Out of the Easy(30)

“Yep.”

“Did you hide?” he asked.

“Hide? No, I told him I had a book delivery for Willie. I asked if he came to Willie’s often. At first he was rude and tried to brush me off. So I chased him down the driveway to Conti, told him I was applying to Smith and that I wanted a written recommendation from him.”

“You what?”

“Yep, and I told him I’d call or come by his house to get the letter if that was more convenient. He put two and two together real quick. He doesn’t want me telling his wife or creepy kids that I ran into him at a brothel, now, does he?”

Patrick looked elated. “Jo, you’re a genius! Do you think he’ll give you the letter?”

“He told me to call him at his office. I think I’ll just stop by.” I wiped my hands on the dish towel and turned to face him. “So, see? I tell you everything.” I took a breath. “What did you want to tell me?”

Patrick paused, taking in my face. He smiled gently. “I think that’s enough for one day. You never cease to amaze me, Jo.”

Patrick was sound asleep on the couch when Cokie arrived with the medicine.

“Oooeee, smells like dead muskrat in here,” whispered Cokie, pinching up his face.

“Not as bad as it did smell. I just opened the windows.” I wiped the kitchen counter clean and hung the damp dishrag over the faucet.

“Willie had Sadie package up some groceries, too,” said Cokie. He handed me the bag.

“Have you been workin’ dominoes?” I asked him. I always knew when Cokie was gambling because his dark fingertips were dusted with chalk.

“Yeah, me and Cornbread been playin’. How bad off is Mr. Charlie?” asked Cokie.

“Pretty bad. He needs this medicine.”

“Dr. Sully sent two kinds. One is only to use if he gets real real bad.”

I walked into the living room, looking at the two bottles. Patrick was snoring, but not like Charlie upstairs. Charlie was sawing, pulling loud rips with each breath. Patrick’s breathing purred, his upper lip puffing out when he exhaled. I set the two medicine bottles in front of him on the coffee table and pulled a quilt up to his shoulders. I started to leave, but suddenly looked at him, bent down, and kissed him on the forehead.





TWENTY


The contents of Charlotte’s package lay neatly arranged on my desk—the Smith catalog, brochures, and application. Charlotte had included a tattered copy of Candace Kinkaid’s sequel, Rogue Betrayal, with an inscription that teased, To my dear friend Jo. May your heart ever swell with rogue desire. Fondly, Charlotte. She also sent the Smith College photograph that she had mentioned at the party. I propped the small picture up on my desk.

My head felt heavy and I longed for a nap. I had gone to Willie’s an hour early in order to check on Charlie by breakfast. Charlie had calmed down and agreed to take his medicine. He no longer spoke and just sat in the chair by the window, clinging to the pink heart-shaped box. I worked in the bookshop all day until Patrick arrived in the afternoon. We had agreed he would work for just a short time while I saw to my business, the business with Mr. Lockwell.

I looked at myself in the broken mirror hanging on my wall and sighed at the girl staring back at me. I had chosen a dress I felt was my most professional for an office visit and wished I had appropriate gloves to match. But I didn’t have gloves. The color had faded from the dress after years of washing and wear. My shoes were scuffed. Hopefully no one would notice. I blotted my lips with a tissue.

812 Gravier Street. Everyone knew the address. It was the massive white-domed Hibernia Bank Building. Mr. Lockwell’s office was on the eighth floor. As the elevator climbed, my stomach fell. I replayed Mr. Lockwell’s condescending tone in my head, the little scoffing sound he made through his nose in Willie’s driveway. I thought of Willie’s shotgun in my arms, fierce and strong. Holes in the fence, I told myself. Salted peanuts.

The elevator doors parted, revealing polished hardwoods and a well-dressed woman at a reception desk flanked by potted ferns. I had expected a hallway with offices. Mr. Lockwell had the entire floor. The woman inspected me thoroughly as I stood a foot outside the elevator doors clutching my purse.

“This is the eighth floor,” she said.

“Yes.” I nodded, taking a step closer. “I’m here to see Mr. Lockwell.”

Her thin eyebrows rose. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m a friend of the family. He’s expecting me. Josephine Moraine,” I said, realizing I was speaking louder and faster than intended.

The woman picked up the phone. “Hello, Dottie. I have a Josephine Moraine here for Mr. Lockwell.” She paused and stared at me while speaking. “She says she’s a friend of the family and that he’s expecting her.”

Ten minutes passed, then twenty, an hour. I flipped through a LIFE magazine on the table, pretending I was interested in the article on President Truman. The receptionist alternated filing her fingernails and answering the telephone, throwing glances my way occasionally and shaking her head. I sat stiffly on a chair, becoming angrier with each minute. I approached the desk. “Perhaps I’ll just visit Mr. Lockwell at his house this evening. Could you ring back and see if that might be more convenient for him?”

She called back, and within an instant, the doors swung open and Mr. Lockwell appeared in a starched shirt and tie. “Josephine, so sorry to keep you waiting. Charlotte will have my head. Come on back.”