Out of the Easy(35)

“Who ruined their reputation forever,” he whispered in my ear.

Jesse’s warm mouth near my ear made something quiver in my stomach. A nervous feeling took over and I jumped down from his lap. “Sorry, I’m probably breaking your legs.” I sat down on my stool and smoothed my skirt.

“Don’t worry. A handsome flower vendor can handle it.” Jesse looked at me.

“What?” A flush of heat pulled across my cheeks.

“You said ‘with the handsome flower vendor.’”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did, and now you’re blushing.” Jesse grinned. “But don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean it. You were just playin’.” Jesse fiddled with the napkin under his soda glass. “The friend you’re meeting tonight, it’s the guy from the bookstore, right?”

I was so warm and comfortable, I had forgotten all about it. The watch. The detective. The lie to Jesse. I wished I could tell him the truth, but what would I say? Actually, Jesse, I’ve got to run. I’ve got a dead man’s watch in my purse, and his widow and the police are looking for it. You know how these things are, with your dad in jail and all.

I just nodded. “Yes, I’m meeting Patrick. I should probably go.” I opened my purse.

“No, I’ve got it, Jo. Please.”

“Thank you, Jesse.” I smiled.

“How ’bout I walk you there,” he said, putting the money on the counter and standing up. “It’s dark.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine.”

He nodded, and his smile faded. “Sure. Great to see you, Jo. Have a good night.”

“Good night, Jesse. Thanks again for the hot chocolate.”

I walked down St. Peter and then over to Eads Plaza, trying to decide where I would do it, where it might be the darkest, and where no one would see me. The drizzle had stopped, but the sky was still black and thick with foamy clouds. A rat nibbled on wet trash in the street. It stopped and stared at me. I thought about Jesse’s granny stuffing its mouth with a lemon. I crossed the road and made my way down to the edge of the riverbank. My shoes slipped on the wet gravel, and I stumbled, nearly falling. I pretended to walk casually, glancing over my shoulders to see who might be around. A couple stood kissing near the water’s edge. I walked past them, hoping they would leave.

The wind blew, and the tarty smell of the yellow Mississippi lapped against my face, lifting the ends of my hair. I heard the cry of a saxophone down the bank and could see the twinkling lights of the steamboat President, with all the paying guests making merry. I stood and stared out at the water, wondering how far I’d have to throw the watch so it wouldn’t wash back up onshore. I should have tied the watch to a rock, to make sure it would sink and stay lodged at the bottom. Something behind me crunched and I spun around.

I squinted but saw nothing through the black. I thought of all the tales of ghosts on the Mississippi, of Jean Lafitte and the headless pirates who haunt the riverfront. I turned and faced the water. I opened my purse.

I reached in and grasped Forrest Hearne’s watch, telling myself to throw it into the river. Somehow I imagined I could feel the inscription With Love, Marion, stinging my fingertips, begging me not to throw something so full of beauty and affection into the muddy Mississippi. That’s what had happened to Forrest Hearne on New Year’s Eve, though, wasn’t it? A beautiful man was stolen, sucked down into the muddy filth of the Quarter.

The words of Dickens hovered in my head:

I have in my heart of hearts a favorite child. And his name is David Copperfield.

The watch was now burning my hand. I looked out to the water and thought of Forrest Hearne and his kindness, Mother and Cincinnati, Willie, the girls, Patrick, Charlie, Jesse, and Cokie.

And I started to cry.





TWENTY-THREE


The doors opened and I stepped inside. “Eighth floor, please.”

The elevator operator slowly turned to me.

My hands went cold. “Mother?”

Her face was gray and lifeless, her mouth ringed with scabs. She slowly shook her head and laughed. The laugh I hated.

“Oh, no, baby girl,” she hissed. “No eighth floor for you.”

She grabbed the handle and jammed it forward. I felt the elevator drop and plunge violently. We were falling and Mother was laughing wildly. The scabs on her mouth cracked and began to bleed. Trails of blood ran from her mouth and down her neck, soaking into her buttercream Orlon uniform. I screamed.

And that’s how I woke up. Screaming.

The screams were still bouncing inside my head as I cleaned at Willie’s, still echoing between my ears as I walked back to the bookshop. Every few minutes, the screams would be mingled with the ticking of Forrest Hearne’s watch. I had returned it to its hiding place in the shop.

And Mother. I couldn’t erase the vision of her ghoulish face, the blood. I worried that something had happened to her on the road. I wished she’d write and then I wondered why. Things would be simpler without Mother in New Orleans, simpler without me wrapped in the shadows of her black heart and childish mind. But I wished I’d hear from her anyway.

I changed out of my cleaning clothes and walked downstairs to the shop. The door was open, and Patrick was unloading a box of books at the counter. He moved slowly, and his shoulders frowned.