“Come on, you know Sadie doesn’t make Jell-O,” I told him.
The house was packed. The volume dipped when Patrick walked in, and people approached to again offer their condolences. I made my way in next to Patrick, and suddenly my feet stopped moving. In the corner. Near the punch bowl. I grabbed Patrick’s arm.
Mother.
She wore a turquoise dress, much too loud for a funeral luncheon. Her hair was dyed a cheap shade of yellow, the roots dark and exposed. Her complexion was drawn and gray.
What was she doing here? I knew the answer. Food, free drinks, and—I couldn’t help the thought—the opportunity to case the house. My eyes darted around for Cincinnati.
She cut straight for me, red nails wrapped around her punch glass.
“Baby girl!” She put her arm around me without actually touching me and kissed the air near my cheek. I put my arms around her wilted frame. She recoiled at the contact.
“Mother, you’re so thin.”
“Dexedrine,” she whispered. “It’s a new diet pill that’s being tested in Hollywood. It’s workin’ great. I think it’ll be all the rage once it’s approved. I can’t believe there are so many people here. I mean, it’s not like Charlie was somebody.”
“He was very beloved, Mother. He was also a celebrated author.”
“Well, book people, then. But they don’t really count.” She grabbed my wrist. “Where did you get that?” Her fingers quickly paraded over the gold watch from Willie. “That’s fourteen carat. Let me try it on.”
I gently pulled my arm away. “It was a gift.”
Patrick turned around and stared at Mother. “Hello, Louise.”
“Hi, there. I’m so sorry about your daddy. And how awful that he turned retarded like that. I’ve heard it can just happen”—she snapped her fingers—“like that. You poor thing, you must be so worried that it’s in the blood. You could end up with it.”
Patrick placed his hand on the small of my back and moved me closer to him. His face twisted with disgust. “You know, Louise, you’ve always been a piece of . . . work.”
Miss Paulsen called Patrick over to her.
“He’s turned bitter,” said Mother. “Are you guys together? You little vixen, you’re playin’ two hands. I hear you’re seeing Jesse Thierry too. Now, he’s a dish. But if Pat’s givin’ you gifts like this watch, I’d stick with him mainly. There’s bound to be more where that came from. But it’s good to keep Jesse around too because he’s the fun type.”
I stared at Mother, desperately trying to figure out how we shared a genetic strand. But I knew we must, because despite her awfulness, there was a part of me that loved her somehow.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about all the garbage that’s going on,” said Mother.
“I did. Were you with that man from Memphis?”
“I wasn’t with him, we had a drink together. It’s not a crime to have a drink with someone.” She drained her punch glass and set it in a planter. I picked it up.
“How did you meet him?”
“Oh, I don’t even remember. Out and about. That night was such a blast it’s all a blur.” She leaned in close. “I have an alibi.” She pronounced the word as if she’d rehearsed it.
“Was he a nice man?” I asked, needing to understand how my mother had intersected with Forrest Hearne.
“Nice? I don’t know. He was rich. The kinda rich you know as soon as you see it. Hey, Cincinnati’s in town, honey, maybe we can all go for dinner. He’s pals with Diamond Jim Moran now. You heard of him? He’s opening a restaurant here. He wears diamond everything, even his dental bridge has diamonds. I think Diamond Jim is single. Maybe we can all go on a double date.”
Thankfully, Miss Paulsen approached, so I didn’t have to respond to my mother’s insidious suggestion. “Everything well, Josie?” she asked.
“Miss Paulsen, this is”—I paused, swallowing the lie that was about to take flight—“this is my mother, Louise.”
“Lovely to meet you,” said Miss Paulsen in her crisp tone.
“Mother, Miss Paulsen is a professor of English at Loyola.”
Mother fished a wrapperless piece of chewing gum from her purse and started smacking on it.
“Oh, that’s nice. I’m in from Hollywood. You’ve probably seen my picture in the paper.”
“I can’t say that I have,” said Miss Paulsen. “Louise, your daughter is quite impressive. You must be very proud.”
“Yeah, she’s a real good girl. She just needs to learn to doll herself up more, classy-like. Did you know she’s named after the classiest madam in Storyville?” She nudged my arm in pride. “Is there any vodka? I think I’d like a Bloody Mary.” Mother wandered toward the kitchen.
There I stood, turned completely wrong side out in front of Miss Paulsen. A dignified professor, an alumna of Smith, and my filthy laundry flapping in her face.
She reached out and gently took my hand. “I think we understand each other very well now, Josie.”
FORTY-TWO
Still no mail from Smith. I received another letter from Charlotte asking if I’d like to join her family in the Berkshires over the summer. I had no idea where the Berkshires were and had to look it up. It sounded expensive and would certainly be costly to get there. And then I’d need appropriate clothes, clothes that I didn’t have and couldn’t afford.
The door opened and Betty Lockwell sauntered into the shop with her sour-apple smile and rail-thin limbs poking out of an obviously pricey dress. I thought I had knocked her arms off back at the tree.
“Hello,” she said, looking around the shop for Patrick. “Remind me of your name.”
“Jo.”
“That’s right, Jo.”
“Patrick’s not here,” I told her.
Her bottom lip pouted. “Oh, that’s a shame. He recommended a book he said I’d like. But it was out of stock. Ted Capote.”
“It’s in now.” I pulled the book from the display and handed it to her. She turned it over and saw the controversial photo of the nubile Capote, lounging on the back cover, staring into the camera.
“Wow, he’s young. When will Patrick be here?”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Betty. Patrick lost his father. The funeral was last week.” I couldn’t help myself and added, “He may go to the West Indies to see his mother.”
“The West Indies? Well, that’s no good.”
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.