Out of the Easy(44)

I pecked at the keys on the typewriter.

“Okay, this is what we’ve got.” I rolled the cylinder to move the paper up off the print bracket. “You ready, Charlie?” Charlie stared at the typewriter, silent.

To the Attention of the Director of Admissions:



It is with great pleasure that I write this letter of recommendation for Miss Josephine Moraine.





I peeked at Charlie. “I put Josephine because that’s what he knows me as. Long story. I put Josie on the actual application.”


I became acquainted with Miss Moraine through my niece, Charlotte Gates, who is currently a freshman in good standing at Smith College. Miss Moraine is of sharp intelligence, strong moral fiber, and possesses an impressive work ethic. While most girls her age might pursue extracurricular activities that are social in nature, Miss Moraine has dedicated herself to the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment through literature.





A warble came from Charlie. I looked at his face but couldn’t decipher the expression as one of laughter or pain. “I know, the word enlightenment is a bit much, but I’m trying to make Lockwell sound evolved.”


Since her early teens, Miss Moraine has invested her time and talents running one of the most reputable bookstores in the Vieux Carré of New Orleans, owned by celebrated author Charles Marlowe.





I winked at Charlie.


During her tenure at the bookstore, Miss Moraine has developed a cataloging and inventory system, and assists with commercial buying, antiquarian acquisitions, and restoration. In addition to working at the bookstore, I understand that Miss Moraine is employed as a personal assistant to one of the families in the French Quarter.





Charlie’s chair creaked with comment.

“What? Willie’s is kind of a family, isn’t it? Wait, I’m almost done.”


Considering her scholarly and professional merits, I have offered employment to Miss Moraine within my corporation. I have been informed, however, that she prefers to pursue a college degree at a fine institution such as Smith, where she may benefit from both an environment of integration and education. In closing, I ask the Board of Admissions to please favorably consider the application of Miss Josephine Moraine, as I believe she would be a true asset to the college.





Sincerely yours,

John Lockwell, President

The Lockwell Company, Ltd.

New Orleans, Louisiana





“It’s not perfect, but I think it’s pretty good.” I pulled the paper from the typewriter, folded it, and put it in the envelope in my purse.

Charlie continued to stare at the typewriter.

“Hey, would you like to type something?” I put a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and moved it across the table in front of Charlie. His stare floated from the typewriter to my face.

“Come on, Charlie, type something. Do you want me to help you?” I knelt next to him and raised his hand toward the typewriter. When I let go, it tremored and hovered for a moment over the keyboard and then fell to his lap.

“Almost. Let’s try again.” I lifted his hand, but this time it fell straight back into his lap.

I took my glass into the kitchen, and that’s when I heard it. A swift, sharp attack on the keyboard. One letter, with conviction. I spun around and ran back into the room. Charlie sat motionless in front of the typewriter. I peered over his shoulder.





B


“Keep going.”

He didn’t move. I crossed in front of him to look at his face. There was sadness in his silence.

“Come on, Charlie Marlowe. I know you’re in there. Type another letter.”

Something was short-circuiting, making his inner lights flicker like the electricity in a storm. Was it the medicine? The medicine dulled everything and made him nearly comatose. I decided I would hold off on giving him his medicine to see if the faint lights got any brighter.

We sat at the table for over an hour. I read a book. Charlie did nothing, but I noticed he fidgeted and looked around a bit more. Patrick was late. He said he wouldn’t be gone long. Where was he? I snapped the book shut.

“You know what? I’m gonna give you a haircut.”

I found scissors in the kitchen and wrapped a large towel around Charlie’s shoulders. He raised his hands and pulled it off.

“Oh, so you’re moving now. I shouldn’t have taken the typewriter to your room. Maybe I could have gotten another letter out of you.” I put the towel back on his shoulders and walked to the kitchen to get the comb from my pocketbook. “You know,” I called to him over my shoulder, “I should have done this a long time ago. You never would have let your hair grow this long.” I filled a bowl with water to wet the comb and poured myself another sweet tea. “What I’d love to do is shave that white beard. You never wore a beard.”

I walked back into the dining room. “You’re going to feel like a new—”

Blood. Everywhere.

On the table. On the floor. All over Charlie.

His face was covered in it. He moved the scissors from his face to his forearm and began to slice a trench.

I dropped the bowl of water and ran to him, cutting my own fingers as I wrestled the large scissors from his hand.