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Fifty-Nine
Out of the Easy was a team effort. This book would not have been possible without the team captains—my agent Ken Wright and my editor Tamra Tuller. Ken encouraged me to pursue this story and Tamra guided every step of my writing. Their patience, wisdom, and expertise transformed this novel. I am grateful for such wonderful mentors and friends.
I am eternally indebted to author Christine Wiltz. Her book The Last Madam: A Life in the New Orleans Underworld inspired not only this story, but also my desire to be a writer. Earl and Lorraine Scramuzza introduced me to a historical underbelly of the French Quarter I never would have uncovered on my own. Sean Powell welcomed me into the house on Conti that was formerly the brothel of Norma Wallace and the studio of E. J. Bellocq. New Orleans historian John Magill shared his incredible knowledge and flagged my errors.
Writers of historical fiction would be lost without libraries and archives. I am grateful to the Williams Research Center in New Orleans, the Historic New Orleans Collection, the New Orleans Public Library, the Nashville Public Library, the Brentwood Library, The Times-Picayune, The Tennessean, Nanci A. Young in the Smith College Archives, Lori E. Schexnayder in the Tulane University Archives, Trish Nugent in the Loyola University Archives, the Vanderbilt University Archives, the Librairie Book Shop on Chartres, and the Garden District Book Shop. Writers Lyle Saxon, Robert Tallant, Ellen Gilchrist, Anne Rice, and Truman Capote brought Louisiana to life for me through their stunning prose. Thank you to the teachers, librarians, booksellers, and literacy advocates who have given me the opportunity to connect with students and readers.
My writing group sees everything first: Sharon Cameron, Amy Eytchison, Rachel Griffith, Linda Ragsdale, Howard Shirley, and Angelika Stegmann. Thank you for your dedication and friendship. I couldn’t do it without you! Kristy King, Lindsay Davis, and Kristina Sepetys were all integral to the character development of Josie Moraine. Genetta Adair, Courtney Stevens Potter, Rae Ann Parker, and The Original 7 were wonderfully generous with critiques and encouragement. Fred Wilhelm and Lindsay Kee sparked the title. And SCBWI made my dreams come true.
Michael Green at Philomel, thank you for believing in me. The Philomel family—Semadar Megged, Jill Santopolo, Kiffin Steurer, and Julia Johnson. The Penguin family—Don Weisberg, Jennifer Loja, Eileen Kreit, Ashley Fedor, Scottie Bowditch, Shanta Newlin, Kristina Aven, Liz Moraz, Helen Boomer, Felicia Frazier, Emily Romero, Jackie Engel, Erin Dempsey, Anna Jarzab, Marie Kent, Linda McCarthy, Vanessa Han, and all of the incredible Penguin field reps.
Yvonne Seivertson, Niels Bye Nielsen, Gavin Mikhail, Jeroen Noordhuis, Mike Cortese, The Rockets, Steve Vai, JW Scott, Steve Malk, Carla Schooler, Jenna Shaw, Amanda Accius Williams, the Lithuanian community, the Reids, the Frosts, the Tuckers, the Smiths, the Peales and the Sepetyses all assisted or supported my efforts with this book.
Mom and Dad, you taught me to dream big and love even bigger. John and Kristina, you are my inspiration and the best friends a little sister could ask for.
And Michael, your love gives me the courage and the wings. You are my everything.
My mother’s a prostitute. Not the filthy, streetwalking kind. She’s actually quite pretty, fairly well spoken, and has lovely clothes. But she sleeps with men for money or gifts, and according to the dictionary, that makes her a prostitute.
She started working in 1940 when I was seven, the year we moved from Detroit to New Orleans. We took a cab from the train station straight to a fancy hotel on St. Charles Avenue. Mother met a man from Tuscaloosa in the lobby while having a drink. She introduced me as her niece and told the man she was delivering me to her sister. She winked at me constantly and whispered that she’d buy me a doll if I just played along and waited for her. I slept alone in the lobby that night, dreaming of my new doll. The next morning, Mother checked us in to our own big room with tall windows and small round soaps that smelled like lemon. She received a green velvet box with a strand of pearls from the man from Tuscaloosa.
“Josie, this town is going to treat us just fine,” said Mother, standing topless in front of the mirror, admiring her new pearls.
The next day, a dark-skinned driver named Cokie arrived at the hotel. Mother had received an invitation to visit someone important in the Quarter. She made me take a bath and insisted I put on a nice dress. She even put a ribbon in my hair. I looked silly, but I didn’t say anything to Mother. I just smiled and nodded.
“Now, Josie, you aren’t to say a thing. I’ve been hoping Willie would call for me, and I don’t need you messing things up with your stubbornness. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. And for gosh sakes, don’t start that humming. It’s spooky when you do that. If you’re good, I’ll buy you something real special.”
“Like a doll?” I said, hoping to jog her memory.
“Sure, hon, would you like a doll?” she said, finishing her sweep of lipstick and kissing the air in front of the mirror.
Cokie and I hit it off right away. He drove an old taxicab painted a foggy gray. If you looked close, you could see the ghost of taxi lettering on the door. He gave me a couple Mary Jane candies and a wink that said, “Hang in there, kiddo.” Cokie whistled through the gaps in his teeth as he drove us to Willie’s in his taxicab. I hummed along, hoping the molasses from the Mary Jane might yank out a tooth. That was the second night we were in New Orleans.
We pulled to a stop on Conti Street. “What is this place?” I asked, craning my neck to look at the pale yellow building with black lattice balconies.
“It’s her house,” said Cokie. “Willie Woodley’s.”
“Her house? But Willie’s a man’s name,” I said.
“Stop it, Josie. Willie is a woman’s name. Now, keep quiet!” said Mother, smacking my thigh. She smoothed her dress and fidgeted with her hair. “I didn’t think I’d be so nervous,” she muttered.
“Why are you nervous?” I asked.
She grabbed me by the hand and yanked me up the walk. Cokie tipped his hat to me. I smiled and waved back. The sheers in the front window shifted, covering a shadowy figure lit by an amber glow behind the glass. The door opened before we reached it.
“And you must be Louise,” a woman said to Mother.
A brunette in a velvet evening dress hung against the door. She had pretty hair, but her fingernails were chewed and frayed. Cheap women had split nails. I’d learned that in Detroit.
“She’s waitin’ for you in the parlor, Louise,” said the brunette.
A long red carpet ran from the front door to a tall staircase, crawling up and over each step. The house was opulent, gaudy, with deep green brocades and lamps with black crystals dangling from dimly lit shades. Paintings of nude women with pink nipples hung from the foyer walls. Cigarette smoke mingled with stale Eau de Rose. We walked through a group of girls who patted my head and called me sugar and doll. I remember thinking their lips looked like someone had smeared blood all over them. We walked into the front parlor.
I saw her hand first, veiny and pale, draped over the arm of an upholstered wingback. Her nails, glossy red like pomegranate seeds, could pop a balloon with a quick flick. Clusters of gold and diamonds adorned nearly every finger. Mother’s breathing fluttered.
I approached the hand, staring at it, making my way around the back of the chair toward the window. Black heels poked out from beneath a stiff tailored skirt. I felt the bow in my hair slide down the side of my head.
“Hello, Louise.”
The voice was thick and had mileage on it. Her platinum-blond hair was pulled tight in a clasp engraved with the initials W.W. The woman’s eyes, lined in charcoal, had wrinkles fringing out from the corners. Her lips were scarlet, but not bloody. She was pretty once.
The woman stared at me, then finally spoke. “I said, ‘Hello, Louise.’”
“Hello, Willie,” said Mother. She dragged me in front of the chair. “Willie, this is Josie.”
I smiled and bent my scabby legs into my best curtsy. The arm with the red nails quickly waved me away to the settee across from her. Her bracelet jangled a discordant tune.
“So … you’ve returned.” Willie lifted a cigarette from a mother-of-pearl case and tapped it softly against the lid.
“Well, it’s been a long time, Willie. I’m sure you can understand.”
Willie said nothing. A clock on the wall swung a ticktock rhythm. “You look good,” Willie finally said, still tapping the cigarette against its case.
“I’m keeping myself,” said Mother, leaning back against the settee.
“Keeping yourself … yes. I heard you had a greenhorn from Tuscaloosa last night.”
Mother’s back stiffened. “You heard about Tuscaloosa?”
Willie stared, silent.
“Oh, he wasn’t a trick, Willie,” said Mother, looking into her lap. “He was just a nice fella.”
“A nice fella who bought you those pearls, I guess,” said Willie, tapping her cigarette harder and harder against the case.
Mother’s hand reached up to her neck, fingering the pearls.
“I’ve got good business,” said Willie. “Men think we’re headed to war. If that’s true, everyone will want their last jollies. We’d work well together, Louise, but …” She nodded in my direction.
“Oh, she’s a good girl, Willie, and she’s crazy smart. Even taught herself to read.”
“I don’t like kids,” she spat, her eyes boring a hole through me.
I shrugged. “I don’t like ’em much either.”
Mother pinched my arm, hard. I felt the skin snap. I bit my lip and tried not to wince. Mother became angry when I complained.
“Really?” Willie continued to stare. “So what do you do … if you don’t like kids?”
“Well, I go to school. I read. I cook, clean, and I make martinis for Mother.” I smiled at Mother and rubbed my arm.
“You clean and make martinis?” Willie raised a pointy eyebrow. Her sneer suddenly faded. “Your bow is crooked, girl. Have you always been that skinny?”
“I wasn’t feeling well for a few years,” said Mother quickly. “Josie is very resourceful, and—”
“I see that,” said Willie flatly, still tapping her cigarette.
I moved closer to Mother. “I skipped first grade altogether and started in the second grade. Mother lost track I was supposed to be in school—” Mother’s toe dug into my ankle. “But it didn’t matter much. She told the school we had transferred from another town, and I just started right in second grade.”
“You skipped the first grade?” said Willie.
“Yes, ma’am, and I don’t figure I missed anything at all.”
“Don’t ma’am me, girl. You’ll call me Willie. Do you understand?” She shifted in her chair. I spied what looked like the butt of a gun stuffed down the side of the seat cushion.
“Yes, Mrs. Willie,” I replied.
“Not Mrs. Willie. Just Willie.”
I stared at her. “Actually, Willie, I prefer Jo, and honestly, I don’t much care for bows.” I pulled the ribbon from my thick brown bob and reached for the lighter on the table.
“I didn’t ask for a light,” said Willie.
“No, but you’ve tapped your cigarette fifty-three times … now fifty-four, so I thought you might like to smoke it.”
Willie sighed. “Fine, Jo, light my cigarette and pour me a Scotch.”
“Neat or on the rocks?” I asked.
Her mouth opened in surprise, then snapped shut. “Neat.” She eyed me as I lit her cigarette.
“Well, Louise,” said Willie, a long exhale of smoke curling above her head, “you’ve managed to mess things up royal, now, haven’t you?”
Mother sighed.
“You can’t stay here, not with a child. You’ll have to get a place,” said Willie.
“I don’t have any money,” said Mother.
“Sell those pearls to my pawn in the morning and you’ll have some spending money. There’s a small apartment on Dauphine that one of my bookies was renting. The idiot went and got himself shot last week. He’s taking a dirt nap and won’t need the place. The rent is paid until the thirtieth. I’ll make some arrangements, and we’ll see where you are at the end of the month.”
“All right, Willie,” said Mother.
I handed Willie the drink and sat back down, nudging the bow under the settee with my foot.
She took a sip and nodded. “Honestly, Louise, a seven-year-old bartender?”
Mother shrugged.
That was ten years ago. She never did buy me the doll.
They thought I couldn’t hear their whispers, their snickers. I had heard them for ten years. I cut across Conti toward Chartres, clutching my book under my arm. The vibration of my humming blocked out the sound. Courtesan, harlot, hooker, whore. I’d heard them all. In fact, I could look at someone and predict which one they’d use.
“Hello, Josie,” they’d say with a half smile, followed by a sigh and sometimes a shake of the head. They acted like they felt sorry for me, but as soon as they were ten steps away, I’d hear one of the words, along with my mother’s name. The wealthy women pretended it singed their tongue to say whore. They’d whisper it and raise their eyebrows. Then they’d fake an expression of shock, like the word itself had crawled into their pants with a case of the clap. They didn’t need to feel sorry for me. I was nothing like Mother. After all, Mother was only half of the equation.
“Josie! Wait up, Yankee girl.”
Frankie, one of Willie’s information men, was at my side, his tall, slinky frame bending over mine. “What’s the rush?” he asked, licking his fingers and smoothing his greased hair.
“I have to get to the bookshop,” I said. “I’m late for work.”
“Sheesh, what would ol’ man Marlowe do without you? You spoonin’ him applesauce these days? I hear he’s just about dead.”
“He’s very much alive, Frankie. He’s just … retired.” I shot him a look.
“Ooh, defensive. You got something goin’ with Marlowe?”
“Frankie!” What a horrible thought. Charlie Marlowe was not only ancient, he was like family.
“Or maybe you got a thing for his son, is that it? You got eyes on looping with Junior so you can inherit that dusty book nook you love so well?” He elbowed me, laughing.
I stopped walking. “Can I help you with something, Frankie?”
He pulled me onward, his voice low. “Actually, yeah. Can you tell Willie that word on my side is that Cincinnati’s comin’ down?”
A chill ran beneath the surface of my skin. I tried to keep my step steady. “Cincinnati?”
“Can you let her know, Josie?”
“I won’t see Willie till morning, you know that,” I said.
“You still not going near the place after dark? Such a smart one, you are. Well, give her word Cincinnati’s around. She’ll want to know.”
“I hope I don’t forget,” I said, opening my palm.
“Oooh. Beggar woman!”
“Businesswoman,” I corrected him. “Remember, Willie doesn’t like surprises.”
“No, she don’t,” he said, digging in his pocket. “What do you do with all this bank, Josie? Be a lot easier if you just lifted your skirt.”
“The only reason I’d lift my skirt is to pull out my pistol and plug you in the head.”
My money was none of Frankie’s business. I was getting out of New Orleans. My plan included bus fare and cash reserves to cover a full year of living expenses, enough time to get me on my feet. A business book I read in the shop said that it was always best to have at least twelve months’ savings. Once I had the money, I’d decide where to go.
“All right, all right,” he said. “You know I’m only joking.”
“Why don’t you just buy a book from me at the shop, Frankie?”
“You know I don’t like to read, Yankee girl. Don’t think anyone likes to read as much as you do. What you got under your arm this time?”
“E. M. Forster.”
“Never heard of it.” He grabbed my hand and dropped some coins in my palm. “There, now don’t forget to tell her. I won’t get paid if you forget.”
“You know when he’ll hit town or where he’s holing up?” I asked.
“Nah. Not yet. For all I know, he’s already here.” Frankie twitched and looked over his shoulder. “See ya, kid.”
I grabbed my skirt and quickened my pace toward the bookshop. It had been two years since the incident. Cincinnati hadn’t been back in the Quarter, and no one missed him. He claimed he worked on the fringes for Carlos Marcello, the godfather of the New Orleans mafia. No one believed him, but no one outright challenged him on it, either. Cincinnati proudly wore expensive suits—suits that didn’t quite fit him. It was rumored that his clothes were stolen from corpses, people he had killed for Carlos Marcello. Cokie said it was bad mojo to wear a dead man’s suit.
Carlos Marcello ran the syndicate and owned land just outside Orleans Parish. Talk amongst the locals was that Marcello stocked his swamps with alligators and dumped his dead bodies there. A postman once told Cokie that he saw shoes floating on top of the filmy swamp. Willie knew Carlos Marcello. She sent girls out to his Town and Country Motel when the heat was on the house on Conti. That’s where Mother met Cincinnati.
Cincinnati had a thing for Mother. He brought her expensive gifts and claimed she looked just like Jane Russell from the Hollywood magazines. I guess that meant I looked like Jane Russell, too, but maybe Jane Russell without makeup, nice clothes, or styled hair. Our brown eyes were set a bit far apart, and we had high foreheads, a mess of dark hair, and lips that always looked pouty.
Mother was crazy about Cincinnati, even once claimed they were in love. Sometimes Mother was embarrassingly stupid. It was bad enough she turned tricks with a criminal like Cincinnati, but in love with him? Pathetic. Willie hated Cincinnati. I despised him.
I cut through the skinny street near the jeweler, dodging a man peeing against the wall. I used E. M. Forster to wave the smell of moldy oak away from my face as I stepped quickly across the wet flagstones. If the Quarter smelled this bad in cool weather, it would reek this spring and be simply rancid by summer. I made my way up Toulouse toward Royal and heard Blind Otis singing the blues, stamping his foot and sliding a dull butter knife across his steel strings.
Bar and restaurant owners stood on ladders, decorating their doors and windows for the night’s festivities. At midnight, 1950 would finally arrive. A fizz of excitement perked through the streets. People were anxious to put the decade, and the war, behind them. A pair of lovers cut in front of me to chase a taxi while a small man in ragged clothing stood up against a building saying “hallelujah” over and over again.
Last time Cincinnati was in town, he got drunk and beat Mother. Willie kicked down the door and shot at him, grazing his leg. I drove Mother to the hospital in Cokie’s cab. After he sobered up, Cincinnati actually had the guts to come to the hospital. I threw hot coffee on him and told him I’d called the cops. He left town limping, but not without promising to come back.
“Just you wait,” he whispered, licking his teeth. “I’m gonna get you, Josie Moraine.”
I shook off the shiver.
“Hey, Motor City.”
I turned toward the voice. Jesse Thierry sat on his motorcycle, staring at me from across the street. Jesse was quiet and often spoke through only a nod or a smile. Sometimes I thought he was watching me, which was ridiculous, because Jesse Thierry would have no interest in someone like me. He might be quiet, but his looks were not. He was striking and edgy, in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. Others didn’t find Jesse’s looks unsettling. Tourists turned to look at him. He was constantly trailed by girls.
“You need a ride?” he asked. I shook my head.
“I want a ride, Jesse!” said a blonde next to him.
He ignored her. “You sure, Jo?”
“I’m sure. Thanks, Jesse.”
He nodded, fired up the bike, and sped away, leaving the girls on the sidewalk.
The noise faded as I turned onto Royal. The deep blue sign with gold lettering came into view, hanging from a wrought-iron bracket above the door: MARLOWE’SBOOKSHOP. Through the window, I could see Patrick sitting at the counter. The bell tinkled overhead as I entered the store, and the calming smell of paper and dust surrounded me.
“How is he today?” I asked.
“Today’s a good day. He knows my name. I think for a second he even remembered I’m his son,” said Patrick, leaning back on his usual chair behind the counter.
“Wonderful!” I meant it. Some days Mr. Marlowe didn’t recognize Patrick. Sometimes he swore at him, even threw things at him. Those were bad days.
“Your pal Cokie came by,” said Patrick. “He said to give you this.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the counter.
I opened it.
It was written in Cokie’s shaky handwriting.
“I didn’t read it, but I think he means Cincinnati,” said Patrick.
“You didn’t read it, huh?” Patrick had just turned twenty-one but still teased like a boy who milked girls’ pigtails at recess.
He smiled. “He doesn’t know how to spell it. Is he going to Cincinnati?”
“Mmm … must be. Did you save me a paper?”
He pointed to a copy of the Times-Picayune, neatly folded on my chair.
“Thanks. I’ll take over in a minute,” I told him.
“Really, Jo, the Picayune is so boring. They intentionally leave out news from the Quarter and … ”
Patrick’s voice trailed off as I made my way through the tall shelves of books toward the squirrelly staircase at the back of the shop. I had kept my own apartment since I was eleven. It wasn’t really an apartment, not at first anyway. It was a tiny office with a bathroom attached. I had been sleeping in the bookshop since I was ten, when Mother started her fits and beat me with an umbrella for no good reason. I quickly learned she was happiest when I wasn’t around. So I’d hide in the bookshop just before close and sleep under the large desk in the office.
On my eleventh birthday, I crept up the stairs after the store was locked. The office had been transformed. The windows and walls had been washed. The desk was still there, but all the boxes were cleared out and there was a bed, a small dresser, and even bookshelves in the corner. Flowered curtains hung from a rod over the open window, and music floated up from Bourbon Street. A single key hung on a nail. A lock had been installed on the door and a baseball bat leaned up against the bed. We never spoke of the arrangement. I simply began working for Mr. Marlowe in the store in exchange for the lodging.
I unlocked the door and slipped inside, quickly bolting it again. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled up a floorboard underneath my bed, feeling around until my fingers hit the cigar box. I dropped the coins from Frankie inside and put the floorboard back in place. I crawled out from under the bed and snapped the drapes shut. Then I opened the note from Cokie.
“I’ll be right back,” I told Patrick when I came down into the shop.
“Aw, come on. It’s New Year’s Eve,” he complained.
“It’s only one o’clock.”
“But I’ve got things to do,” he said.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I told him, rushing out the door.
I ran across the street to Sal’s. Willie was a good customer at Sal’s restaurant, and he let me use his telephone when I needed it. Actually, Willie was a good customer at many places, and fortunately, those benefits extended to me.
“Hi, Maria,” I said to the hostess, pointing to the telephone at the back. She nodded.
I picked up the phone and dialed HEmlock 4673.
Dora answered after only one ring in her fake breathy voice.
“It’s Jo. I need to speak to Willie.”
“Hey, sugar, she’s resting.”
Resting? Willie never took naps. “Wake her up.”
Dora put the receiver down. I heard her shoes clack and then fade on the hardwood floor as she went to get Willie. I could tell by the way the backs slapped against her heels that she was wearing the red-feathered mules that she bought mail-order from Frederick’s of Fifth Avenue. I twisted the telephone cord, and it slipped between my fingers. My hand was sweating. I wiped the moisture on my skirt.
“Buttons and bows,” said Willie, not even bothering to say hello.
“What?”
“The tune you were humming. It’s ‘Buttons and Bows.’ Look, I need a little peace before the walls start shaking. What the hell’s so important?”
“Cincinnati.”
There was silence on Willie’s end of the line. I heard the flip and flick of her sterling cigarette lighter and then a long breath as she inhaled and exhaled the smoke. “Who told you?”
“Frankie,” I said. “He found me after I left your house. I was on my way to the bookshop.”
“When’s he in?” asked Willie.
“Said he didn’t know, just that he was on his way and that he could be here already. Where’s Mother?” I asked.
“Upstairs. She’s been a giggling idiot all morning,” said Willie.
“You think she knows?”
“Of course she knows. I knew something was up. Dora said she got a phone call two days ago. She’s been a complete imbecile ever since.” I heard the long intake of breath, the hold, and then the flutter as Willie expelled the curling smoke from her nostrils.
“Cokie knows. He left me a note,” I said.
“Good. Cokie’s scheduled for a few drop-offs tonight. He’ll keep me posted. Are you at Sal’s?”
“Yes. Cokie said the Dukes of Dixieland are playing tonight at the Paddock, so I thought I’d—”
“Absolutely not. I don’t want you seen in the Quarter,” said Willie.
“But, Willie, it’s New Year’s Eve,” I argued.
“I don’t give a rip. You’re staying in—locked in. You understand?” she said.
I hesitated, wondering how far I could push it. “I hear Cincinnati’s in with Carlos Marcello now.”
“Mind your own business,” Willie snapped. “Come over in the morning.”
“It’s just—I worry about Mother,” I said.
“Worry about yourself. Your mother’s a stupid whore.” The line clicked and went dead.
“Sorry about that,” I said to Patrick as I returned to the bookshop.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine, why?”
“You have red splotches on your neck. Here, your beloved society page is chock-full today.” He tossed the paper at me as I sat next to him behind the counter. His voice elevated to a prissy, nasal tone. “Miss Blanche Fournet of Birmingham, Alabama, who is spending part of her winter season in New Orleans, was the guest of honor at a luncheon given by her aunt and uncle Dr. and Mrs. George C. Fournet. The table was decorated with pale blue hydrangeas, and all the lovely guests had a perfectly boring time.”
I laughed and swatted him across the shoulder with the paper.
“Really, Jo. Your obsession with Uptown and the society page is ridiculous. When are you gonna realize that those women are just a bunch of pretentious old biddies?”
The bell jingled, and a tall, handsome man in a tailored suit entered the shop.
“Afternoon,” he said, smiling and nodding to us. “How are y’all today?”
The man’s accent was Southern, but not from New Orleans. His skin was deeply tanned, making his teeth and broad smile sparkling white, like Cary Grant.
“Fine, thank you. Visiting New Orleans for the holiday, sir?” I asked.
“Is it that obvious?” said the man, grinning.
“I’m sorry, I just meant—”
“No apologies. You’re correct. I’m just down from Memphis for the Sugar Bowl.”
“Do you play?” asked Patrick, eyeing the man’s height and broad shoulders.
“I did. Wide receiver for Vanderbilt. I used to come here with the team, and we’d duke it out with Tulane. Always loved it. New Orleans was a great place to get in trouble, and I did my fair share, mind you.” He gave a knowing wink to Patrick. “Y’all in school at Tulane?” he asked.
“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick.
“And you, pretty lady?” The gorgeous man looked at me.
College? Yes! I wanted to scream. I’d love to go to college. Instead I smiled and looked down.
“She’s trying to make up her mind,” said Patrick, jumping in. “You know the type, so smart, they’re all fighting over her.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular today?” I asked, changing the subject. I casually put two fingers on the counter, signaling to Patrick. It was one of the games we played, trying to guess what type of book the customer wanted. My two fingers told Patrick I was betting a dime that Mr. Memphis was interested in history. Patrick closed his left fist. That meant he wagered sports related.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied, taking off his hat. His black hair glistened in the afternoon sun streaming through the front window. “Keats.”
“Poetry?” said Patrick.
“Ah, surprised, are you? Well, let’s not judge a book by its cover, now. Even football players like poetry,” he said.
“Of course they do,” I replied. “The poetry section is right this way.”
“I’ve got to run,” said Patrick. “Josie will take it from here. Keats is one of her favorites. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Forrest Hearne,” said the gentleman, extending his hand to Patrick. “Nice to meet you, too.”
I led Mr. Hearne toward the back of the shop to the tall case of poetry books.
“They say Keats fell in love with his neighbor,” I told him over my shoulder.
“Yes, but I’ve read it was a tumultuous affair,” he said, challenging me. “Keats demanded that all of the letters between them be burned upon his death. So I guess we’ll never know the truth.”
I stopped at the stack with my back to Mr. Hearne and quickly scanned the alphabetized books for the letter K.
“Here we are, Keats.” I turned around. Mr. Hearne was quite close, staring at me.
“Do I … know you somehow?” he asked seriously. “There’s something about you that seems awfully familiar.”
I felt a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. “I don’t think so. I’ve never been to Tennessee.”
“But I’ve been to New Orleans, many times,” he said, adjusting the knot in his silk tie.
“I must have one of those familiar faces, I guess,” I said, stepping away from him and the bookshelf. “Just holler if you need anything else.”
I walked back to the counter, humming, aware of his gaze upon me as I slipped between the stacks. How could I be familiar to a former Vanderbilt football player from Tennessee who looked like a movie star and liked poetry? But his expression had been genuine, not like one of the sweet-talking men with bloodshot eyes that I saw at Willie’s when I cleaned in the mornings. Sometimes, if I arrived before six A.M., I’d pass a trick on the way out. Most men didn’t stay all night. Willie always said she wasn’t holding a slumber party unless they wanted to pay good and big for one. No, most men would leave with a grin after they’d done their business. The men who stayed the whole night had a lot of money, but also a lack of something else, like they had a hole in their soul too big to be patched. More often than not, they’d try to make conversation with me before they left in the morning. The conversation was awkward, guilt soaked, and generally included the standard line that I looked familiar. But the way Mr. Hearne asked felt sincere, like it puzzled him somehow.
He walked back to the counter carrying two books.
“Ah, yes, this is a nice choice,” I said, examining the volume of Keats he’d selected.
“For Marion, my wife,” he said.
“Oh, and David Copperfield too.”
“That’s for me. I must have ten copies by now.”
I smiled. “It’s my most favorite of all Dickens. It’s so inspiring, thinking that David Copperfield was based on Dickens’s own life, that someone could overcome that kind of suffering and poverty to finally achieve happiness.”
I had said too much. He was giving me the look. I hated the look. It was the “You’ve had it tough, huh, kid?” look. It made me feel pathetic.
Hearne spoke softly. “I know what you mean. I had kind of a Copperfield childhood myself.”
I stared at him, shocked that the sophisticated man in front of me could have ever known poverty or suffering. Had he really recast himself? My surprise registered with him.
He nodded. “Decisions, they shape our destiny.” Without opening the book, he began to recite from David Copperfield. “‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else … ’”
I nodded and finished it with him. “‘These pages must show.’”
We stood, not knowing each other, but understanding each other completely. A car horn honked from the street, severing our stares.
I quickly finished the receipt total and turned the pad to him. “Shall I wrap them for you?”
“No, that’s not necessary.” He took out a money clip from his interior suit pocket. The man had what Willie called “a head of lettuce.” There were so many bills, they burst and flowered from the silver clip. I noticed his shiny Lord Elgin watch as he handed me a fifty-dollar bill.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I’m afraid I don’t have change for something that large.”
“My fault. I forgot to get change at the hotel. Would you take a check?” he asked.
We didn’t accept checks, unless they came from customers with an account. We had had our share of rubber bouncers from stragglers in the Quarter. A sign in front of the register displayed our no-check policy. “Of course,” I told him. “A check is fine.”
He nodded in appreciation and took out his checkbook along with an elegant fountain pen. Forrest Hearne was in high cotton, to be sure.
“What is it that you do in Memphis?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“I’m an architect and a developer,” he said. He signed his check and handed it to me, smiling. “I build things.”
I nodded.
He walked to the door, still staring at me with a quizzical expression. “Well, thank you for your help and the conversation. I sure do appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.”
“And good luck at college, whichever one you choose.” He opened the door to leave and stopped suddenly. “I almost forgot—Happy New Year,” he said, putting on his hat. “It’s gonna be a great one!”
“Happy New Year.” I smiled.
And then he was gone.
I sat on my bed staring at the check.
Forrest L. Hearne, Jr.
73 East Parkway Avenue North, Memphis, Tennessee
Memphis Bank and Trust Co.
His words seemed to whisper back at me. Decisions, they shape our destiny.
I went to my desk and pulled the yellowed sheet of paper out from its hiding place. I had started the list when I was thirteen with the name Tom Moraine, a journalist who had come to the bookshop. One day, when I was mad at Willie, I told her I had found my father and was going to leave. Willie laughed. She told me that Moraine wasn’t my father’s last name. It was the name of a gambler Mother had run off with when she was seventeen. The marital bliss lasted all of three months and then Mother came back. She kept the ring and the name.
Willie said fathers were overrated, that my father could be one of thousands, most likely some rotten crotch creep that loved clip-on ties. She said I should forget about it. But I didn’t forget about it. I couldn’t. So the game continued, and for years I added names to the list, imagining that 50 percent of me was somehow respectable instead of rotten. And creepy was certainly relative. After all, what was creepier, a man who loved clip-on ties or a girl who kept a log of fantasy fathers hidden in her desk drawer?
The red neon sign from Sal’s across the street blinked and buzzed, washing my curtains and desktop in a rosy glow. The volume outside increased as midnight drew closer. 1950, and the promised opportunity of the new decade, would soon arrive. I added the name Forrest L. Hearne, Jr., to the list, along with the few details I knew about him. I estimated him in his late thirties or early forties.
Football player. Memphis. Architect. Likes Dickens and Keats, I wrote.
Keats … He certainly wasn’t an average tourist in the Quarter.
He had asked me about college. I had graduated from high school last June but had packed college in mothballs and shoved it up into the attic of my mind, where I wouldn’t have to think about it for a while. High school was hard enough, but not because of the course work. That was easy for me. It was constantly trying to stay invisible that was exhausting. When people noticed me, they talked about me. Like the time Mother came to parent day in the eighth grade. She came only because one of Willie’s girls had said my history teacher, Mr. Devereaux, was handsome and a bit wild.
Mother showed up in diamond earrings and a full-length rabbit coat she said had “fallen off of a truck.” She was completely naked underneath.
“Don’t be such a prude, Josie. I was runnin’ late. No one’s going to notice,” she told me. “Besides, the linin’ feels so silky smooth. Now, which one’s your history teacher?” She had been drinking and had a hard time keeping the coat closed. All the fathers stared while their wives gripped and pulled at their arms. The kids stared at me. The next day, several students whispered that their mommas had called mine “that whore.” And then I felt naked and dirty too.
She must not have found my history teacher interesting. Mother never came back to school, not even for my high school graduation. “Oh, that was today?” she had said, dotting a fake mole on her cheek in front of the mirror. “Did you wear one of those ugly hats with the tassels?” She threw her head back and laughed the laugh I hated. It started innocent enough but then tightened in her throat, traveled up through her nose, and slithered out a cackle. I could see the ugly just pouring out of her.
Willie came to my graduation. She rolled her black Cadillac into the lot and parked in one of the spots reserved for administration. The crowd parted as she strode into the auditorium and took a seat up front. She arrived in an expensive tailored suit with matching hat and gloves, along with her traditional dark sunglasses—which she wore through the entire ceremony. Cokie came too and stood in the back with a large bouquet of flowers, smiling from ear to ear. People whispered about his toffee-colored skin, but I didn’t listen. Cokie was the only man I felt truly safe with.
Willie gave me a gorgeous sterling locket from Tiffany & Co. for graduation, engraved with my initials. “Engrave your pieces, Jo, and they’ll always find their way back to you,” said Willie. It was the most expensive thing I owned, and I wore it every day, tucked within my blouse. I knew if I took it off, Mother might steal it or sell it.
I wrote, Asked about college, in the margin near Mr. Hearne’s name and tucked the paper back in the drawer.
I heard commotion in the street below, along with voices in unison,
“Five … four … three … two … one … HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”
Horns honked, and people yelled. I heard glass breaking and rounds of laughter.
I took out my mirror and set to work on my pin curls. I wound my thick hair around my finger, pressed it tight to my scalp, and slid a bobby pin across each curl. New Year’s Eve was a mess. I wasn’t missing a thing, I told myself. Last year, a salesman from Atlanta decided to show off his riches for the girls at Willie’s by burning dollar bills in the parlor. They cooed and ahhed until one of Willie’s oriental chairs caught fire. The next day I had to drag the burned-out shell to the alley and got covered in soot. Mother laughed at me. Her bitterness increased with each year. Mother had a hard time getting older, especially among all the young girls in Willie’s house. She still looked to be in her twenties and lied about her age, but she wasn’t exactly a favorite anymore.
I finished my curls and decided to read a bit until the merriment died down outside. Besides humming, reading was the only thing that blocked out Mother, the Quarter, and allowed me to experience life outside New Orleans. I leapt eagerly into books. The characters’ lives were so much more interesting than the lonely heartbeat of my own.
My book was downstairs in the shop. I unlocked my door and stole down the tiny staircase in my nightgown and bare feet, staying within the dark shadows between the stacks so as not to be visible through the front window. I was on the other side of the store when I heard a noise. My shoulders jumped. There was a push at the door. Suddenly, it clicked and the bell jingled. Someone was in the shop.
I looked across the room to the staircase, debating whether I should make a run for my room and my gun. I moved to the side and stopped. Footsteps. They got closer. I ducked behind the stack and heard the deep chuckle of a man’s voice. I searched for something to defend myself with. I slid a large book off the shelf in front of me.
“We seeeeee you,” taunted the deep voice.
My heart lurched. We? Cincinnati had brought someone with him. A shadowy figure emerged in front of me. I hurled the book at his face with all my might and made a run for the stairs.
“Ow! Josie, what the hell?”
It was Patrick’s voice. “Patrick?” I stopped and peeked around the bookshelf.
“Who else would be in the store?” said Patrick as he rubbed the side of his face. “Sheesh, you really got me.” A second figure stepped out beside him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, moving forward. I smelled stale bourbon.
“We came to get a book,” said Patrick.
“Jean Cocteau,” said the man with the deep voice, laughing and holding up a book. “Le Livre—”
“Shhh,” Patrick told him. His friend answered with what sounded like a giggle.
“Who are you?” I asked the man.
“Josie, this is James. He works at Doubleday.”
“Doubleday Bookshop? Don’t you have enough books of your own over there?” I asked.
“Not this one.” He looked me over. “Nice nightgown.”
“It’s late, and I have to work early in the morning,” I said, gesturing them toward the door.
“You’re working on New Year’s Day? Everything’s closed. What do you do?” asked James.
“Family business,” said Patrick. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Make sure you lock the door,” I called after him.
Patrick turned and walked back to me. “You think I’d leave my dad’s shop unlocked? Jo, what’s wrong with you?” he whispered.
“Nothing. You surprised me, that’s all. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” said Patrick, reaching across to punch me on the arm. He tilted his head and looked at me, then nudged me into the pool of light that spilled in from the front window.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, clutching my book to the front of my nightgown.
“Jo, you really ought to part your hair on the side, instead of down the middle.”
“What?” I asked.
His friend laughed.
“Nothing,” said Patrick.
As expected, the house was a mess. I tightened my apron and pulled on the thick rubber gloves Willie insisted I wear. Ashtrays overflowed with cigar butts in the parlor, and empty liquor bottles crowded the tabletops. I spied a silver high-heeled shoe dangling from a planter as I stepped over a rhinestone earring in a sticky puddle of champagne. Something smelled like sour apples. The floors would have to be scrubbed and the rugs beaten. I cringed, imagining the condition of the bathrooms. Happy New Year. I opened the windows and set to work.