Out of the Easy(51)

“A lot,” I said quietly.

“How much is a lot?”

“For tuition, residence, and books, it’s close to two thousand dollars per year,” I told him.

Jesse blew a low whistle.

“I know, it’s crazy.”

“It’s crazy, but it’s just money. There’s lots of ways to get money,” said Jesse.

We walked up St. Peter to Royal, back toward the shop. Neither of us spoke. We moved through the afterbirth of celebration, kicking cans and cups out of the way, stepping over pieces of costumes that had been abandoned through the course of the evening. Jesse grabbed a string of milky glass beads hanging from a doorway. He handed them to me, and I put them over my head. The day had a peace about it, like Christmas, when the world stops and gives permission to pause. All over the city, Orleanians were at rest, asleep in their makeup, beads in their beds. Even Willie’s was closed today. She’d spend the whole day in her robe, maybe even have coffee with the girls at the kitchen table. They’d laugh about the johns of the prior night. Evangeline would complain, Dora would make everyone laugh, and Sweety would leave midafternoon for her grandmother’s. Did Mother miss it? Was she thinking about New Orleans, about Willie’s, about me?

“Looks like you’ve got an eager customer.” Jesse motioned to the bookshop.

Miss Paulsen stood with her face to the window, peering inside.

“Hello, Miss Paulsen.”

She turned toward us on the sidewalk. “Oh, hello, Josie.” She looked at Jesse. Her eyes unashamedly scanned him up and down.

“This is Jesse Thierry. Jesse, this is Miss Paulsen. She’s in the English department at Loyola.”

Jesse smiled and nodded. “Ma’am.”

Miss Paulsen stiffened. “I’m also a friend of the Marlowes’.” She addressed the comment to Jesse. “I’ve been trying to reach them for quite a while now. I’ve been to their house, but no one answered.”

“Well, I better get going,” said Jesse.

I didn’t want him to leave, to abandon me with Miss Paulsen, who would demand answers to too many questions.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Jesse backed away. “See you, Jo. It was nice.”

Miss Paulsen shot me a look as Jesse walked across the street. Her shoulders jumped when he fired up his motorcycle. I could see Jesse laughing. He revved the engine again and again, until Miss Paulsen finally turned around. He waved and took off down Royal.

“Oh, my.” Miss Paulsen touched her coiled bun, leaving her hand on the nape of her neck. “Is that boy in college?”

I rubbed my arm, still feeling Jesse against me. “As a matter of fact, he is. Delgado. Is there something I can help you with, Miss Paulsen?”

“Indeed there is.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Enough is enough. What’s going on with Charlie Marlowe?”





THIRTY-FOUR


We had agreed upon the story. Charlie was out of town, helping a sick friend in Slidell. So that’s what I told her. The lie came out so easily it frightened me. I used to feel sick to my stomach when I heard Mother tell a lie. How can you do it? How do you live with yourself? I used to wonder. But here I was, lying to Miss Paulsen and smiling while doing it. I even added details about Charlie possibly acquiring a bookstore in Slidell. Patrick and I had never discussed that. I made that up all by myself.

Patrick hadn’t come to the shop in days. When I stopped by the house, he was always at the piano, playing endless melodies for Charlie. Something had changed. A curtain had fallen between us. It made me want to cry. I’d give my special knock and then let myself in with my key. Patrick would turn slightly from the piano, see it was me, and then turn back around. He communicated with his father through Debussy, Chopin, and Liszt. He’d continue playing, sometimes for hours. I’d bring groceries, straighten up the house, and he’d remain seated at the piano. We wouldn’t exchange a word. But as soon as I’d walk out onto the stoop to leave, I’d hear the notes stop. He was speaking to Charlie through the music. He was ignoring me through it.

I was happy to see him come through the door of the shop. I couldn’t speak freely because a customer was browsing one of the stacks. Patrick and I had worked together for years, but today the space behind the counter felt cramped. We maneuvered around each other awkwardly and had lost our comfortable rhythm.

“Hi.” I tried to smile at him. I put my hand on the counter, signaling mystery.

Patrick looked down at the woman, shook his head, and gave me the sign for cookbook.

It was the most we had communicated in over a week. I had repeatedly apologized about what happened with Charlie. I knew he heard me, but he hadn’t responded. His simple cookbook signal filled me with joy.

“Charlie?” I whispered.

“Randolph’s there. I have to run a few errands.”

I pulled out a stack of mail and handed it to him. “I sorted the bills and checks. I figured you’d be going by the bank.”

He nodded.

The woman came to the register with the new Betty Crocker Cookbook.

“I was so sure she’d choose Agatha Christie,” I said after she left the shop.

“She desperately wants to read mysteries,” said Patrick. “But she had to buy the cookbook because her angry husband is demanding hot meals as soon as he drops his briefcase at the door. She’s miserable in the marriage—so is her husband. He drinks to escape, she cries in the bathroom sitting on the edge of the tub. They never should have gotten married. She’s even more miserable now that she bought the cookbook instead of Agatha Christie. She feels trapped.”