Out of the Easy(60)

FORTY


Two days later, I received a postcard from Jesse.


Motor City. Mae West. Massachusetts.





Jesse





Part of me hoped Jesse would come back, but the other part of me hoped for another letter from Patrick. I finished the box of books. To appease my boredom, I cleaned the cottage several times over.

I stripped the bed in Willie’s room, scrubbed the floors, washed the walls, and aired out the closets. I didn’t dare reorganize anything. Willie wouldn’t want me rummaging through her belongings. I did gently move the items in the drawers to wipe them. That’s when I found the pictures. Tucked in the very back of Willie’s top drawer was a yellowed envelope. Inside were three photographs.

The first was a tintype of a mature woman. She wore a long dark dress punctuated by a row of small buttons down the front. She stood with her arm resting on a column, her expression conveying the desire to beat the photographer with a wrench or some other blunt instrument. The word Wilhelmina was scratched into the back. I looked closely and thought I saw a shadow of Willie in her face.

The next photo had no name, just 1935 on the back. The man in the photo was incredibly handsome. I recognized the chair he sat in, but not the room. The chair was now Willie’s chair in the parlor at the house on Conti.

The last photo was Willie, approximately ten years old, nestled in the crotch of a tree. Her hair poked out at all angles. Her face was abloom with mischievous happiness. Willie never spoke about her childhood. I stared at the picture, shocked that she had ever been a child at all. Somehow, I imagined Willie Woodley had been born with a rusty voice and street smarts to outwit any hustler. But here she was, a sweet child with a wide smile. What had happened to the Willie in the photo? I often longed to look at childhood photos of myself, but there weren’t any. Mother never had my picture made.

I thought of the silver frames in Lockwell’s home and office. They displayed his history for everyone to see. Willie had hers hidden in the back of a drawer. My history and dreams were on a list in my desk and, now, buried in the back garden.

The problem was taken care of. I had found an old praline tin in the kitchen. I wound life into Mr. Hearne’s watch, set the time, and placed it inside the tin with his check. I could see Forrest Hearne, hear his voice. He held out the check for Keats and Dickens, smiling at me, the watch peeking out beneath the shade of his shirtsleeve. Why didn’t I wipe it clean of prints and just mail it back to his family? The address was on the check. His wife and children would cherish it. They would be so grateful.

I buried it near the crepe myrtle out back.

A horn blew. I recognized it immediately. I ran out onto the porch and watched as Cokie rolled up in Mariah. I jumped down the steps and threw my arms around him.

“It’s so good to see you. Are you thirsty? Do you want something to eat?”

Cokie pulled from my grip. A solemn expression creased his face. “It’s time to go back, Josie girl.”

“Finally. I’m running out of food. Is Mother gone?”

Cokie hung his head. He spoke so quietly I couldn’t hear him. “What did you say?”

He took a breath. “Mr. Charlie’s dead.”

I sat in the front seat of Mariah. My chest heaved. Warm tears slid down my face and onto my neck. Cokie said Charlie had taken a turn. Patrick and Randolph stayed up all night with him. Patrick was at his bedside, holding his hand, when he passed. Randolph called Willie. She and Cokie came over to help Patrick. Willie arranged for the undertaker, and the funeral would be tomorrow.

They all helped. Everyone was there. Except me.

Cokie brought the newspaper.


CHARLES MARLOWE—beloved son of the late Catherine and Nicholas Marlowe, brother of the late Donald Marlowe, father of Patrick J. Marlowe, owner of Marlowe’s Bookstore, author, aged 61 years and resident of this city for the past 39 years. Relatives and friends of the family are invited to attend the funeral, which will take place Wednesday, 11 o’clock A.M., at the funeral home of Jacob Schoen and Son, 3827 Canal Street. Interment in Greenwood Cemetery.

“You go ahead and cry, Josie girl. I done cried the whole ride down here. I know you wanted to be there. Now, your momma, she’s still up to her neck, but Willie said you had to come back for Mr. Charlie’s funeral.”

“Of course I had to come back. This is wrong, Cokie. I should have been there for Charlie and Patrick. Willie had no right to keep me away.”

“It’s rough for Patrick, but I think he at peace. It was so hard for him, Mr. Charlie that sick and not bein’ able to fix it.”

Cokie drove me straight to Patrick’s. He opened the door and I almost didn’t recognize him. Grief had taken his face. He fell into my arms. Cokie helped me walk him back in the house and onto the couch. I put my arm around him and smoothed his hair.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.

“Me too.”

“He’s gone, Jo. I knew it was bad, but . . . but I didn’t think it would happen this quickly.”

Sadie scurried around in Patrick’s kitchen.

“Sadie’s helpin’ for tomorrow,” said Cokie. “After the burial, folks will come here to eat. I’ll be back in a bit. Now you take care, buddy.” Cokie shuffled out the front door.