Out of the Easy (29 page)

Patrick in the military. Yes, it sounded completely ridiculous. “You know what?” I said. “Me at Smith and you in the military. They’re both crazy.” I started to laugh.

Patrick broke into laughter too. “We’ll swap pictures, you in a monogrammed sweater and me in a uniform.” The thought of Patrick in a uniform made me howl. A woman walked in front of the shop. We threw our hands down on the counter trying to beat each other to the signal. Patrick’s knees were bent, practically in a lunge. I had dropped my purse on the floor in excitement. We both had our pinky fingers on the counter. Romance. We roared with laughter, so loud and raucous that the woman took her hand off the door and scurried away.

“Come back!” yelled Patrick. “I’ll wrap them in a paper bag for you. No one will see.”

“Stop, my stomach hurts,” I told him. I picked my purse up off the floor.

“I’m gonna miss that,” said Patrick. His face became more serious. “I’ve wanted to tell you something. Doubleday has offered to buy a large part of our inventory. I need to give them an answer by tomorrow. I think I’m going to do it.”

“You’re selling the shop?”

“Not the shop, just a lot of the books. I’ll be gone, and you’ll be at Smith. If I decide to stick around once I come back, I’ll just buy more inventory. You know I love the buying, the hunt.”

“Sure,” I said. I looked around the shop, sad to think of the shelves half empty.

“Jo, I was hoping that we could keep our conversation the other day between us. I’m leaving, so what I told you doesn’t really matter now anyway.”

I looked at Patrick. Leaving meant he wouldn’t be able to see Kitty, the girl he loved, but he also wouldn’t risk betraying his friend James. It was honorable. “I won’t tell,” I told him.

“I have to send a telegram to my mother. Can you watch the shop?” he asked me.

“Sure. Just let me change. I’m filthy from Willie’s.”

I walked past the stacks of books and up the stairs, suddenly feeling a deep attachment to all of them, wondering which ones I’d have to visit on the shelves at Doubleday. My door swung open when I put the key in the lock. I stepped back. I had not forgotten to lock my door.

I kicked the door open with my foot and peered inside from the landing. The curtain lifted and swayed in the cross breeze of the cracked window over my desk. I slowly stepped into the room. My eyes immediately fastened on the green Adler’s box, lying on the floor next to my desk. The hinges were popped open, the bed of white satin holding nothing but the cradle imprint where the watch used to sit. I looked toward the closet in the room. It was open a crack. I backed up toward my chest of drawers, eyes on the closet, and quietly pulled open the small top drawer. Arm behind my back, I inserted my hand. I pushed back deeper into the drawer. My pistol was gone. The closet door moved slightly. I crept toward it and grabbed the bat leaning up against my desk. Curling my fingers around the handle, I raised the barrel above my shoulder. I threw open the closet.

No one was there.

I released my breath and lowered the bat. I reached down to pick up the watch box. That’s when I saw it.

My bed was moved. Just a tiny bit. Nearly undetectable. I threw down the box and dove under my bed. I was so frantic I could barely pull up the floorboard. I plunged my hand down into the floor and pulled it back up holding the wrinkled envelope.

The money was gone.

FORTY-SIX

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.

Jesse extended his bottle toward mine for a toast. “Kicks.”

“Kicks.” I nodded.

We sat and drank in silence. It was something I appreciated about Jesse. He didn’t feel the need to fill every moment with talk or some sort of silly exchange. We could just sit saying nothing, him reclining back against the door, his motorcycle boots crossed at the ankles and me balancing the glass bottle on my knee. It was just like on the bench in Jackson Square and on the porch at Shady Grove. And for some reason, the silence made me want to tell him everything.

“I haven’t been sick.”

He nodded and gestured with his bottle toward the chains near my feet.

“Pretty serious chains you got there. Saw them on the door for the past week. Everything okay?”

I shook my head. “I was robbed.”

Jesse leaned forward. “You okay?”

I shrugged.

“Were you here when it happened?” he asked.

“No, it was early. I was at Willie’s.”

“You know the guys who did it?”

I nodded slowly and took a swallow of soda.

“Tell me.” Jesse’s hand balled into a fist.

I turned to him. The glow of the streetlamp threw light on his face. With the exception of the scar, his skin was flawless. The light on his hair reflected a shiny sienna.

“Tell me, Jo.” His eyes, usually mischievous, were steady on mine.

It was Jesse. I could tell him. “It was my mother.”

His knee bobbed, and his head dipped for a moment, acknowledging he understood the situation. “With her boyfriend?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

He was quiet for a while. “What’d they take?” he finally asked.

I wasn’t emotional anymore, just numb with disgust. “Let’s see, they took the watch from Adler’s that Willie gave me for my eighteenth birthday, they took my pistol, they took a cigar box with my money, and”—I looked at Jesse—“they took an envelope with two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars that Cokie, Sadie, and Sweety had given me to pay for my first year at Smith.”

The look on Jesse’s face wasn’t surprise or shock, just loath understanding.

“Jo, your momma’s guy is up in it. People say he’s part of the crew who micked that fella from Tennessee on New Year’s Eve. Rolled your mom into it, too.”

“Yeah, but he had never seen my watch. He didn’t know that since I was a little girl, I’ve hidden things under my bed. That’s something only my mother knew.”

Jesse rolled a bottle cap between his thumb and forefinger. “I get it, you know. When I was six, my dad found my collection of baseball cards hidden in my closet. He sold them for booze.”

“Exactly,” I said.

A couple of cars passed by, their headlights illuminating pieces of trash in the street.

“So, you got accepted to that college?”

“No, I haven’t heard yet. But what does it matter? I don’t have the money to go, and now I have to find a way to pay Cokie back.”

“Well, wait a minute. Maybe you could get a scholarship,” said Jesse.

“Doubtful. I didn’t have any extracurricular activities for the application, my lineage is filthy, and my only recommendation came from a smutty businessman.”

Jesse leaned back against the door again, his legs outstretched. We finished our sodas, not speaking.

Jesse stood up and reached his hand to me. “Come here.”