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 madam, 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.”
That did it. I had taken my foot off the brake, and we were barreling toward blackness. Soon we’d be a hideous, mangled mess. Mother lurched over the table and grabbed my wrist.
“I am not too old,” she said through her teeth. “You’re just jealous, and you know it. You’re lucky I didn’t throw you in a trash barrel, you little ingrate. I sacrificed everything for you, so don’t tell me what I am.”
I took a breath and tried to speak quietly. “You don’t mean that, Mother. Stop it. You’re making a scene.” I tried to pull my arm from her grasp. “And you’re hurting me.”
“I’m hurting you? Oh, that’s ripe. You ruined my body and tied me down during the best years of my life. I could have been famous. And you say I’m hurting you?” Mother released my arm, pushing it away from her. She leaned back against the booth and began digging in her purse. She pulled out a small flask and took a swig. “This is finally my chance, Jo, and I’m takin’ it.”
“Fine, take it.”
“I don’t think you understand. Don’t expect me to come back.”
“I understand. I just wish you’d find someone other than Cincinnati. He’s a no-good criminal, Mother. You don’t want to get messed up in that.”
“You don’t know anything about him.” She pulled a huge wad of bills from her purse and threw one on the table. “There. This one’s on me.”
Generous. I hadn’t ordered anything.
Mother stood up and smoothed her dress. “Don’t forget to tell Willie. I’ll try to write, but I’ll probably be too busy.” She put a hand under her curls and bounced them a bit. “Maybe you’ll read about me in the papers!” She kissed the air in my direction and then walked out.
I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, hoping to stop any tears that might be forming. I hummed Patrick’s Rachmaninoff piece and felt my shoulders relax. I saw his torso swaying over the ivory keys, his father healthy again, standing and listening in the doorway. I saw Charlotte smiling and waving to me from the street and then suddenly, the image of Forrest Hearne, frantic, mouthing my name and waving the copy of Keats he had bought. I gasped at the image of Hearne and opened my eyes. Sonny was staring at me. The fluorescent lights buzzed and the ceiling fan creaked overhead.
ELEVEN
I snuck through the back door at Willie’s, dressed for Charlotte’s party. Dora’s boisterous laughter echoed from the kitchen as I hurried down the rear hallway. It would only take five minutes to iron my cream linen blouse. I couldn’t wear it to the party limp and full of folds. Since I didn’t own an iron, I generally ironed my clothes in the morning at Willie’s. I told myself I’d be in and out before anyone saw me.
I pushed through the laundry room door, startling Sweety, who was wearing a peach chiffon cocktail dress and talking to Sadie. Sweety stopped midsentence. They both turned to me, eyes wide.
“Jo, what are you doing here?” asked Sweety, her voice thick with concern. Sadie stared at me with her mouth hanging open.
“I—I’m going to a party, and I need to iron my blouse,” I stammered.
“What kind of party, honey?” said Sweety, still looking at me intently.
“Uptown,” I said. “A girl I met in the bookshop. I need to hurry.”
Sadie’s shoulders relaxed.
“Uptown? Well, how fun, Jo. Hurry and take your blouse off. The iron’s hot. Sadie, girl, put my sash aside. Let’s iron Jo’s blouse so she can be on her way,” said Sweety, gesturing with her slender arms. Even the way Sweety moved was gentle and lovely, like a ballerina. The sheer peach fabric swayed about her as she shifted out of the way. I couldn’t imagine her with fat, sweaty Walter Sutherland. I pushed the thought aside.
I unbuttoned my blouse and moved toward the ironing board. Sadie held up her hand and took the blouse from me. “Thanks, Sadie.”
“So, who are you going to the party with?” asked Sweety.
“A party?” boomed Dora, erupting through the door in a green satin robe with feathered slippers to match. She held a cup of coffee in one hand while dangling a cigarette in the other. Her makeup was freshly applied, and her red hair was piled high in rollers. “Now, who’s goin’ to a part—Jo, what are you doin’ here?” Dora’s eyes scanned my body, taking in my camisole, styled hair, and lipstick. “Why, baby girl, look at you. You’re puttin’ on the dog. Look at that new hairdo. Are you joining up—”
“Jo’s going to a party,” interrupted Sweety. “She’s in a hurry.”
Sadie nodded.
“Oh, good,” said Dora. “Well, who you goin’ with, doll?”
“Patrick Marlowe,” I replied.
“Mmm, mmm, now there’s a sweet thing,” said Dora. “Why doesn’t he ever come by the house so I can throw him around a bit?” Dora jostled her large chest and hooted. I just shook my head.