Out of the Easy (27 page)

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.

“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.”

He pulled an envelope from his jacket and laid it on the counter.

I stared at the fat, wrinkly envelope. “Cokie, what is this?”

“Well, let’s see now. It’s money for the classes and money for the house you gotta live in.”

“What?”

“I was a fix short, so I passed the hat with the close group. Cornbread helped. Sweety and Sadie put in too. We know Sadie ain’t goin’ tell nobody.”

“Does Willie know?”

“No, and she don’t need to know. I made sure to stay clear of Frankie so he wouldn’t go sellin’ secrets to her. I love Willie, but she stuck on keepin’ you here in New Orleans.”

I reached for the envelope and lifted the back flap with my thumb. A wad of bills fanned open from the thick stack.

“This whole thing with your momma’s about to pop. She gone from bad to worse. Willie’s done right by keeping you out the skittle. Massachusetts is a good distance.”

I couldn’t accept the money. I looked at Cokie to tell him so. His eyes were dancing, just like they were on my birthday when he brought me the thermos and the map. He wanted this just as much, maybe more, than I did. And he believed in me. I looked at the envelope.

I screamed and ran out from behind the counter and threw my arms around him. “Thank you!” We jumped up and down together, hooting and hollering.

He spun away and started to snap his fingers, “Josie girl, you goin’ to Boston, so don’t you jive on me.”

FORTY-THREE

I hid the envelope in the floorboard and ran to Patrick’s. I couldn’t wait to tell him. We had discussed the issue of money, and he’d suggested selling some of Charlie’s things to help. Now he didn’t have to.

I knocked. There was no answer. I used my key and peeked in. “Patrick?” I said. Nothing.

“Up here,” he called.

I ran up the oak stairs, leaping them two at a time. He was in Charlie’s room, sitting on the floor against the bed. His face was puffy.

“It’s so hard,” he said. “I know I should clear all this out, but I just can’t do it.”

“It’s too soon,” I told him. “Why do you need to do it now?”

“I keep thinking the sooner I have a fresh start, the sooner I’ll feel better, but now everything I look at has a memory tied to it.”

I walked around the room, running my finger across Charlie’s dresser and past the framed photograph of Patrick’s grandmother. I picked up the heart-shaped Valentine box and hugged it to my chest. The window over the desk was open. The page fluttered in the typewriter.

BLV

“Patrick, did you see this? There’s another letter. When did he type that?”

“Yeah, I saw it. It must have been when Randolph was here. Take it if you want it. I have the manuscript.”

I pulled the paper from the typewriter and sat down next to him on the floor. “I have some news that may cheer you up.”

He perked a bit. “You got your acceptance?”

“No, but I got the money. Cokie had a huge streak throwing dice, and he gave it to me.”

“Jo, that’s great. I’m so happy for you.”

But he didn’t look happy. He looked completely miserable. Of course he did. He had just lost his father, and now I was talking about moving halfway across the country.

“I’m sad too. But don’t worry, I’ll be here to help you take care of Charlie’s things. I’ll come home on holidays, and you’ll of course visit me out there. We’ll tour Massachusetts hunting for books. It’ll be so much fun.” I put my hand on his leg. “I’m so happy with the way things have turned out with us. I can’t believe I’ve been so blind all these years.” I moved in to kiss him.

“Jo . . .” He stopped me and hung his head. His shoulders swayed. He was crying.

“What is it?” I asked.

Tears dropped from his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Jo. If I could, I would . . . choose you.”

The tips of my fingers went cold.
Choose.
Verb. To decide from a range of options. I looked at him. “There’s someone else?”

He was silent for a while, then nodded. “I feel so horrible. I’m awful.” Patrick’s crying deepened into heavy sobs. He cried so hard his entire body shook.

I sat motionless, my bruised pride battling my desire to comfort my best friend.

“I don’t know how it happened. It’s all such a mess. I’ve hurt so many people,” he sobbed. He looked at me. “James,” he whispered.

I searched his frantic eyes, and suddenly I understood.

I looked away from him. “Does James know how you feel?”

“I think so.”

My throat pulled closed, the words wrestling with the lump in my windpipe. “I met Kitty at the funeral,” I whispered. “I didn’t feel a spark between them. Maybe it’s okay.”

Patrick’s eyes met mine. “You’re not upset?”

I pulled in a breath. “I feel ridiculous that you felt like you had to pretend with me. But Kitty’s a gorgeous girl—I thought so when I met her. And she’s smart. How can I blame you for being in love with her? But you’ll have to be up front with James. Be honest. Once you do that, you’ll feel so much better.”

Patrick stared at me and then looked into his lap.

Embarrassed and a bit humiliated, that’s how I felt, and disappointed. Patrick and I made so much sense together. We were comfortable, and he had kissed me. I had constructed the entire scenario in my head of how our relationship would grow and progress. I felt stupid for ever thinking those things. Patrick’s heart belonged to someone else. Sure, Betty Lockwell was an annoying nuisance, but Kitty was a sophisticated young woman.

The conversation dissolved into awkward silence. I picked up Charlie’s heart-shaped box. The red plastic flowers on the top were deformed from months of affection. I pulled off the lid.

I stared down into the box. “Where did he get them?”

Patrick shrugged.

Inside were a pair of Siamese acorns, their beret caps touching, fused at the neck, growing into and out of each other.

We sat on the hardwood floor in silence, our heads resting against Charlie’s bed. The voices and claps from a children’s stickball game filtered in through the open window and floated in front of us on particles of sunlit dust.

I looked at the sheet of paper in my lap.
“B-L-V,”
I read aloud, trying to stir the uncomfortable silence. “Do you think it’s
Believe
?” I asked.

He turned slowly to me. “No, I know what it is.”

“You do?”

Patrick nodded. “It’s the title of the first chapter in the book he was working on.
Be Love,
” he said quietly.

I stared at the sheet of paper and the acorns. I put my arm around Patrick and kissed his head.

And he cried.

FORTY-FOUR

Patrick wanted someone else. I wanted him to be happy, but why couldn’t he be happy with me? I knew the answer. He couldn’t choose me. Patrick wanted a literary life of travel, learning, and social substance. I was a scrappy girl from the Quarter, trying to make good. No matter how I parted my hair, I couldn’t part from the crack I had crawled out of.

I wished I had a friend in the Quarter, someone like Charlotte. Someone I could share secrets with, collapse on her bedroom floor, and spill my guts about Patrick to. I saw so many girls walking arm in arm, laughing, an inexplicable closeness and comfort that they had a protector and confidante. They had someone they could count on.

A man leaned against a car outside the bookshop. He saw me approach and walked to meet me on the sidewalk. It was Detective Langley.

“Miss Moraine. I’m glad I waited. I was hoping I could ask you some additional questions.”

I looked up and down the street, checking to see who was around to report to Frankie.

“We can step inside the shop if you like,” he said.

I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and walked to the counter. I sucked in a breath to calm my nerves. “What can I help you with, Detective?”

He mopped his wet brow and took out a tattered notepad. “The day you came to the station, you said that Mr. Hearne bought two books.”

I nodded.

“Yeah, the books were found in his hotel room, and there was a receipt in one of them. His wife has told us that the check never cleared. She thought that was odd. The check is listed in the checkbook register that was found on him.”

My mind raced, trying to catch up with my heart. I pointed to the sign near the register. “We don’t take checks, Detective. Perhaps Mr. Hearne wrote the check before he saw the sign and then paid in cash?”

He pointed his pen to the sign. “That’s gotta be it. Thank you.”

“I’ll show you out.”

“One more thing.” He rubbed his head. “I’m sure you know that your mother is being questioned. She was seen with Hearne the night of his death. Do you know where your mother was on New Year’s Eve, Miss Moraine?”

I looked at Detective Langley. His story was obvious. Every Sunday he’d drive to his mother’s for dinner. His mother, probably named Ethel, had meaty ankles, weary gray curls, and wore a flowered housedress. A wiry black hair sprouted from the mole on her chin. She’d shuffle around a hot kitchen all day in preparation for her son’s weekly visit. She’d make something special, perhaps with frothy meringue, for dessert. He’d eat every bite. After his car pulled away, Ethel would wash the dishes, allow herself a slug of blackberry wine, and then fall asleep in the living room chair, still wearing her apron.