Cokie pulled from my grip. A solemn expression creased his face. “It’s time to go back, Josie girl.”
“Finally. I’m running out of food. Is Mother gone?”
Cokie hung his head. He spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear him. “What did you say?”
He took a breath. “Mr. Charlie’s dead.”
I sat in the front seat of Mariah. My chest heaved. Warm tears slid down my face and onto my neck. Cokie said Charlie had taken a turn. Patrick and Randolph stayed up all night with him. Patrick was at his bedside, holding his hand, when he passed. Randolph called Willie. She and Cokie came over to help Patrick. Willie arranged for the undertaker, and the funeral would be tomorrow.
They all helped. Everyone was there. Except me.
Cokie brought the newspaper.
CHARLES MARLOWE—beloved son of the late Catherine and Nicholas Marlowe, brother of the late Donald Marlowe, father of Patrick J. Marlowe, owner of Marlowe’s Bookstore, author, aged 61 years and resident of this city for the past 39 years. Relatives and friends of the family are invited to attend the funeral, which will take place Wednesday, 11 o’clock A.M., at the funeral home of Jacob Schoen and Son, 3827 Canal Street. Interment in Greenwood Cemetery.
“You go ahead and cry, Josie girl. I done cried the whole ride down here. I know you wanted to be there. Now, your momma, she’s still up to her neck, but Willie said you had to come back for Mr. Charlie’s funeral.”
“Of course I had to come back. This is wrong, Cokie. I should have been there for Charlie and Patrick. Willie had no right to keep me away.”
“It’s rough for Patrick, but I think he at peace. It was so hard for him, Mr. Charlie that sick and not bein’ able to fix it.”
Cokie drove me straight to Patrick’s. He opened the door and I almost didn’t recognize him. Grief had taken his face. He fell into my arms. Cokie helped me walk him back in the house and onto the couch. I put my arm around him and smoothed his hair.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.
“Me too.”
“He’s gone, Jo. I knew it was bad, but . . . but I didn’t think it would happen this quickly.”
Sadie scurried around in Patrick’s kitchen.
“Sadie’s helpin’ for tomorrow,” said Cokie. “After the burial, folks will come here to eat. I’ll be back in a bit. Now you take care, buddy.” Cokie shuffled out the front door.
“Why do I have to entertain? My father just died,” lamented Patrick. “I don’t want to socialize.”
“It’s not entertaining. You’re giving people the chance to express their condolences and comfort you.” The words tasted sour. I agreed with Patrick. In New Orleans, sometimes death did feel more like socializing. And he knew better than anyone else. He frequented postmortem parties daily, trolling for books.
“Have you spoken to your mother?” I asked.
“We exchanged telegrams. She wants me to come to the West Indies, of course. But how can I? I have to throw a funeral party. I’m so grateful that Willie sent Sadie.” He fell back and plopped his head into my lap. “Thank you, Sadie!” he yelled into the kitchen.
“She’s mute, not deaf, Patrick.”
He reached up and touched my face. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you. I can’t do this without you. You’ll be with me tomorrow, right?”
“Every minute.”
He ran his fingers across my cheek. “It’s the strangest feeling. I’ll be okay, feel strong, and then an hour later, something will happen and I’ll completely break down. I feel ridiculous.”
“You just lost your father.” The word father caught in my throat. Suddenly I was crying, tears spilling everywhere. I pulled in breaths between sobs. “He took such good care of me. Who knows where I’d be if he hadn’t given me the room above the shop.”
Patrick pulled me down on the couch toward him. “I know, Jo. You lost him too.”
We lay there, crying, until we both fell asleep.
FORTY-ONE
Funeral preparation was a surreal experience. Somehow, with the help of others, we got from face to face and place to place. But a thick, jellied haze draped about the day and distorted it into some kind of disturbing, slow-motion movie.
Miss Paulsen came as soon as she heard. She comforted Patrick and helped with the service arrangements. Willie spoke to the undertaker about Charlie’s appearance. We all laced together—a brothel madam, an English professor, a mute cook, a quadroon cabbie, and me, the girl carrying a bucket of lies and throwing them like confetti.
Thanks to Willie, Charlie looked like himself again—sophisticated, literary. I borrowed a funeral dress from Sweety. Patrick asked Miss Paulsen to read a statement at the service. He didn’t think he could do it. Miss Paulsen addressed the group in a poised manner, as she would her classroom.
“We are here today to honor the life and legacy of our dear friend Charles Marlowe. His son, Patrick, has asked me to read a statement he has prepared.” She cleared her throat.
“‘I’m so grateful to all of you for your support during this difficult time. For most, my father’s death probably came as a shock. In truth, my father had been suffering for several months, battling a degenerative brain condition. Although I know you must feel upset that you were not able to say your good-byes or extend offers of help, please know that the greatest gift you have given my father was the opportunity to endure this indignity privately. Those of you who know him know that he took pride in language, literary history, and professional appearance, all of which were lost to him in his final months.
“‘My sincere thanks to Dr. Randolph Cox, Dr. Bertrand Sully, Willie Woodley, and Francis “Cokie” Coquard, all of whom helped my father in his final days. And I would never have been able to endure this dark journey without Josie Moraine. Josie was like a daughter to my father.
“‘As many of you know, my father was a gifted author and bookseller. Fortunately, he lives on through his books. I know I will always take comfort in hearing his voice through his writing. Thank you all for coming today.’”
I was at Patrick’s side the entire time. I turned and saw Willie and Cokie in the very back, Willie with her dark sunglasses, Cokie with tears streaming down his face. Willie approached me after the funeral. She looked tired and her ankles were puffy. She handed me a receipt.
“Here. I paid in cash. Tell Patrick everything’s covered.”
“Oh, Willie, I don’t think Patrick would want you to pay.”
“I don’t care what he wants,” said Willie. “It’s what I want. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get there early. The house is a pigsty.”
“Aren’t you going to the luncheon? Sadie prepared all sorts of food.”
“I’m not going, and Sadie’s not going either. What am I gonna do there, stand around eating ambrosia salad, talking about books? I’ve got a business to run. Elmo’s bringing over a new bed frame. Dora broke hers last night. That girl should be in a sideshow, not a whorehouse.”
Cokie waved to me as he left with Willie. He wouldn’t be going to the luncheon either.
“Hi, Josie. Remember me?”
James from Doubleday Bookshop stood in front of me with a tall, attractive blonde.
“Yes. Hello, James. Thank you so much for coming. I know it means a lot to Patrick.”
“This is my girlfriend, Kitty. I’ll be coming to the house for lunch, but Kitty can’t come. I wanted to introduce you,” said James.
Kitty extended a gloved hand to me. She wore an expensive tailored suit with large pearl buttons. “Nice to meet you, Josie. Patrick’s told us so much about you. He says you’re like a sister. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She gave me a smile. Her teeth were perfect, like Jesse’s.
I nodded and they left. They looked like fashion dolls together. Perfect in appearance but plastic in attraction.
Her words, “like a sister,” scraped at me. Had Patrick really said that?
Very few went to the cemetery. Miss Paulsen said she couldn’t bear it and instead went to the house to help prepare for the luncheon. Although she was upset, she said she understood why we had gone to such lengths to protect Charlie and found it very admirable.
Patrick stared at Charlie’s grave. He looked solemn but beautiful in his dark suit. I looped my arm through his. “You take all the time you need.”
We stood alone with Charlie for nearly an hour.
“There’s so much I need to tell him. Things he didn’t understand. But, no, there are Jell-O molds and pinwheel sandwiches waiting for us,” complained Patrick. “It’s payback for all the funeral luncheons I’ve gone to, hunting for books.”
“Come on, you know Sadie doesn’t make Jell-O,” I told him.
The house was packed. The volume dipped when Patrick walked in, and people approached to again offer their condolences. I made my way in next to Patrick, and suddenly my feet stopped moving. In the corner. Near the punch bowl. I grabbed Patrick’s arm.
Mother.
She wore a turquoise dress, much too loud for a funeral luncheon. Her hair was dyed a cheap shade of yellow, the roots dark and exposed. Her complexion was drawn and gray.
What was she doing here? I knew the answer. Food, free drinks, and—I couldn’t help the thought—the opportunity to case the house. My eyes darted around for Cincinnati.
She cut straight for me, red nails wrapped around her punch glass.
“Baby girl!” She put her arm around me without actually touching me and kissed the air near my cheek. I put my arms around her wilted frame. She recoiled at the contact.
“Mother, you’re so thin.”
“Dexedrine,” she whispered. “It’s a new diet pill that’s being tested in Hollywood. It’s workin’ great. I think it’ll be all the rage once it’s approved. I can’t believe there are so many people here. I mean, it’s not like Charlie was somebody.”
“He was very beloved, Mother. He was also a celebrated author.”
“Well, book people, then. But they don’t really count.” She grabbed my wrist. “Where did you get that?” Her fingers quickly paraded over the gold watch from Willie. “That’s fourteen carat. Let me try it on.”
I gently pulled my arm away. “It was a gift.”
Patrick turned around and stared at Mother. “Hello, Louise.”
“Hi, there. I’m so sorry about your daddy. And how awful that he turned retarded like that. I’ve heard it can just happen”—she snapped her fingers—“like that. You poor thing, you must be so worried that it’s in the blood. You could end up with it.”
Patrick placed his hand on the small of my back and moved me closer to him. His face twisted with disgust. “You know, Louise, you’ve always been a piece of . . . work.”
Miss Paulsen called Patrick over to her.
“He’s turned bitter,” said Mother. “Are you guys together? You little vixen, you’re playin’ two hands. I hear you’re seeing Jesse Thierry too. Now, he’s a dish. But if Pat’s givin’ you gifts like this watch, I’d stick with him mainly. There’s bound to be more where that came from. But it’s good to keep Jesse around too because he’s the fun type.”
I stared at Mother, desperately trying to figure out how we shared a genetic strand. But I knew we must, because despite her awfulness, there was a part of me that loved her somehow.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about all the garbage that’s going on,” said Mother.
“I did. Were you with that man from Memphis?”
“I wasn’t with him, we had a drink together. It’s not a crime to have a drink with someone.” She drained her punch glass and set it in a planter. I picked it up.
“How did you meet him?”
“Oh, I don’t even remember. Out and about. That night was such a blast it’s all a blur.” She leaned in close. “I have an alibi.” She pronounced the word as if she’d rehearsed it.
“Was he a nice man?” I asked, needing to understand how my mother had intersected with Forrest Hearne.
“Nice? I don’t know. He was rich. The kinda rich you know as soon as you see it. Hey, Cincinnati’s in town, honey, maybe we can all go for dinner. He’s pals with Diamond Jim Moran now. You heard of him? He’s opening a restaurant here. He wears diamond everything, even his dental bridge has diamonds. I think Diamond Jim is single. Maybe we can all go on a double date.”
Thankfully, Miss Paulsen approached, so I didn’t have to respond to my mother’s insidious suggestion. “Everything well, Josie?” she asked.
“Miss Paulsen, this is”—I paused, swallowing the lie that was about to take flight—“this is my mother, Louise.”
“Lovely to meet you,” said Miss Paulsen in her crisp tone.
“Mother, Miss Paulsen is a professor of English at Loyola.”
Mother fished a wrapperless piece of chewing gum from her purse and started smacking on it.
“Oh, that’s nice. I’m in from Hollywood. You’ve probably seen my picture in the paper.”
“I can’t say that I have,” said Miss Paulsen. “Louise, your daughter is quite impressive. You must be very proud.”
“Yeah, she’s a real good girl. She just needs to learn to doll herself up more, classy-like. Did you know she’s named after the classiest madam in Storyville?” She nudged my arm in pride. “Is there any vodka? I think I’d like a Bloody Mary.” Mother wandered toward the kitchen.
There I stood, turned completely wrong side out in front of Miss Paulsen. A dignified professor, an alumna of Smith, and my filthy laundry flapping in her face.
She reached out and gently took my hand. “I think we understand each other very well now, Josie.”
FORTY-TWO
Still no mail from Smith. I received another letter from Charlotte asking if I’d like to join her family in the Berkshires over the summer. I had no idea where the Berkshires were and had to look it up. It sounded expensive and would certainly be costly to get there. And then I’d need appropriate clothes, clothes that I didn’t have and couldn’t afford.
The door opened and Betty Lockwell sauntered into the shop with her sour-apple smile and rail-thin limbs poking out of an obviously pricey dress. I thought I had knocked her arms off back at the tree.
“Hello,” she said, looking around the shop for Patrick. “Remind me of your name.”
“Jo.”
“That’s right, Jo.”
“Patrick’s not here,” I told her.
Her bottom lip pouted. “Oh, that’s a shame. He recommended a book he said I’d like. But it was out of stock. Ted Capote.”
“It’s in now.” I pulled the book from the display and handed it to her. She turned it over and saw the controversial photo of the nubile Capote, lounging on the back cover, staring into the camera.
“Wow, he’s young. When will Patrick be here?”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Betty. Patrick lost his father. The funeral was last week.” I couldn’t help myself and added, “He may go to the West Indies to see his mother.”
“The West Indies? Well, that’s no good.”
John Lockwell burst through the door, his scowling son, Richard, in tow. “Come on, Betty, I told you we didn’t have time. The car is running, and I’m burning gasoline.” Mr. Lockwell saw me and stopped. “Well, hello there, Josephine. How are you?”
“How do you know her?” asked Betty.
I jumped in quickly. “I met your father when Charlotte invited me to your party.” Mr. Lockwell gave me a grin. “I’m fine, Mr. Lockwell, how are you?”
“I’m just fine, too.” He sauntered to the counter. “What’s news?” He loved the secret elasticity between us. Richard watched, eating his fingernails near the door.
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“No news on my end. How’s business?” I asked.
“Better than ever. Lots to celebrate. Have you heard from Charlotte lately?”
“Yes, just yesterday. She’s invited me to the Berkshires this summer.”
Betty looked from me to her father, disgusted by our comfortable conversation.
“That sounds mighty fine. You’ll need some nice shoes for the Berkshires, won’t you?”
“I imagine I will.”
“What are you talking about?” Betty asked her father.
He ignored her and leaned on the counter. He pointed to my arm. “That’s a nice watch. Did one of your boyfriends give you that?”
I shot a look at Betty. “Patrick gave it to me for my birthday. He’s so good to me.” Richard Lockwell laughed. “Can I ring that book up for you, Betty?” I asked.
Mr. Lockwell took the book from Betty, saw the photo, and tossed it on the counter. “You’re not getting that. That’s trash.”
“You would know,” said Betty. She turned and stormed out of the store. Richard followed.
Lockwell shook his head. “Lilly has completely ruined that girl. Well, I’ll be going. It’s good to know you actually do work here.” He lowered his voice. “I have a place just over on St. Peter now. You let me know if you’d ever like to . . . meet up.” He grinned and left the shop.
Betty Lockwell and I actually agreed on something. I put my knuckles on the counter, signaling trash.
Cokie arrived at closing time.
“You about closed up?” he asked.
“Just about. Do me a favor and flip the sign in the window.”
Cokie turned the sign to read CLOSED. He locked the door.
“Now, I got some business,” said Cokie. He marched to the counter and held out his hands. “See these?”
I looked at Cokie’s palms, lined deep and weathered.
“Them is some mojo hands. After Mr. Charlie’s funeral, girl, I was so blue I had to get me some fun. So I jumped into a couple games and, oooeee, I was rollin’. For three days straight, I was doublin’ and winnin’. Cornbread say he ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. I quit just when I felt the devil himself tempting me to bet it all. I knew right then why I won that money and what I was goin’ do with the pot. Josie girl, pack that thermos, you goin’ to Smith College.”