Out of the Easy(69)

The room lost shape. The screams erupted out of me, deep and wild, as if they were pulled from the core of the earth, up through the floor, and released through my mouth. My body shook violently as the realization of what had happened came together in front of me.

She took it. She took everything. Right now she was gliding down the highway, a red polka dot scarf around her fried hair. Her wrist, wan from Dexedrine, rested on the open window, dangling a watch with the words Jo is 18 engraved on the back.

“Jo, you scared me to death.” Patrick ran to the window and pulled it shut. “Calm down. People will think you’re being murdered up here.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “Jo, stop.” He shook me, hard. “Stop it.”

I fought him. The frustration that was my life seared out of me in a fury so absolute I couldn’t contain it. Patrick jumped away, his back against the closet door, eyes wide with panic.

My screams fell to growls, then to whimpers, ending in sobs as I sank to the floor.

He knelt beside me.

“It’s all gone,” I gasped between sobs. “They took the money from Cokie. All of it.”

“Who took it?” asked Patrick.

I looked up at him. “Mother.”

? ? ?

I lay on the hardwood floor all afternoon, holding the green box, staring at the ceiling.

Patrick helped customers downstairs in the shop, and I listened, hollow, the conversations entering my ears and bouncing within my corpse of a body. Jesse came by. Patrick told him I was upstairs sick. Cokie came by. He told him I was delivering an order of books. My back hurt from hours on the floor, but I didn’t care. It was punishment for my stupidity. Of course my mother knew my hiding places. Ten years ago, it was a pink coin purse under my bed. Today it was thousands of dollars. How would I ever explain to Cokie that the money was gone, to Willie that the watch was gone? And now an acceptance to Smith would just be a cruel joke. I wouldn’t have the money to go.

Long light from the late afternoon sun pooled across the floor. Patrick tapped on my door.

“Hey, you sure you won’t come to the house with me?”

I shook my head.

He set two bags on the floor. “This one has a sandwich.” He emptied the other, larger bag onto the floor. The contents made a loud clanking noise. “I went by the hardware store.” He lifted up some chains. “When I leave, I want you to come downstairs and chain the doors on the inside. You’ll lock them with this padlock and bring the key up to your room. That will make you feel a little safer, okay?”

I nodded but said nothing.

He walked toward the door.

“Patrick.” He stopped. “I need to ask you something.” I turned my head toward him at the door. “Did you kiss me out of pity?”

He opened his mouth, then looked down at his feet. “No, Jo. It’s not like that at all.”

I closed my eyes and turned my head from him. I wouldn’t look back, even though I could feel he was standing there, wanting to elaborate or explain. He stood for a long while, waiting. Finally I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and I opened my eyes, allowing the tears to stream down onto the hardwood floor.





FORTY-SEVEN


I avoided everyone for days. My heart cracked open each time Cokie asked if I had heard from Smith. Sweety and Dora constantly asked if something was wrong. Sadie looked at me funny, and even Evangeline asked if I was sick. Willie came right out and yelled at me.

“You think you’re the only one with problems, kid? I’m sick of you being a sourpuss. Is this because Patrick’s going away to see his mother? Stop with the dramatics already.”

I kept to myself and stayed upstairs in my room, the door of the shop chained and bolted. I was reading the latest letter from Charlotte when I heard the yell.

“Hey, Motor City!”

It was Jesse. Again. He came by every day and yelled up to my window. I never answered. Tonight my light was on, so he knew I was there. He continued to yell, “Hey, Motor City,” louder and louder alternating between high voices, low voices, even singing it.

“Shut up!” someone called from a nearby window.

“Get her to come down, and I’ll shut up,” he yelled back. He called out again.

“Come on, girlie, get down here before we have to call the cops on this guy,” someone else yelled.

“Ya hear that, Jo? They’re callin’ the cops,” yelled Jesse.

He was so infuriating. I marched to the window and threw back the curtains. A crowd had gathered around Jesse on the street, and they all cheered when I appeared. I opened the window, and people started calling to me.

“Come on, doll, come down for the poor fella.”

“Josie, please come down so he stops the racket. I gotta work in the morning.”

As I removed the lock and chains from the doors, the people dispersed in the street.

Jesse laughed, smiling wide. “I’m sorry, Jo. Don’t be mad.”

I wouldn’t look at him. He reached out as if he was punching my arm. “Are you going to invite me in?”

“No.” I closed the door and sat on the step in front of the shop. Jesse dropped down next to me.

“I thought you might say that. So I came prepared.” Jesse produced two bottles of soda from his jacket, popped the tops off with a key, and handed one to me. I turned the bottle in my hand. Coca-Cola Bottling, Chattanooga, Tenn was written on the green glass bottle. Tennessee. It made me think of Mr. Hearne—and his watch ticking under the crepe myrtle at Shady Grove.