I have been informed, however, that she prefers to pursue a college degree at a fine institution such as Smith, where she may benefit from both an environment of integration and education. In closing, I ask the Board of Admissions to please favorably consider the application of Miss Josephine Moraine, as I believe she would be a true asset to the college.
Sincerely yours,
John Lockwell, President
The Lockwell Company, Ltd.
New Orleans, Louisiana
“It’s not perfect, but I think it’s pretty good.” I pulled the paper from the typewriter, folded it, and put it in the envelope in my purse.
Charlie continued to stare at the typewriter.
“Hey, would you like to type something?” I put a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and moved it across the table in front of Charlie. His stare floated from the typewriter to my face.
“Come on, Charlie, type something. Do you want me to help you?” I knelt next to him and raised his hand toward the typewriter. When I let go, it tremored and hovered for a moment over the keyboard and then fell to his lap.
“Almost. Let’s try again.” I lifted his hand, but this time it fell straight back into his lap.
I took my glass into the kitchen, and that’s when I heard it. A swift, sharp attack on the keyboard. One letter, with conviction. I spun around and ran back into the room. Charlie sat motionless in front of the typewriter. I peered over his shoulder.
B
“Keep going.”
He didn’t move. I crossed in front of him to look at his face. There was sadness in his silence.
“Come on, Charlie Marlowe. I know you’re in there. Type another letter.”
Something was short-circuiting, making his inner lights flicker like the electricity in a storm. Was it the medicine? The medicine dulled everything and made him nearly comatose. I decided I would hold off on giving him his medicine to see if the faint lights got any brighter.
We sat at the table for over an hour. I read a book. Charlie did nothing, but I noticed he fidgeted and looked around a bit more. Patrick was late. He said he wouldn’t be gone long. Where was he? I snapped the book shut.
“You know what? I’m gonna give you a haircut.”
I found scissors in the kitchen and wrapped a large towel around Charlie’s shoulders. He raised his hands and pulled it off.
“Oh, so you’re moving now. I shouldn’t have taken the typewriter to your room. Maybe I could have gotten another letter out of you.” I put the towel back on his shoulders and walked to the kitchen to get the comb from my pocketbook. “You know,” I called to him over my shoulder, “I should have done this a long time ago. You never would have let your hair grow this long.” I filled a bowl with water to wet the comb and poured myself another sweet tea. “What I’d love to do is shave that white beard. You never wore a beard.”
I walked back into the dining room. “You’re going to feel like a new—”
Blood. Everywhere.
On the table. On the floor. All over Charlie.
His face was covered in it. He moved the scissors from his face to his forearm and began to slice a trench.
I dropped the bowl of water and ran to him, cutting my own fingers as I wrestled the large scissors from his hand.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.” I couldn’t stop saying it. Charlie reacted to the fear in my voice and started bucking in the chair. Blood spilled from a slice on his forehead. I grabbed the towel, swiping at the blood to see the wounds. His forehead, his ear, the side of his neck. Charlie continued to resist my efforts with the towel. We struggled. I heard Willie’s voice: Don’t be an idiot and panic. Pull yourself together.
I took a deep breath and stepped back. I started humming. Charlie stopped bucking. I continued humming and once again picked the towel up off the floor. I walked behind Charlie and put my arms around him, humming in his ear and examining the wounds. I applied pressure to his forehead and neck while holding him. If he lost any more blood, we’d be in trouble.
I heard the key in the lock.
I called out before he entered the room. “Now, Patrick, it looks worse than it is. It’s just a couple cuts.”
Patrick screamed. Loud. The kind of scream that hurls out of you when you see a loved one spilling red. The color slid from his face, quickly replaced by a ghost I didn’t recognize.
“Be quiet!” I snapped. “Do you want the neighbors to come running? I was going to give him a haircut, and when I went for my comb, he went for the scissors.”
“There’s . . . so much blood,” said Patrick.
“It’s coming from the slice on his head. I’m putting pressure on it now. Do you have a first-aid box?”
Patrick shook his head.
“Give Charlie his medicine.”
Patrick just stood, staring.
“Patrick! Listen to me. Give Charlie his medicine.”
“More medicine?” said Patrick.
“I didn’t give it to him.”
“What? How could you forget?”
“I didn’t forget. I wanted to see if his clarity would increase without it.”
“Oh, Jo, how could you be so stupid?” Patrick ran to the kitchen and came back with Charlie’s medicine. His hands shook as he gave his father the meds.
“He has to have his medicine, or he goes crazy. That’s why we got him the meds in the first place.”
“I’m sorry, but it really seemed like he was coming out of the fog. I was going to ask you, but you were over two hours late. Where were you?”
“Don’t play doctor, Jo. He needs the medicine,” said Patrick. “Thank God he didn’t hit an artery.”
“He’ll need stitches,” I said. I looked at Charlie. What had I done?
“He can’t see a doctor. They’ll take him to the mental ward immediately. How will I explain that my father carved himself up with scissors?”
“Willie knows people. I’ll call her. Things happen at the house, and she takes care of them.”
We got Charlie to the couch. I called Willie, and she said she’d send Cokie over with the first-aid kit. She said Dr. Sully was out of town, but she knew an army doctor who had seen a lot of action during the war. She’d give him a credit at the house, and he’d probably come running over to stitch Charlie up.
So we waited.
Patrick alternated watching the clock and watching Charlie. I cleaned the cuts on my fingers and tried to scrub the blood off the chair and the floor. You had to get at blood early, preferably with peroxide, before it set. I sat on my knees, raking the scrub brush over the spot. Maybe it would fade with time. Most homes in the Quarter had bloodstains anyway.
Cokie arrived within an hour. He took one look at me and reached for the wall to steady himself. “Josie girl,” he breathed. “Lord, you look like a butcher. You all right?”
I looked down at my blouse and pants. Cokie was right. I was one big smear of blood.
“I’m fine. Hurry, bring the first-aid box in here.”
Cokie gasped when he saw Charlie. “Oh, Mr. Charlie, what you gone and done to yourself? Jo, this looks bad. Willie’s sending an army doctor she knows. Maybe you best wait on the first aid until he gets here.” Cokie looked at Patrick. “You okay, buddy?”
“I can at least wrap up his head. That’s what’s bleeding the most.” I set to work on the bandage.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
“The neighbors are probably all looking out their windows, trying to watch the show,” lamented Patrick.
“Don’t you worry about those neighbors,” said Cokie.
Randolph was a young army doctor who had seen a lot of action in France during the war. Randolph was also drunk.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“Nah, coffee makes me jittery. That’s not good for sewing. I’ll splash some cold water on my face,” he said, and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, great,” whispered Patrick.
Randolph came back and opened his bag.
“Do you have a license to practice?” said Patrick.
“If you wanted to interview physicians, you would’ve taken this old dog to the hospital. Since you’re not at the hospital, I’m thinkin’ you don’t have options. I’m probably your best bet right about now. Slap me across the face.”
“Excuse me?” said Patrick.
“You heard me. Slap me across the face. Hard. It’ll sober me up.”
Patrick hesitated. Cokie stared.
“Oh, for cripe’s sake. Do I have to slap myself?” yelled Randolph.
I cracked him across the cheek. Just like he asked. My hand stung.
The doctor shook like a wet dog and then set to work, asking what medications Charlie was on. He took out a bottle of chloroform.
Patrick was right. The neighbors would be talking. Could we really tell them that the cast of Charlie’s play included an army doctor, a quadroon cabbie, and a girl covered in blood? Charlie Marlowe never wrote horror, but somehow horror was writing Charlie Marlowe.
THIRTY-ONE
The men finally carried Charlie up to bed. I followed, taking his shoes and shirt. They laid him down and propped up his head with pillows.
The doctor looked around the room, his gaze stopping at the set of industrial locks on the bedroom door.
Patrick watched him carefully. “Thanks, Doc. Much appreciated.”
“He’ll be out for a while. You better get some sleep while you can. But I suggest you stay in here,” said Randolph.
“I’ll stay with him. You get some sleep,” I told Patrick.
“You can go home. I think you’ve done enough for one night.” Patrick stared at me, his face a mix of fury and fear.
“Patrick,” I whispered, trying not to cry.
He put his hand up and shot a glance at the doctor.
Randolph turned to Cokie. “I believe I have an IOU waiting for me. Willie said you’d take me to her house.”
Cokie nodded. “Come on, Josie. You ride with us to Willie’s, and I’ll take you home from there.”
“I want to stay. I need to help with Charlie.”
“I’m fine, Jo.” The slight tremor in Patrick’s voice made my heart ache. He wasn’t fine. None of this was fine. And it was my fault. Within a few short months, his father’s sanity had crumbled. Patrick had become a full-time nurse. He was willing, generous, and completely unqualified to heal his father, but desperate to allow him this lapse of dignity in private.
“I saw the piano downstairs. Do you play?” Randolph asked Patrick. He nodded.
“Music has been known to calm some of these guys. Their brain locks into it, and it shuts off some of the other reflexes. Just make sure it’s slow and pretty.”
Patrick turned to Cokie. “You should go out the front door, since your cab is in the street. You two can go out the back.”
“Josie girl, you can’t go out like that. You look like you been working the ax for Carlos Marcello. Patrick, give the girl some clothes.” Patrick left for his room. Maybe Sadie could help me get the blood out.
Randolph gestured with his head toward Patrick’s room. “Is he okay? Seems like he’s about to blow.”
“He’s mad at me. I turned my back on Charlie and he cut himself. It’s my fault.”
“Now, don’t go blamin’ yourself,” said Cokie. “He should’ve been home with his father instead of runnin’ round the city with his friends.”
“He was delivering books. He has to keep money coming in,” I said.
I rolled and belted the denims to make them fit and tucked the shirt in. I could smell Patrick on the clothes—a frosty pine scent—and somehow it was comforting. Cokie drove us to Willie’s. It was approaching midnight and the streets popped with Mardi Gras excitement. Cokie and Randolph talked about the war. Randolph predicted that US troops would soon be in Korea. I hoped he was wrong. We didn’t need another war.
Cokie’s cab pulled into Willie’s driveway.
“Go to the side door,” I told Randolph.
“What’s the new password?” he asked.
“Mr. Bingle
sent me.”
Randolph went in through the side door as instructed. I got out of the car for some air, staying in the shadows so Willie couldn’t see me through the windows. Music and laughter spilled from the house and almost covered the sound of male voices arguing.
“Cokie, is someone back there?” We walked down the drive.
John Lockwell’s Lincoln Continental was parked in back of the house. The hood was propped open. Lockwell stood in his shirtsleeves looking at the engine and talking to another man.
“I’m telling you, John. Just leave it, and we’ll tow it in the morning.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not having my car towed from a whorehouse for the world to see. I told Lilly I’d be home by one A.M. tonight. Her friends have her convinced there’s a murderer in the Quarter.”
“You need a ride, sir? My car’s in the driveway,” offered Cokie.
“No, I need to drive my own car,” he insisted. I stepped out from behind Cokie.
Mr. Lockwell threw up his hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I was taking a walk. I live nearby.” The numbers flipped on the rotating counter of lies.
“Well, unless you can fix my car, you don’t need to be here,” he said.
“I know someone who can fix your car,” I said.
“You do? How quick can you get him here?”
I turned to Cokie. “Can you take me to Jesse’s?”
“Sure, but no tellin’ if he’ll be home,” said Cokie.
“I’ll be right back.” I turned and started jogging down the drive with Cokie. But then I stopped. “Wait, Coke.” I turned around and marched back to Mr. Lockwell.
“I have the best mechanic in the Quarter, and I can get him here pronto.”
“Then why are you standing there? Go!” said Mr. Lockwell.
I reached into my purse and grabbed the envelope. “This will save time. I’ll have you sign the recommendation now.”