“He is a sweet boy. That’s why he doesn’t come here,” said Sweety. “You’d scare him right to death, Dora.”
“Well, Jo, you tell that gorgeous book boy that he needs to take lil’ ol’ Dora to a party sometime. I’d like to run my fingers through that shiny blond hair of his. He can read me some poetry from his bookstore.” She cleared her throat. “Roses are red, and Dora is green. Give her your dollars, and she’ll make you scream.”
We burst out laughing. I buttoned my warm blouse and thanked Sadie.
“Green and scream don’t exactly rhyme,” said Sweety.
“Of course they do! Now don’t you go criticizin’. I just might become a poet myself,” bellowed Dora, holding her coffee and cigarette in her best literary pose until we all started laughing again.
Willie walked through the door and folded her arms across her chest. Her platinum hair was pulled back tight, her pale face severe against the red lipstick and black dress she wore.
The laughter quickly died.
“Contrary to what you might think, Dora, I’m not running a rodeo. Get dressed, now!” barked Willie. She turned to me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I had to iron my blouse.”
“You’re supposed to do that in the morning. I’ve got dates coming.” Willie eyed my freshly pressed blouse. “Where are you going?”
“To a party.” I smoothed my skirt.
“And am I supposed to be a mind reader? What party? Where? With who?”
Dora made a face and ducked out of the room.
“Uptown. Prytania Street. With Patrick.” I rattled off some vague details about Charlotte Gates and her invitation.
“I don’t know of a Gates family Uptown,” said Willie, staring at me.
“No, Charlotte’s from Massachusetts. The party is at her aunt and uncle’s.”
“And do her aunt and uncle have a name?” pressed Willie.
“I didn’t ask. Charlotte gave Patrick the information. We won’t be there long.”
Willie nodded. “You’ll take Mariah.”
“No, thank you, Willie. We’re gonna take the streetcar.”
I hated Mariah, Willie’s big black Cadillac. It had red interior, whitewall tires, and stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone in the Quarter knew Mariah was Willie’s car. I didn’t want to be seen in it. Cokie loved Mariah.
“Did you see your mother?” asked Willie. I nodded. “Well, what did she want?”
I hesitated, wondering how much of the conversation Sonny had heard and reported to Willie. Mother had told me not to tell Willie she was leaving until tomorrow, when she was gone.
“She wanted money,” I lied. I felt a twitching near my eye. “To have dinner at Antoine’s with Cincinnati. She wanted me to ask you for an advance. You know how she’s always talking about Antoine’s.”
“Like I’d give her a dime to do anything with that no-good hop, after what he pulled the other night.”
“Was Cincinnati responsible?” said Sweety.
“Responsible for what?” I asked.
“Get out of here,” said Willie, flipping her jewel-adorned fingers at me. “I have a business to run.” She left the room in a huff.
Sweety looked at me. “Your momma’s always loved Antoine’s.”
I nodded and pretended to fiddle with my purse. “What was Cincinnati responsible for this time?” I asked.
Sweety pulled the chiffon of her dress through her long fingers. “Say, you know what you need for your party, Jo? You need this string of pearls.” She removed her necklace. “Put that locket in your purse and wear these tonight. All the gals Uptown love pearls.”
“Oh, I don’t want to take your pearls, Sweety. They look so pretty with your dress,” I told her.
Sweety gave me a quiet smile. “Jo, honey. You and I both know that the fellas coming here don’t care anything about pearls.”
Sweety stood on her tiptoes, face-to-face with me while she fastened the clasp behind my neck. Her skin smelled like fresh honeysuckle. She was so kind and generous, it made me think of the line from David Copperfield, that a loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom. I stood staring at Sweety, wondering how she had ended up at Willie’s, wishing that she could have changed her course for something better, like Forrest Hearne.
“Those look perfect on you,” said Sweety. “Now, you go and have yourself a good time.”
I met Patrick on St. Charles Avenue, just in time to catch the streetcar.
“You look nice,” he said. “Where’d you get the pearls?”
“Sweety,” I told him. Patrick looked nice too. The bruise was less noticeable. He wore crisp khakis with a blazer and tie. The streetcar chugged along St. Charles. The closer we got, the more knotted my stomach became. I wouldn’t know a soul at the party, or worse, what if I did know someone? Either scenario was disastrous. The air suddenly felt thick, difficult to breathe.
“What if this is a horrible mistake?” I croaked.
“Oh, it’ll be horrible fine, just a bunch of pretentious rich people with shelves of expensive books they’ve never read.”
“Maybe we should go back.”
“C’mon, Jo, this is the stuff you pore over in the society page. You’ll finally be able to read about a party that you attended.”
“I don’t even know their name,” I whispered. “What am I doing?” I stared out the window, watching the streets become cleaner and less crowded as we rode Uptown.
“John and Lillian Lockwell,” read Patrick from the piece of paper Charlotte had given him. “This is our stop. Ready?”
TWELVE
We got off on St. Charles and walked one block down to Prytania. The first thing I noticed was how peaceful it was. The road felt so wide. No one was pushing, yelling, or selling things in the street. I wanted to throw open my arms and run across the pavement. Birds chirped, and the perfume of winter jasmine floated out onto the sidewalk, hanging around the shrubbery. Large oaks lined the street where wealthy shipbuilders, oil operators, and professional men lived. I stared at the enormous homes, the landscaping and flower beds immaculate. It was as if dollar bills, instead of leaves, hung from the trees. Carnival season was soon to begin and I imagined these homes flying flags of purple, gold, and green to symbolize prior queens or Carnival royalty. We passed a couple, who nodded and greeted us. I noted the woman’s posture and tried to straighten my back.
I had never been amongst such wealth. Just last week, I had stopped by the funeral of one of Cokie’s friends, a negro trumpet player named Bix who lived in the Quarter. His family was so poor they’d put a plate on the chest of the corpse, and people dropped coins in to pay for the undertaker and the brass band procession. Uptown, families rented half a dozen butlers just to serve drinks at their funerals. Tragedy was a big social event, and everyone wanted in on it. Sure, I saw wealthy people and tourists in the Quarter, but I had never been to their homes. I wondered if Forrest Hearne had lived in a neighborhood like this.
Patrick stopped in front of a sprawling Greek Revival mansion with double galleries and a long walkway lined with perfectly manicured hedges. The lights were ablaze, the house alive with guests and merriment.
“This is it,” said Patrick. He didn’t even pause, just marched toward the front steps, leaving me to scurry along behind him like a duckling chasing its mother.
The scent of Havana tobacco draped thick from the magnolia trees in the front yard. Ice cubes mingled and clinked against the sides of crystal tumblers. Patrick said hello to a group of men sitting on the veranda. I heard the pop of a champagne cork and laughter from inside.