“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
I shook my head. I took the sheet out of the envelope and unfolded it against the driver’s-side window. “Sign here.”
Lockwell stood and stared.
“I’ll have your car fixed, and this will be done.” I pointed to the signature line.
“What’s this all about?” asked his friend.
Mr. Lockwell’s voice dropped. “Did you fool with my car, just to get this letter?”
“Of course not!”
He grabbed my wrist. “You better have a mechanic. If you’re hustlin’ me, kid, I swear I’ll find you and you’ll be sorry.”
“Josie, you okay?” called Cokie.
“I’m fine,” I called back.
Lockwell moved closer. “Did you hear me? You’ll be sorry.”
I nodded.
Mr. Lockwell took a pen from his shirt pocket. “God, I can’t even read this. It’s too dark back here.” He looked at me. He looked at the car. He scribbled his signature. “There. Now, hurry.”
“Come on, Cokie.” I took off down the driveway with the letter and jumped in the cab. I held up the piece of paper. “Cokie, don’t tell Willie about this.”
“Josie, what are you up to? This is crazy. You don’t even know what’s wrong with his car. Maybe it can’t be fixed. Maybe Jesse don’t have the parts. It’s after midnight. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s not even home. Then what you gonna do? That man is waitin’, and he don’t want to be messed with.”
I stared at the signed letter. I didn’t want to be messed with either.
• • •
Lights were on at Jesse’s. I ran up and pounded on the door. The hinges creaked. A woman peeked out.
“What do you want?”
“Good evening, ma’am. I’m a friend of Jesse’s. Is he home?”
“Go away, it’s too late to be out. Nothing good ever happens after midnight,” she hissed.
“Who is it, Granny?” The door swung open. Jesse stood shirtless in his jeans, holding a bottle of milk. The bottle was sweating. So was his torso.
“Hey, Jo.” Jesse looked at my clothing and raised an eyebrow.
“Jesse, I need a favor.”
• • •
It took less than ten minutes for Jesse to start the engine.
“You got a card, kid?” Mr. Lockwell said from the window, between pulls on his cigar.
“A card?” Jesse asked.
Lockwell threw a green bill at me from the car. It hit my knees and landed on the driveway. “You’re lucky he was able to fix it. Get yourself a dress. I want to see some high heels, Josephine.” He drove away.
Jesse stared at his boots.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” I said, kicking the money away from my feet.
Jesse looked up. I saw his eyes float over my shoulder toward the house. A rich man in back of a brothel threw money at me and told me to get a pair of high heels—I knew exactly what it sounded like. I didn’t want Jesse to think of me that way.
“Looks like he’s pretty well-to-do.”
“He’s my friend’s uncle.” That sounded bad too. Jesse knew Willie’s girls were called nieces. “Jesse, can I tell you something?”
He nodded.
“I asked Mr. Lockwell to give me a recommendation for college. He didn’t want to, but I convinced him.” Oh, that sounded even worse. “Wait, it’s not like that, either. I know he comes here to Willie’s, and he gave me the recommendation so I wouldn’t tell my friend’s aunt, his wife.” I reached in my purse and pulled out the envelope.
Jesse’s face brightened. “So you’ve put the pressure on the nasty goat, huh? Well, in that case, you’ve earned it.” Jesse grabbed the money and flicked it to me.
I laughed. Lockwell was a nasty goat. “You take the money. You fixed the car.”
He grabbed his toolbox, and we started the walk home, back down the driveway.
Jesse talked about cars and dirt racing. After a few blocks, his voice became nothing but a warble of sounds in my ear. So much had happened. Charlie, Patrick, Lockwell, and Willie—I saw her staring out the window as Jesse and I left her driveway. Had she seen me talking to Lockwell? Had she seen him sign the recommendation? When was she going to break open the game and admit she knew I had Mr. Hearne’s watch? Jesse stopped walking, and I realized we were at the bookshop.
“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”
“Yes, I—no, I haven’t. I’m sorry, Jesse. I’m just so tired.”
“Okay, tired girl, let me tell you a secret.”
I didn’t need any more secrets. I had enough of my own. I looked up at Jesse.
“Uh-huh. There you are, all tired, standin’ in your boyfriend’s clothes, but here’s the secret.” Jesse moved in close. “You like me.”
“What?” I moved my face from his, trying to restrain what felt like a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. My body seemed to react involuntarily around Jesse. It made me nervous.
“Yep, when you were in trouble, you went running, but not for your boyfriend. You came runnin’ for me.” Jesse backed away slowly, smiling. “You like me, Josie Moraine. You just don’t know it yet.”
I stood at the door, watching him step backward. He nodded and smiled his Jesse smile. He did have nice teeth.
“Oh, and Jo?” he called from halfway down the street. “You’re welcome for the flowers.”
Jesse turned and walked away, his laughter and toolbox fading into the darkness.
THIRTY-TWO
I was late. Two hours of sleep was worse than no sleep. I felt queasy, and the pressure behind my eyes from crying had turned into a headache. I had cried about Charlie and how my negligence nearly killed him. I cried about letting Patrick down. I cried about lying to Willie, manipulating Mr. Lockwell, not being forthright with Charlotte. I cried about Mr. Hearne’s death and the pathetic fact that I clung to a dead man’s watch because a respectable person had felt I was decent and not useless. I cried about lying. If I poured all the lies I had told into the Mississippi, the river would rise and flood the city. I cried about forgetting to thank Jesse for the flowers and cried even harder that he thought I liked him. Did I like him? Sometimes it felt as if I was trying really hard not to like him. It was all worse than wrong.
Fat Tuesday approached. Willie’s house would be a fat disaster. The thought of sweeping up sin made my head throb. I walked into the house and smelled it right away. Bourbon. Someone had spilled it. Not a glass, but a bottle. That would be a half hour. There was something else. Wine. I hoped it wasn’t red. That would be forty-five minutes, maybe more. I couldn’t be certain. I wasn’t certain of anything anymore, except that New Orleans was a faithless friend and I wanted to leave her.
Sadie wrenched my arm, yanking me into her wiry frame as soon I stepped into the kitchen. She sobbed, making groaning sounds into my shoulder and then began unbuttoning my blouse.
“Sadie, stop. What are you doing?” I pushed her away, hard.
She looked at me, her brows twisted in confusion, her face swollen with crying. She reached into the sink and held up my blouse from the night before.
I had forgotten my bloody clothes in Cokie’s car. He had left them for Sadie. The poor woman probably thought I was dead.
“Oh, Sadie, no. I’m fine. Really.” I opened the neckline of my blouse and held my arms in the air, showing her both sides. “I’m not hurt.”
Sadie collapsed into a chair and kissed the cross hanging from her neck.
I sat down at the table to try to calm her. She was in a pool of prayer so deep she didn’t even respond. That’s when I caught sight of the headline on the table.
MEMPHIS TOURIST’S DEATH
DECLARED MURDER
I grabbed the paper.
&n
bsp; Tennessee state officials have declared that knockout drops given in the Sans Souci on Bourbon Street killed Memphis tourist and former football star Forrest Hearne. Jefferson Parish investigator Martin Langley confirmed to the New Orleans Times Picayune that an autopsy in Memphis confirmed the cause of death. Hearne, a beloved and successful Memphis resident, died in the Sans Souci during the early morning hours of New Year’s Day. The death was initially ruled a heart attack, but the victim’s wife became suspicious when she realized several items were missing from her husband’s person, including cash and an expensive wristwatch. Examinations of the body were performed in Tennessee by a Memphis coroner and later confirmed by a Louisiana state chemist. Both tests revealed unmistakable evidence of chloral hydrate. The drug, often referred to as a “Mickey Finn,” is tasteless, colorless, odorless, and fatal in large doses. The Memphis chief investigator bitterly assailed the city of New Orleans for the lack of diligence local administration showed in the initial ruling of cause of death. The Memphis Press-Scimitar further reported that administering knockout drops to tourists of visible affluence is a widespread practice in the French Quarter, where the nightclub is located. Evidence in the case will be turned over to the New Orleans city police department.
Forrest Hearne hadn’t died of a heart attack. Someone had slipped him a Mickey.
• • •
I knocked on Willie’s door, hoping she’d be in the bath or too tired to talk.
“Come in.”
Willie looked as tired as I felt. A pad of onionskin paper was balanced on her lap. She always recorded the night’s receipts on onionskin. It could be burned, swallowed, or flushed if the cops came by.
“God, I need that coffee. I feel like a bag of smashed assholes.”
It sounded like she had swallowed a handful of rusty nails. “I’m sorry. I was late this morning, Willie. I haven’t even been upstairs yet. But I’ll hurry.” I set the tray on the bed.
“Sit down, Jo.”
I turned Willie’s desk chair toward the bed and sat down.
“Cokie told me what happened last night. He was so proud of you, said you were great in the pocket. Really brave. Randolph told me the same thing, said it was practically a slaughterhouse scene, that Patrick was about as useful as a rubber crutch, but you took control. I saw the welt where you knocked Randolph across the face.” Willie laughed.
“He was drunk, said he needed to be slapped to sober up. And poor Charlie was just lying there covered in blood. I was so scared, Willie.”
“Of course you were. Hell, I’d be scared, too. Cokie said you thought it was your fault. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Charlie’s obviously more pickled than any of us knew. I set up a trade with Randolph. He’s going to check on Charlie every couple days for a line of credit with Dora.”
“Thank you, Willie.”
“Now, Randolph can’t write prescriptions—he’s got problems of his own. I’ll still have to get those from Sully. But at least he can monitor and let us know what he needs.”
“The neighbors are probably becoming suspicious,” I said.
“Tell them Charlie’s in Slidell visiting a friend. I don’t want him in the mental ward with all the nut jobs,” said Willie. “Charlie’s a dignified man. Always helped me when I needed it. Randolph says the outbursts will pass, and he’ll go quiet.”
“You mean his fits will pass?”
Willie took another sip of her coffee. “Cokie also told me that you fixed Lockwell’s car.”
“I didn’t. Jesse Thierry did.”
Willie nodded. “Well, you sure made Jesse look like a hero. But I guess that’s why you did it. You’ve been seen around town together. You like him.”
She stated it as fact, just like Jesse did. It annoyed me. And who had told her I was seen with Jesse? It had to be Frankie.
“Jesse’s a friend, Willie, nothing more. He talks about cars and dirt racing.”
“Oh, right, and you’re on your way to becoming a Rockefeller. I forgot.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, don’t worry. There are lots of nice girls who will be happy to take your sloppy seconds. Hell, the Uptown women gawk at him like he’s sex on a stick. Jesse’s a good kid, even if he’s too lowbrow for you.”
Willie had a way of making me feel ashamed of myself without even trying. I watched her unfold the newspaper. She looked at the headline, then at me, then back at the headline. She coughed and continued reading. “So, someone slipped the Mick too fat. Killed him, eh?”
I nodded.
Willie read aloud from the story. “‘The Memphis Press-Scimitar further reported that administering knockout drops to tourists of visible affluence is a widespread practice in the French Quarter, where the nightclub is located.’ Such crap. They’re painting us all as thieves! Next we’ll be voted the most dangerous city, and that’ll grind tourism to dust.”
Willie slapped the paper down in fury. She got up, lit a cigarette, and began pacing in front of the bed, her black silk robe flowing loose around her.
She pointed at me with her burning cigarette. “This is gonna get bad, Jo. People will demand a cleanup in the Quarter. This fella was high cotton. Every Uptown wife is going to see this and think of her own husband. They’ll lock ’em down. The police will turn up the heat. They’ll be on the house like a bitch on a bone. Business will suffer.”
“Do you think they’ll catch the person who did it?”
Willie didn’t respond. She paced, sucking nicotine. She stopped and turned to me. “Don’t you talk to anyone. If someone comes asking questions, you tell them you know nothing. You come straight to me.”
“Who would ask me questions?”
“The cops, idiot.”
I looked down into my lap.
“What, they already came around?”
I nodded. “Like I told you, Mr. Hearne came into the shop and bought two books the day he died. The police wanted to know what he bought and if he seemed unwell. I told them that he bought Keats and Dickens and that he looked fine.”
“What else?” Willie took a hard pull on her cigarette. I watched the paper burn back.
“That’s it.”
“Well, that’s plenty. They could call you to testify.” She spun around toward me. “Was Patrick there? Did he see Hearne?”
“Yes.”
“Patrick will take the stand. Not you.”
“Willie, what are you talking about?”
“Shut up! Get out and get to work. You’re late. Dates will come knocking early, wanting a fix before Mardi Gras. And put some cold water on your face. It’s fat from all your boo-hooing. You look like Joe Louis in the twelfth round.”
THIRTY-THREE
I slept through Mardi Gras.
I used Patrick’s fan from the shop to mask the noise. We always complained that fan was loud, but on the floor next to my bed, it was perfect. I slept for fourteen hours, not waking once, not even to think about the Smith application.
I had mailed it the day before Mardi Gras, including a crisp ten-dollar bill for the application fee. I often thought about opening a bank account and loved the idea of having printed checks, but Willie didn’t trust banks or bankers in New Orleans. She said they were the wildest men in the house, and she wasn’t going to let them pay her with her own money. She also didn’t want anyone tracking her earnings.
The clerk at the post office said the envelope would arrive in Northampton by February 27. She had looked at the address on the envelope, looked at me, and gave a pitiful smile. She was probably thinking, “Oh, you’re not really trying to get into Smith College, are you? I heard they’re hiring at Woolworth’s on Canal.”
Charlotte’s most recent postcard was dated February 15, and it arrived on the twentieth.
The front of the ca
rd framed a large, beautiful building covered in snow. The caption running along the bottom said Built in 1909, the William Allan Neilson Library at Smith College contains 380,000 volumes and adds 10,000 annually.
I flipped the card over, reading Charlotte’s tiny writing yet again.
Dear Jo,
Have you mailed your application? I hope so! Aunt Lilly says Mardi Gras is in full swing. I’m so envious of all the fun you must be having. I showed all the girls the postcard you sent from the Vieux Carré. The flying club has an aerial tag match with Yale this weekend, and next week our congressman will meet with the Progressives. Can’t wait for you to join us. Write soon.
Fondly,
Charlotte
I wanted to join them, to work on something important and meaningful.
“Hey, Motor City.”
The voice filtered in from outside, followed by a whistle. I peeked out the window. Jesse nodded from across the street, standing in front of his motorcycle. I opened the window and leaned out. The street was covered with remnants of celebration. Trash Wednesday, they called it.
“Did you get some sleep?” he called up. “I didn’t see you out.”
“I slept through the whole thing.”
“You hungry?”
I was starving. “Are you going to the cathedral to get your ashes?” I asked.
Jesse laughed. “I’m from Alabama, remember? Baptist. Salvation by grace. Let’s go find a muffuletta.”
We sat on a bench at the edge of Jackson Square. A good night’s sleep had helped. My mind had cleared, and the earth no longer shifted beneath my feet. Jesse’s head lolled against the bench, his eyes closed, the sun baking the comfortable smile on his face. It was nice not talking. Somehow Jesse and I could have a conversation without saying a word. I closed my eyes and leaned back, trying to bring the orange shadows behind my eyelids into focus. Birds chirped, and a breeze rolled over my arms. We sat that way for a while, cleansing ourselves of the chaos that had been Mardi Gras, content with the lunch settling in our stomachs.
“Jess?”
“Mm,” he replied.