Out of the Easy(26)

“Sorry I was so early this time,” said a man’s voice. “But I just had to see you.”

“Come back soon, Daddy,” said Evangeline in a childlike voice. I crept past the edge of the house just as Evangeline slipped back through the screen door in her pigtails. I stopped to shift the stack of books.

“Oh, I’ll be back soon, baby,” said the man, putting on his hat and tightening the knot in his tie. My mouth fell open. It was Mr. Lockwell, Charlotte’s uncle.

He stepped into the drive, so giddy he nearly bumped right into me.

“Mr. Lockwell,” I whispered.

He looked at me and then at the back door. “Uh, hello.” Recognition dawned slowly. The lines across his forehead twitched. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I’m Jo—Josephine, a friend of your niece, Charlotte.”

His feet shifted. “What are you doing here?”

My breath caught somewhere in the back of my throat. I looked down at the stack of books in my arms. “I’m delivering an order of books to Willie Woodley . . . she loves to read. I work with Patrick in the bookshop. Do you come here often?” The question escaped before I thought better of it.

“N-no. Look, I’m in a hurry,” he said with a disgusted and condescending tone, as if suddenly I was polluting his space like the Gedrick’s sidewalk.

I saw the shift in attitude. I was just a sad waif from the Quarter, someone he could wave away with his handkerchief like a foul smell. Anger began to percolate. My eyes narrowed.

“Oh, okay,” I challenged, “because I heard that girl call you Daddy and then you said you’d be back soon, so I thought maybe you come here often.”

Mr. Lockwell stared at me, a mixture of panic and irritation on his face. “I have to go. Good-bye, Josephine. I’ll tell Charlotte I saw you in the street.” He grinned at his dig and started down the drive.

I should have let him go.

“Mr. Lockwell,” I called out.

He turned at the sound of his name and put a finger to his lips. “Sshh—”

“I thought you might like to know,” I said, following him toward the street. “I’m going to be applying to Smith.”

“That’s nice.” He continued walking.

“And I was hoping you could write a letter of recommendation for me.”

“What?” he said.

“A letter of recommendation, to include with my application to Smith. A letter from one of the most successful men in the South would be a great help. Shall I stop by your home next week to speak to you about it?”

“No,” he said. He dug through his blazer and thrust a business card at me. “You can call me at my office. Don’t call my home. I . . . I really don’t come out here often.”

And with that, he quickly ran down the drive toward the street.

? ? ?

“What’s wrong with you?” said Willie. “You’re gripping the damn steering wheel like you’re trying to break it. I asked you to drive so I could relax, but how am I supposed to close my eyes when you’re hunched over the wheel like a madman?”

I leaned back and loosened my grip on the wheel, watching the gray pavement roll under the headlights through the fog. My fingers ached. The interior of the car was dark, except for the glowing light of the radio dial, tuned to a country station playing Hank Williams. What was I thinking? What if someone had seen me? I had confronted Charlotte’s uncle and blatantly dangled his deceitfulness right in front of his face. It was my pride. My pride took over when he looked at me like a piece of trash. But what if he went back and told Evangeline, and Evangeline said, “Oh, don’t worry, she’s just a hooker’s daughter,” and then he told Mrs. Lockwell, and Mrs. Lockwell told Charlotte?

I hated New Orleans.

No, New Orleans hated me.

“Dora told me you want to go to college,” said Willie.

“What?”

“You heard me. And I think it’s a good idea.”

I looked over at Willie’s dark silhouette in the passenger seat. “You do?”

“You’re smart, Jo. You know how to make the most of a situation. You’ll do well at Loyola. Hell, you might even get in at Newcomb.”

My fingers hooked around the wheel again. “But I don’t want to go to college in New Orleans, Willie. I don’t want to go to college in Louisiana. I want to go out East.”

“What are you talking about? Out East where?”

“In Massachusetts.”

“What the hell for?” said Willie.

“For an education,” I told her.

“You’ll get a fine education at Loyola or Newcomb. You’re staying in New Orleans.”

No, I wouldn’t stay in New Orleans. I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life cleaning a bawdy house, being leered at as the daughter of a French Quarter prostitute. I’d have nice friends like Charlotte and socialize with people like Forrest Hearne—people who thought better of me than gutter trash.

“You’re salted peanuts,” said Willie.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re salted peanuts, and those people out East are petits fours. Don’t be cliché, thinking you’re going to be Orphan Annie, who winds up in some kind of castle. You’re salted peanuts, Jo, and there’s nothing wrong with salted peanuts. But salted peanuts aren’t served with petits fours.”