“Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Jo.”
“I promise! I love Charlie just as much as you do,” I told him.
“Some of the neighbors are suspicious. I told them that he’s completely absorbed in writing a play and sometimes reads it aloud, acting the parts.”
“That was smart. He did spend thirty-five days inside writing once,” I said.
“Yeah, but I don’t know how long they’ll buy it. I like Miss Paulsen, but she’s pretty nosy. And her brother’s a doctor. All we need is for her to get a look at Charlie and call for a straitjacket.”
“Don’t say that. Have you written to your mom yet?” I asked.
“I had told her about the robbery and the beating, but she doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten.” Patrick shuffled some papers on the counter. “Say, Jo, I keep forgetting to ask, do you have that inventory report? The accountants need it for taxes.”
“Your accountant is part of the Proteus Krewe for Mardi Gras. He’s not thinking about tax season right now.”
“I know, but I want to have it in advance. I’m tired of always doing things last minute. And I hate to ask, but do you think you could do me a favor and stay with Charlie for a couple hours tomorrow night? I’ve got some books coming in around dinnertime, and I want to turn them around and deliver. We could use the money.”
“Sure, I’ll stay with Charlie.”
“Thanks, Jo. Jeez, now I feel bad. Your redneck Romeo, Jesse, gets you flowers for your birthday, and I can’t even go with you to the Paddock.”
“Flowers?”
“You didn’t see?” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Step outside and look at your window.”
I walked into the street and looked up toward my apartment. Balancing in the wrought-iron window box was a bouquet of pink lilies. How had Jesse gotten them up there?
I had never received flowers and didn’t own a vase, so I propped them in a glass on my desk. The fragrance quickly filled the small space. Staring at the lilies, I felt a mix of happiness and apprehension. Unless it was Cokie, gifts from men weren’t free.
I put on the same dress I had worn to Lockwell’s office before. It was the only nice dress I owned. I tied a red scarf around my neck onto my shoulder, trying to make the outfit look different, and combed my hair over to the side to tame the puff from the humidity. For some reason, my hair always looked best right before bed, and what good was that?
I looked down at my feet. Pretty shoes for a letter. Sex for a string of pearls.
Was there a difference?
TWENTY-NINE
My heels echoed across the deserted marble floor of the lobby. Six o’clock on Valentine’s Day and so close to Mardi Gras, everyone was out chasing hearts. When I reached the eighth floor, the reception desk was empty. A trickle of perspiration slid between my shoulder blades in a single stream and landed at the base of my spine. I grabbed a magazine from the reception area table and fanned my face. The temperature outside was only seventy, but I had tried to walk fast. I lifted my arm and fanned the orbs of sweat in my armpits. Was I hot or nervous?
“Now, that’s the best use of that magazine I can think of.”
I looked up. A man in a gray suit with a briefcase stood near the reception desk.
“I think they reduce the cool air after hours. Are you here for someone?” he asked.
“Mr. Lockwell.” I nodded, adding, “I’m a friend of his niece.”
“I think he’s back in his office. Big day for him. Another nice deal. I’d show you back, but I’m late to meet the wife for dinner. Go on through.”
I walked by the rows of desks toward Mr. Lockwell’s mammoth office. Each step was more difficult and my toes began to cramp. This was a mistake. Mr. Lockwell’s voice rose in volume as I approached. He was giving dates and dollar figures. Large sums. He said the deal was signed today and his attorney had just left the office with the contract. I stood outside the door. I heard him hang up the phone and knocked on the door frame.
“Come in.”
The office was a haze of cigar smoke.
“Well, hello, Josephine.” Mr. Lockwell grinned and walked around his desk toward the door. His greedy eyes immediately locked onto my feet.
My stomach twisted. I felt the taste of humiliation rise in my throat. He stared at my feet. “What the hell are those?”
“They’re called loafers. Brown loafers.”
“I know what they’re called, but that wasn’t the deal,” he said.
“Show me the letter first.”
“Show you the letter?”
“Yes. Show me the letter and then I’ll show you the high heels.”
He leaned back against his desk. “Is that the only dress you own?”
“This isn’t about the dress. This is about the letter.”
“And the shoes,” he added.
“Yes, and the shoes. So, show me the letter.”
“Oh, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? I love that game.”
I swallowed hard and stared, trying to keep from throwing up.
He ran his hand through his hair, a habit from his youth, no doubt, before his hairline began its slow retreat at the temples. His fleshy midsection challenged the buttons on his dress shirt. He wasn’t ugly, but if he picked a flower, I was fairly certain it would die in his hand. Mother might find him attractive. For some, a bloated bank account improved a man’s features.
“Well, you see, Josephine, today was one of those great days, but great days are often really busy days. So I don’t exactly have the letter.”
I nodded. “I figured that was likely. That’s why I didn’t sashay in here wearing the shoes. That would be called a negative ROI.”
“ROI? Return on investment?”
“Exactly, a bad investment of my time and self-respect, not to mention money, on a pair of shoes I’d never wear. Durable goods, Mr. Lockwell.” I motioned to my feet. “Practical and high yield.”
“Jesus, I should hire you. Are you looking for a job?”
“I’m looking for a college education. Smith. Northampton.”
Mr. Lockwell laughed, pointing his finger at me. “You’re good, Josephine. You just may have earned your letter. And with a little spit shine, you could earn a lot more, if you know what I mean.” My face must have conveyed my disgust. He rolled his eyes. “Or you could work in an office. Are you eighteen?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Why don’t you come by on Friday?” he suggested.
“I’m not interested in a job. I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Lockwell. In the interest of time, why don’t you give me a sheet of your letterhead? I’ll type up the recommendation and bring it by for your signature. Discreet and effortless.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I really want you to work for me.”
“A diploma from Smith would make me a more desirable hire.”
“Honey, you’re already a desirable hire . . . in a dirty Cinderella kind of way. Call me John.”
“On second thought, Mr. Lockwell, give me two sheets of letterhead. Best to have a backup.”
THIRTY
Once I fed a new ribbon into Charlie’s typewriter, it worked without issue. Charlie sat across from me at the kitchen table in his stained undershirt, staring at the typewriter. I spoke to him as if he understood everything. My biggest fear was that the old Charlie was in there somewhere trying to communicate, but a synaptic disconnect made his behavior erratic. Some responses were still there. If you put him in front of the steps, he’d walk up or down. But then it was hard to get him to stop. There were moments when his eyes flashed with clarity or when his head turned at conversation. But the sparks were gone as quickly as they came.
“Lockwell’s a real piece of work, Charlie. He thinks he’s the cat’s pajamas because he has money. He has a picture of himself framed in his office. If he didn’t have a family pedigree, he’d be a hustler in the Quarter. You know the type.”
I pecked at the keys on the typewriter.
“Okay, this is what we’ve got.” I rolled the cylinder to move the paper up off the print bracket. “You ready, Charlie?” Charlie stared at the typewriter, silent.
To the Attention of the Director of Admissions: