His hand lingered on my cheek. My eyes pulled to his.
“Hey, Josie. No messages today, but I got mail for you.” The store owner handed me an envelope. I recognized Patrick’s handwriting, turned my back to Jesse, and tore open the envelope.
Dear Jo,
Sorry I haven’t written sooner, but things have been busy. Charlie is sleeping a lot, but Randolph said that yesterday he walked around his room. I saw your mom on Chartres with some wiseguy. The cops brought the bandleader back from Baton Rouge for questioning, and he claimed he thought Mr. Hearne was asleep at the table, not dead. Capote threw a party before he left town and asked me to play piano. No mail from Smith yet. That’s about all from here.
Miss you—Patrick
PS. Betty Lockwell has come by the shop twice. Write back and guess what she bought.
Jesse and I sat on the wooden steps of the small grocery, drinking root beer and throwing rocks at a tree. I imagined the tree was Betty Lockwell and nailed it, every single time. Each branch was an arm, a leg, then her head. Salted peanuts.
“So, how long have you been Patrick’s girl?” asked Jesse.
I didn’t feel like talking about Patrick, especially with Jesse. “I don’t know,” I told him.
I hurled a rock, taking out Betty’s last remaining appendage.
“Does he kiss you right?”
I stopped and turned to him. “Excuse me?”
He gave me a smug smile. “That means no.”
“And what about you? I’m sure you have lots of girlfriends.”
“I’m not lonely. I don’t have a girlfriend, though.” Jesse took a swig from his bottle and leaned back on the steps. “That night at Dewey’s, you said you were meeting your guy. I followed you. It was dark, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. You went all the way down to the river. He stood you up.”
Jesse had followed me the night I took the watch to the river. “No, I—”
“Yeah, Jo, he never showed, and you started crying. And I stood there thinking, ‘Man, this guy is so stupid.’ So whatever upset you in that letter from him, just forget about it. You’re moving on, and boy, Massachusetts has no idea what’s coming for them. I bet you’ll be the first Mae West they’ve ever had.” Jesse drained the last of his root beer. “Come on, we better get going. I’ve got a three-hour ride ahead of me.”
We drove back to Shady Grove, much slower on the return. I held on to Jesse and rested the side of my face on his back.
The dirt on the steps was undisturbed. The cottage lay quiet, asleep in an afternoon nap. We ate a sandwich on the porch in silence, staring at the shawls of Spanish moss blowing slowly back and forth from the branches of the oaks. Jesse returned my pistol, and I followed him back down the porch steps to his motorcycle.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into his jacket and handed me a small card.
JESSE THIERRY
LUXURY AUTOMOTIVE SERVICE
TEL: RAYMOND 4001
“That guy Lockwell asked for my card, and I didn’t have one. It got me thinking. Those Uptown guys could probably use a discreet mechanic, and I can charge handsome for it. I gave a card to Willie, and she says she can turn a lot of business my way. Sure beats selling flowers.”
“That’s a good hustle,” I told him.
“We both got a little hustle, don’t we?” He pulled on his jacket. “But I like to think we got more heart.”
“I think it’s great, Jesse. And you even have a telephone,” I said.
“Nah, it’s the neighbors’. They said they’d take the calls and come get me. Well, I’m gonna hit the road.”
“Thanks for coming all the way out here and keeping me company.”
“See ya, Jo.” Jesse put on his sunglasses. “It was nice.”
I sat on the steps and watched him drive away. I listened to the hum of the Triumph until it faded completely, replaced by a symphony of cicadas and bullfrogs. I sat until the sun dropped, then locked the door and began the walk down to Ray and Frieda’s with my pillow.
We were on our way to Biloxi.
FORTY
Two days later, I received a postcard from Jesse.
Motor City. Mae West. Massachusetts.
Jesse
Part of me hoped Jesse would come back, but the other part of me hoped for another letter from Patrick. I finished the box of books. To appease my boredom, I cleaned the cottage several times over.
I stripped the bed in Willie’s room, scrubbed the floors, washed the walls, and aired out the closets. I didn’t dare reorganize anything. Willie wouldn’t want me rummaging through her belongings. I did gently move the items in the drawers to wipe them. That’s when I found the pictures. Tucked in the very back of Willie’s top drawer was a yellowed envelope. Inside were three photographs.
The first was a tintype of a mature woman. She wore a long dark dress punctuated by a row of small buttons down the front. She stood with her arm resting on a column, her expression conveying the desire to beat the photographer with a wrench or some other blunt instrument. The word Wilhelmina was scratched into the back. I looked closely and thought I saw a shadow of Willie in her face.
The next photo had no name, just 1935 on the back. The man in the photo was incredibly handsome. I recognized the chair he sat in, but not the room. The chair was now Willie’s chair in the parlor at the house on Conti.
The last photo was Willie, approximately ten years old, nestled in the crotch of a tree. Her hair poked out at all angles. Her face was abloom with mischievous happiness. Willie never spoke about her childhood. I stared at the picture, shocked that she had ever been a child at all. Somehow, I imagined Willie Woodley had been born with a rusty voice and street smarts to outwit any hustler. But here she was, a sweet child with a wide smile. What had happened to the Willie in the photo? I often longed to look at childhood photos of myself, but there weren’t any. Mother never had my picture made.
I thought of the silver frames in Lockwell’s home and office. They displayed his history for everyone to see. Willie had hers hidden in the back of a drawer. My history and dreams were on a list in my desk and, now, buried in the back garden.
The problem was taken care of. I had found an old praline tin in the kitchen. I wound life into Mr. Hearne’s watch, set the time, and placed it inside the tin with his check. I could see Forrest Hearne, hear his voice. He held out the check for Keats and Dickens, smiling at me, the watch peeking out beneath the shade of his shirtsleeve. Why didn’t I wipe it clean of prints and just mail it back to his family? The address was on the check. His wife and children would cherish it. They would be so grateful.
I buried it near the crepe myrtle out back.
A horn blew. I recognized it immediately. I ran out onto the porch and watched as Cokie rolled up in Mariah. I jumped down the steps and threw my arms around him.
“It’s so good to see you. Are you thirsty? Do you want something to eat?”
Cokie pulled from my grip. A solemn expression creased his face. “It’s time to go back, Josie girl.”
“Finally. I’m running out of food. Is Mother gone?”
Cokie hung his head. He spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear him. “What did you say?”
He took a breath. “Mr. Charlie’s dead.”
I sat in the front seat of Mariah. My chest heaved. Warm tears slid down my face and onto my neck. Cokie said Charlie had taken a turn. Patrick and Randolph stayed up all night with him. Patrick was at his bedside, holding his hand, when he passed. Randolph called Willie. She and Cokie came over to help Patrick. Willie arranged for the undertaker, and the funeral would be tomorrow.
They all helped. Everyone was there. Except me.
Cokie brought the newspaper.