Out of the Easy(50)

Charlotte’s most recent postcard was dated February 15, and it arrived on the twentieth.

The front of the card framed a large, beautiful building covered in snow. The caption running along the bottom said Built in 1909, the William Allan Neilson Library at Smith College contains 380,000 volumes and adds 10,000 annually.

I flipped the card over, reading Charlotte’s tiny writing yet again.

Dear Jo,



Have you mailed your application? I hope so! Aunt Lilly says Mardi Gras is in full swing. I’m so envious of all the fun you must be having. I showed all the girls the postcard you sent from the Vieux Carré. The flying club has an aerial tag match with Yale this weekend, and next week our congressman will meet with the Progressives. Can’t wait for you to join us. Write soon.





Fondly,

Charlotte





I wanted to join them, to work on something important and meaningful.

“Hey, Motor City.”

The voice filtered in from outside, followed by a whistle. I peeked out the window. Jesse nodded from across the street, standing in front of his motorcycle. I opened the window and leaned out. The street was covered with remnants of celebration. Trash Wednesday, they called it.

“Did you get some sleep?” he called up. “I didn’t see you out.”

“I slept through the whole thing.”

“You hungry?”

I was starving. “Are you going to the cathedral to get your ashes?” I asked.

Jesse laughed. “I’m from Alabama, remember? Baptist. Salvation by grace. Let’s go find a muffuletta.”

We sat on a bench at the edge of Jackson Square. A good night’s sleep had helped. My mind had cleared, and the earth no longer shifted beneath my feet. Jesse’s head lolled against the bench, his eyes closed, the sun baking the comfortable smile on his face. It was nice not talking. Somehow Jesse and I could have a conversation without saying a word. I closed my eyes and leaned back, trying to bring the orange shadows behind my eyelids into focus. Birds chirped, and a breeze rolled over my arms. We sat that way for a while, cleansing ourselves of the chaos that had been Mardi Gras, content with the lunch settling in our stomachs.

“Jess?”

“Mm,” he replied.

I kept my eyes closed and felt my body relaxing further into the bench. “I did something.”

“That’s never a good intro.”

“For some reason, I want to tell you about it,” I said.

“Okay. Start tellin’.”

“Back around the New Year, I met a girl, Charlotte, from Massachusetts. She came into the shop, and we got on really well. We had never met before, but it was like she knew me completely. I felt so comfortable with her. Have you ever met someone like that?”

“Yep.”

The clouds shifted, and the glow of sun brightened on my face. “But she’s from a really wealthy family, a good family, and she’s a freshman at Smith College in Massachusetts. She even flies a plane. Charlotte kept telling me that I should apply to Smith. I know it sounds ridiculous, me being able to go to a prestigious school like that, but she sent me all the information.”

Suddenly, the insanity of the whole thing came into focus, and I nearly laughed.

“But for some reason, I began to want it, really badly. I told Willie, and she was mad. She said I had to go to school here in New Orleans, that I was out of my league trying to get into a college like that. Well, that made me want it more. So I did it, Jesse. I applied to Smith in Northampton. I told you I convinced that lout John Lockwell to sign a recommendation. I sent the application the other day. I’m scared to admit it, even to myself.” My voice dropped. “But I really want this.”

I felt a shadow glide over my face as the sun slipped behind a cloud. I took a deep breath and exhaled, feeling the weight of secrecy lift off of me and onto the breeze.

“Crazy, that’s what you’re thinking, right?” I said.

“What I’m thinking?” His voice was close.

I opened my eyes. Jesse was inches from my face, blocking the sun. I felt his breath on my neck and saw his mouth. My body jerked with panic and my fists leapt to my chest.

Jesse pulled back immediately. “Oh, Jo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly. “You . . . had something in your hair.” He held up a piece of a leaf.

Confusion flooded the space between us. I tried to explain. “No, it’s just . . .”

Just what? Why was I whispering? I knew Jesse didn’t want to scare me. Yet my knuckles were clenched, ready to fight him off. I felt ridiculous, and he seemed to know it.

“Wouldn’t it have been funny if you had popped me one?” He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Well, not funny, but you know what I mean.”

Jesse leaned back on the bench and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Okay, you asked what I was thinking. What I’m thinking is”—he turned to me and smiled—“you better get yourself a winter coat, Motor City. It’s cold in Massachusetts.”

I barely heard him. Jesse’s aftershave lingered all around my face. I was suddenly aware of how close we were sitting on the bench and was consumed with wondering if his hands were warm or cold in the pockets.

“How much does a school like that cost?” he asked.