“Smith? Oh, I don’t know,” I said.
“Why not? You’re obviously an accomplished woman, practically running a publishing business and living on your own in a unique and decadent city like New Orleans. So many eccentric characters, I can’t imagine what you’ve experienced here,” she said with a wink.
“We have some interesting people at Smith too. I’m part of a new group on campus,” continued Charlotte. “The Student Progressives. We promote opportunities for minorities and women. Perhaps you heard about the Amherst fraternity that lost their charter because they pledged a negro? We wrote to our congressmen and picketed.”
I had heard about it. Cokie showed me the article in the paper. Several colleges out East supported the Phi Psi chapter in their decision to invite a negro into the fraternity. Smith was one of them. I was elated, but couldn’t talk about those things with most women in the South.
Charlotte leaned toward me over the counter and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Let me just tell you, I have no interest in knitting argyles. And all of those little books about domestic servitude? Straight into the trash.”
Patrick erupted with laughter and pointed at me. “She tried to convince my father not to carry those booklets in the store.”
“Of course she did,” said Charlotte. “She’s a modern woman. Josephine, you really should consider Smith. Let me send you some information.”
Charlotte took down the address of the shop and talked nonstop about Smith, the campus, the professors, and how she knew we’d be joined at the hip if I were in Northampton. Charlotte was a member of both the fencing and flying clubs at Smith and even had her pilot’s license. We chatted for an hour until she had to meet her parents at their hotel.
“I know this is last minute,” said Charlotte, “but my aunt and uncle are having a get-together tonight for my parents. They live Uptown. I’d just love if you’d both come.”
“Uptown?” I blurted.
“Oh, yes, I know, they’re ridiculously stiff. But come, and we’ll have a good laugh at everyone. Do come!”
Me? At an Uptown party? My mouth hung agape.
“Sure, we’d love to,” said Patrick, handing Charlotte the book she had purchased for her father. “Just give us the address.” While Charlotte scribbled down the address, Patrick motioned for me to close my mouth.
“See you tonight!” Charlotte hurried out of the store, smiling and waving from the wet street.
“Are you crazy? An Uptown party?” I said.
“Why not? I think you’re the one that’s crazy, Jooosephine,” mocked Patrick. “Since when?”
“Well, Josie is nearly short for Josephine and Josephine is so much more . . . I don’t know.”
Josie sounded like a cheap nickname. Why couldn’t Mother have named me Josephine?
“Seems like you’ve made a new friend,” said Patrick. “I like her. She’s smart.”
Charlotte was smart. She even knew how to fly a plane. She was also witty and fun. And she seemed to truly like me. Actually, she seemed impressed with me. A twinge of happiness bounced around in my chest. Charlotte lived across the country. She didn’t know about Mother, Willie’s, who I was, or what I came from.
“She sure was giving you the hard sell on Smith.”
“Yes. It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Who knows, maybe I would like to go to Smith,” I told Patrick.
“Yeah, well, I’d like to go to the Juilliard School, but I don’t see that happening either. But in the meantime, what a great idea you had to part your hair on the side.”
I wadded up some paper and threw it at him.
NINE
Patrick left to pay his respects to the widow Vitrone and make a deal on Proust in the process. I pushed the book cart among the aisles, shelving the new titles we had taken in last week. Patrick did the buying and pricing. I did the organizing. It had been our system for years. I slid the new romance by Candace Kinkaid into place. Rogue Desire. How did she come up with such bad titles? Creating bad titles could be a fun game for Patrick and me . . . or maybe even me and Charlotte.
Why couldn’t I go to Smith? I had made nearly all A’s in high school and took the College Board Tests because they seemed fun. True, my extracurricular was limited to cleaning a brothel and spending time with Cokie, not exactly something you’d put on a college application. But I had a lot of experience from working in the bookshop and, on average, read at least 150 books per year. I was fairly well versed in all subjects.
What would the girls from high school—the ones with two parents and a trust fund—say when I ran into them at Holmes department store? “Oh I’m sorry, I’m in such a rush,” I’d tell them. “You see, I’m off to Smith in the fall and I’m just here picking up my monogrammed sweaters. Why, yes, Smith is out East. I just didn’t find the curricula of the Southern schools compelling whatsoever.”
I couldn’t wait to receive the information from Charlotte. I planned to start a list with all my questions and would go back to the library to read up on Smith.
The bell jingled as I was reaching up to the top shelf. “I’ll be right with you,” I called out. I dusted off my palms, straightened the dip in the front of my hair, and stepped out to help the customer.
“My apologies, I was—”
I jerked to a halt. Cincinnati leaned up against the shelf in front of me, cigarette dangling from his mouth. The black suit jacket hung large on his slender shoulders. His handsome had gone rotten, like bad fruit. His gray eyes were still thin slits and now matched a silvery scar across the bridge of his nose. He stood staring for a moment, then stepped closer.
“Well, lookie this. I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve grown up something, now, haven’t you?” He eyed my blouse, rolling the cigarette between his lips. “You spreadin’ your legs for Willie?”
“No,” I said quickly.
“That’s a shame.” He smashed his cigarette against the side of the bookshelf and moved closer. “I might actually take a turn with you myself,” he said, leaning in toward my face, “seein’ as we have a score to settle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I could feel my pistol, strapped against my right leg under my skirt. I just needed the opportunity to reach for it. But lifting my skirt did not seem wise, considering the circumstances.
“Don’t know what I’m talking about?” sneered Cincinnati. He held up his left hand, displaying a shiny red patch. “Some little witch burned me, burned me bad. And some old hag shot me in the leg. You know what it feels like to be burned, little girl?” He took a step toward me. “You wanna feel it? I bet you do. I bet you’re like your momma.”
“I’m nothing like my mother,” I told him, edging away from the stacks into the center of the store in order to be visible from the front window.
“Where you sliding to? You scared of me, Josie Moraine? You scared I’m gonna cut you up in little pieces and dump you in Marcello’s swamps?” He laughed, revealing brown tobacco stains on his bottom teeth. He grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me to him. “You’d be such sweet eatin’ for those gators.”
The door to the shop flew open. “Get your hands off her!” Cokie ordered. He was carrying a tire iron.
Cincinnati barely looked at Cokie. “Mind your own business, old man.”
“I’ll mind some business with this iron through your head.” Cokie raised the tire iron. “I said get your hands off her.”
Cincinnati let go of my wrist. “Oh, I see how it is. She’s your property. You keep her locked in this bookshop and stop by for a poke whenever you feel like it.”
“That ain’t how it is,” said Cokie.
“No? Well, how is it?” said Cincinnati, moving toward Cokie, taunting him. “Look at you. I can’t tell if you’re more cream or more coffee. Oh, wait, let me guess. Your granny was a real pretty m
aidservant, and she got bent over by the boss man, huh?”
Click, click.
Cincinnati spun around toward me. “All right,” he said, casually raising his hands. “Let’s not get crazy, Josie.”
“Crazy Josie—I kinda like the way that sounds.” I clutched my gun with both hands the way Willie had taught me. “Why don’t you get out of here before I do something crazy.”
Cincinnati laughed. “Take it easy, baby. I just came to give you a message from your momma.”
“Is that what you were doing? Giving me a message?” I said, keeping my gun drawn and steering him toward the door.
“Yeah, your momma said to meet her at the Meal-a-Minit at three o’clock. She’s got something to tell you.” Cincinnati took out a cigarette and lit it slowly, just to show me that my gun didn’t bother him a bit.
Cokie’s eyes were the size of half-dollars. The tire iron trembled slightly in his hand. He was terrified of guns.
“Lookin’ good, Josie,” said Cincinnati. He pointed his cigarette at me. “I’ll be waitin’ to see you again.” He pushed past Cokie and left the store.
“Sweet Jesus, put that thing down before someone in the street sees you,” said Cokie.
I lowered my arms, unable to release my grip on the gun.
“You okay?” asked Cokie. “He didn’t hurt you none, did he?”
I shook my head, finally taking a breath. “Thanks, Coke. Were you following him?”
“I got some eyes around. Frankie said he saw him walkin’ this way from the Roosevelt Hotel. I don’t know why your momma mess with that man. He’s evil. I can see it in his eyes.”
He was right. There was something ice-cold, dead in Cincinnati. I exhaled and began to release my cramped fingers.
“Cokie, were you able to go by the coroner?” I asked.
“Jo, what’s wrong with you, girl? Thirty seconds ago, you had guns on a criminal, and now you’re asking about that dead man from Memphis? What’s the story?”
What was the story? Forrest Hearne was a mystery, like looking down a dark well. But I knew in the deepest pit of my stomach. Something wasn’t right.
“There’s no story. He came into the shop on New Year’s Eve, and I met him, that’s all. He was a really nice man, and now he’s dead. So, did you talk to the coroner?”
“I did. I went to see Dr. Moore myself,” said Cokie. “And I had to wait around outside until he left for lunch. I wasn’t goin’ in that morgue with all them dead bodies. He wasn’t too happy to see me. He said he was a busy man—”
“And?”
“Dr. Moore said the rich man from Memphis died of a heart attack.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Well, now, Josie, that’s what the man said. He the coroner.”
The door burst open with a yell. I drew my gun, and Cokie whipped around, raising the tire iron.
Patrick jumped back, looking from the tire iron to my gun. “What’s wrong? It’s just Proust!” he said, holding a large box of books.
TEN
I sat in the vinyl booth at the Meal-a-Minit, facing the door. The diner was air-cooled in the summer, but now the air was thick and the sweat behind my knee ran down my calf, making it stick to the booth. I picked at a cigarette burn in the red vinyl and watched the ceiling fan spin, letting my eyes blur on the rotating blades. Willie had sent a thug named Sonny to sit in the booth in front of me. He was reading a paper. I didn’t think Cincinnati would come with Mother, but I couldn’t be sure. I arrived ten minutes early. Mother was twenty minutes late. Typical.
Jesse Thierry was sitting in the booth across from me. He dropped some coins on the table.
“Thanks, darlin’,” said the waitress. “Say hi to your granny for me.” Jesse nodded. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he pulled on his leather jacket to leave. He caught me looking and smiled.
“Happy New Year, Motor City,” said Jesse. He left the diner.
A fat man with a pink face walked by and stopped at the booth. “Well, hello there, Josie. Remember me?”
Walter Sutherland. He was an accountant at a matchbook factory and one of the men who sometimes spent the night at Willie’s. I had run into him once or twice in the mornings. He had a way of looking at me that made me wish I was wearing a winter coat.
“Hello,” I said, avoiding direct eye contact.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“I’m meeting my mother,” I told him.
“Oh. Are you”—he lowered his voice—“working yet?”
I turned to face him. “No.”
He looked at me, adjusting his waistband as he bit his bottom lip. “You’ll tell me if you start, won’t you? I want to be the first,” he whispered.
“I won’t work at Willie’s.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be at Willie’s. I know it must be hard for you, Josie. If you ever need money, you let me know. We could work out a nice arrangement. I’d pay handsome to be the first.” He mopped his sweaty forehead. “And I wouldn’t tell a soul. It could be our secret, Josie.”
“Get lost, fatso,” said Sonny from the booth in back of me.
Walter scurried out like a frightened squirrel, passing Mother as she walked in.
Mother wore a new red dress with jewelry I had never seen. She slid into the booth, laughing.
“Walter Sutherland. What a pathetic old pig. He’s slow as molasses and then wants you to hug him all night while he cries. I’m so glad he’s never picked me. He’s loaded, though. He generally goes with Sweety. She’s made a mint off him.”
I nodded.
Mother looked at her wrist, admiring her diamond bracelet. “You changed your hair, baby. Looks real pretty.”
“Thanks. You look good too. New dress?”
“Yeah. Cinci’s taking me to Antoine’s tonight for dinner. You know how I love Antoine’s. It’s been years since I’ve been able to go.”
The saliva in my mouth soured. The thought of Mother having a fancy dinner with Cincinnati at Antoine’s was revolting. And what if one of the patrons recognized her stolen jewelry on Mother?
“New Year’s Eve was a real ball this year. You have a good time?”
Mother had told Willie that she didn’t feel well on New Year’s Eve. Now she was saying she’d had a ball. “Yes,” I said. “I stayed in and finished a book.”
Mother rolled her eyes. “You better get your nose out of those books and get busy livin’, Jo. In a couple years, you’ll be past your prime. You’d be something to look at if you wore a little more makeup and a better bra. I was a real knockout at your age . . . until I had you.”
The waitress arrived at our table. Mother ordered a sweet tea. I saw Sonny over Mother’s shoulder, still buried in the newspaper. His ashtray was already overflowing with butts.
“Mother, I’ve been wondering . . . why did you name me Josie instead of Josephine?”
“What are you talking about? Her name wasn’t Josephine.”
“Whose name?” I asked.
Mother took a compact out of her purse to inspect her lipstick. “Besides, aren’t you happy I didn’t name you Josephine? That sounds like a fat old washwoman. Josie’s much sexier.”
Sexier. I looked across the restaurant and saw a mother sitting next to her daughter in a booth, helping her read the menu. She smoothed the little girl’s hair and put her napkin on her lap.
“Whose name was Josie?” I asked.
“Josie Arlington. She was the classiest madam in Storyville years ago. Had a house on Basin. Willie used to talk about her all the time, said she died on Valentine’s Day. So when you were born on Valentine’s Day, I thought of Josie Arlington and named you Josie in her honor.”
“You named me after a madam?”
“Not just any mad
am, the most high-class madam that ever existed. She was a smart woman. With your brains, Jo, you’d make a fine madam yourself.”
“I have no interest, Mother.” Humiliation bubbled inside of me. I thought about explaining to Charlotte Gates that I wasn’t named after a virtuous character in Little Women. I was named after a woman who sold five-dollar hookers on Basin Street. And my mother thought I should be proud of that.
“Don’t get on your high horse, Jo. What, you think you’re gonna be Cinderella?” She tipped her head back and laughed. Ugly. “You think your life is going to be some fairy tale, hon, like in one of your books?”
The waitress brought Mother her iced tea. I knew what to do. I should have ended the conversation there. I should have left. Instead, I sat in the booth staring at her, wishing that she could be like other mothers, wishing that she were different. Mother would never square up. I knew that.
“So, what did you want to tell me?” I asked.
“We’re leaving,” said Mother.
“What do you mean?”
“Me and Cincinnati.” Mother leaned in toward the table. “We’re going to California. I need you to tell Willie for me, but wait until tomorrow, after we’re gone.”
“You’re going to California.” For some reason, I wasn’t surprised.
She tousled her hair. “It’s time to get outta Dodge. This could finally be my break, going to Hollywood.”
My mother was ridiculous. “Mother, I don’t think it’s wise for you to go anywhere with Cincinnati. He’s dangerous. He beat you. I don’t want that to happen again.”
“Oh, he’s changed, baby. Look at the gorgeous bracelet he bought me.” She extended her arm.
“Who cares, Mother? It’s probably stolen.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not, but I know you’re too old for Hollywood.”