CHAPTER
TWENTY FOUR:
Early
the Next Morning
Jackson
Manor
Rainelle
Parish, Louisiana
Vylette
Meraux was in high spirits that Thursday morning, as she stepped from
the sunken tub, a few stray suds clinging to her bare back, and
reached for one of the large, fluffy, monogrammed towels, bearing the
initials of her beloved in cherry-red, silken thread on a brilliant
white background, keeping in step with the rest of the tri-colored
room.
Whilst
having a daily bath was nothing new to Vylette, whom had taken a bath
each and every morning of her natural life since her birth in
nineteen-thirteen, the same monotonous act took on a radiant charm,
when performed within the walls of that elegant white manse atop the
hill.
At her
parent's home, a bath was a utilitarian affair, consisting of a tub
of warm or hot water, depending on the weather, and the lathering of
one's body with an economical cake of Lifebuoy.
Further
stretching dimes into dollars, a single cake was used to clean the
five bodies of Vylette's immediate family.
There were
no frills, no extravagances, no...'extras' as her mother called it.
That was
quite a different tale when Vylette cleansed herself at the Manor.
Baths were
always taken screaming hot, as no matter how scorching the weather
outside, inside the mansion remained cool and placid as a Northern
spring, thanks to the air conditioning system running at all times.
Something
so simple was transformed into a sumptuous, luxurious affair, all
done by the loving, spoiling hand of one Michael Jackson.
In the
wall overlooking the bathtub, a shelving unit had been overloaded
with dozens of glass bottles, in various, shapes, colors and forms,
most of which bore labels in languages foreign to the teen's eyes.
And from these bottles, Vylette could have her pick of the very best
bubble bath and bath salts that money could buy.
Certainly
some bore strong, obviously masculine scents like those of amber,
woods and leathers, but for the most part, the treasures had been
purchased with a female in mind and possessed more delicate aromas as
vanillas, musks, florals and citruses.
There was
no Lifebuoy to be found at Jackson Manor, not that it wasn't a
good soap, it was one of the most popular in the country; it just
didn't suit the men of the house's tastes.
Mildly
arrogant Marlon was rumored to use a soap that was milled by hand in
some small, uncharted French town, imported every few weeks as
needed, or so Lorraine bragged, and for Michael, whom Vylette had
recently learned had something of a sensitivity to the harsh
chemicals in most soaps, used the pure white cakes of Ivory on his
slim brown body.
That
hadn't stopped her love from purchasing her own cakes of
French-milled soap. Bright pink, fragrant ovals with “Bouquet
Rosé”
stamped on it, Vylette felt as though immersed in a billion rosebuds
each time she used it.
The rosy
scent was one that lingered with Vylette that morning, as in her
pleasant whimsy, she had dumped both rose-scented salt granules and
bubble bath into the tub and the scent had rapidly gone from
enchanting to quite overpowering in the half-hour she took to scrub
herself.
It had
produced something of a high in the young woman, leaving her with a
giddy, refreshed feeling, as she wrapped the towel around her body
and stepped towards the lit vanity a few feet away.
Hastily,
she removed the handful of pins she had thrown into her hair, putting
it up to avoid its getting wet as she had bathed, and the bulk of
waved, ebony tresses fell down her back.
With a
sweep of her hand, the steam that had accumulated on the
looking-glass was removed and the heart-shaped face squinched a bit,
as she stared down at the varied assortment of toiletries arranged on
the red marble tabletop.
There were
so many things displayed there, her expensive perfumes, Michael's
costly colognes, which she noticed boasted more than just his
standard, Midnight in Tunisia, in its lead crystal bottle made
to resemble a toucan,with a full, yellow beak, both of their hair
dressing systems and vanity sets.
Michael's
vanity set was as plain as hers was extravagant, combs and brushes
and a hand mirror of tortoise shell, his initials in gold script on
the back of each.
Her heart
softened to know that soon, before the year ended, she would view
this very setup each morning, as Michael's wife and she glowed
vibrantly all over, her heartbeats quickening at the cherished
thought.
It was a
fantasy that, in a matter of a few months time, would be a reality.
But
Vylette, a creature of habit when it came to starting out with
getting herself dressed and coiffed, was seeking out one bottle in
particular, the most important item she'd put on all day.
Spying the
sizable, round bottle with the domed black top, she lifted it up.
Dew, instant deodorant had been a mainstay to the teen for
years, and the best guard against becoming unladylike with “B.O.”
especially on a day like today, when she'd spend the bulk of it in
the out of doors enjoying the sights and sounds of New Orleans
celebrating the nation's birthday.
And it was
social suicide for a lady to offend in such a careless manner. At
least, that was what Vylette had been staunchly taught and
wholeheartedly believed.
Unscrewing
the cap, the liquid inside sloshing, Vylette was quick to use the
sponge applicator to apply a layer to the smooth flesh of her
underarms, protecting her from perspiration for the rest of the day.
As Vylette
removed the towel and began to dry herself briskly, encouraging her
fatigued blood to start pumping, she was completely oblivious to the
fact that, for quite some time, she had been covertly being watched.
Perched,
just outside what appeared to be the shut door leading back to the
master bedroom, Michael Jackson leaned against the frame, one deep,
somber eye peering through the imperceptible crack he'd made in the
door.
Michael,
still dressed in sedate black satin pajamas, over which he'd
carelessly thrown a robe, embossed in glinting silver thread with
renditions of intertwining leaves and branches, had stood for so
long, he could no longer feel his feet, which had gone to sleep
inside of his suede slippers.
His hands
pressed over his slim chest where his heart pounded like a tom-tom
against his sternum as he observed Vylette's body, the creamy, cool
skin, which was now being softened further by the massaging of
fragrant lotion onto its every surface.
His breath
was staggered, noting the matured breasts that seemed astonishing
when he realized they belonged to a mere eighteen-year-old, watching
her turn and smooth more lotion onto her thighs, offering a flash of
forbidden triangle, shorn and pink at his request, then another turn
revealed her plump buttocks, a dimple in the right cheek.
She was so
beautiful, so breathtaking, so alluring to him.
It was
murder not to put his hands on her, but he was determined to not
“spoil” Vylette in the way he knew his brother had done with her
cousin.
The way he
had, before he'd married his first wife, Helen.
Keeping
his young bride-to-be be 'pure' until they were man and wife was as
important to him, perhaps even more so, than it was to her.
He wasn't
an impetuous, impatient seventeen-year-old dazzled by an elevated
chorus girl any more.
The naked
girl in his bathroom far exceeded that.
She was
sweet and kind and down-to-earth, church-going...everything Michael
had yearned for in a mate. All the things Helen had never been.
Helen had
been fast, and coarse and tawdry, elements Michael had blissfully
ignored because he thought he had been in love.
When she
kept taking his money, he happily gave it to her, when she stayed out
till all hours, without him, he simply read books to pass the time,
when she came home roaring drunk on bootleg liquor and cursing him
like he'd grown a tail from his ass, he'd turned a deaf ear to the
insults and tucked her away in bed with a kiss.
He was in
love.
Only when
Helen had birthed that Oriental-looking baby, had the illusion
finally been shattered, and Michael Jackson along with it.
It had
taken Michael Jackson years to get over the pain of his heart break,
the woe of his first wife having a child he couldn't have possibly
fathered.
Michael
looked again to the nude, now sweetly humming a classical tune in her
fine soprano, splashing East of Egypt onto all of her pressure
points.
Michael
had so many hopes, so many dreams pinned onto her.
He
desperately wanted a happy married life, living in the house his
mother had grown up in. Wanted to have a family of children that were
biologically his. So many nights Michael had laid awake fantasizing
about sons who resembled him, mischievous little imps with his dark
eyes, and dainty, feminine little daughters who favored Vylette, pale
with those strange, haunting lavender eyes. He had no certain figure
of how many children he wanted to see born and grow. He'd have been
as happy with one as he would have with twenty!
He only
knew he wanted to be with Vylette and had from the moment he'd first
set eyes on her, only four months ago.
And now,
even from where he stood in the door, he could see the light bouncing
off of the twelve-carat pink diamond on her left hand.
Michael
continued to linger, his gaze unwavering, until Vylette first slipped
on a thin, pale pink teddy with a lace insert on the bosom, and
concealed it with a matching pink satin robe.
Once she
was seated on the backless, tufted stood before the mirror, and
running a brush through her waist-length locks, he raised a hand, and
tapped the wood of the door meekly.
“Entrez-vous!”
The hairs
on the back of his neck rose when the soft voice called to him in
French.
Slowly,
the door cracked wider, and Michael, blood pulsating in his ears,
slipped inside, the room reeking of both rosewater and the heavier,
musky notes of Vylette's newest perfume.
He stopped
a moment, watching as Vylette tied a white cotton scarf on her head,
very close to her forehead as she prepared to apply her makeup and
the wrapping would keep her very white powder from spoiling her very
black hairline.
“Bon
jour Cheri...” Vylette grinned in welcome, twisting the lid off
the low black jar of vanishing crème.
It was a
knee-jerk reaction for Michael to answer her in German,
“Guten
tag, Mein Leibling.”
He stood
behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and bent, kissing the
gentle curve where her neck and shoulder met, to avoid tasting the
crème she was massaging into her face as a base for the rest of the
cosmetics to go on.
“I...I
know you're putting your face on, Darling...” He started, not
exactly sure where he was going to end up just yet. “...but I was
wondering if I could have a word with you for a few moments.”
“Of
course...” Vylette remarked absently, going after her neck and
decolletage.
The second
tufted stool, over by the bathtub was easily lifted and toted, being
place at Vylette's side, and he took a seat on it, crossing one long
leg over the other.
Again he
was silent a long moment, eyes trained on his lover, who was starting
to go after her eyes with a heathered, bluish-gray shadow using a
small brush, concentrating it mostly on her lids, causing her eyes to
glow luminously in her face, and softening the effect as it ran up to
her sparse brows, yet to be penciled in.
“What...um...what
dress are you wearing?” He questioned hoarsely, knowing full well
he'd seen the garment when Adelaide had brought it in earlier, after
she had starched and ironed it to a crisp.
“That.”
A
red-tipped thumb was jerked backwards.
On the far
end of the room, suspended from a peg was Vylette's dress, a
sophisticated creation of airy, long-sleeved eggshell silk, with a
wide, robin's-egg blue scarf draped over it.
On the
floor, on top of a round hat box were the matching blue, white and
black beret, clutch and pumps.
“Chanel?”
Michael wondered, not giving a hoot in hell whom had designed the
ensemble.
“Madeline
Vionnet.” Vylette corrected him, now spreading crème rouge
onto her cheeks, smiling to bring out the apples.
Did she
have to look so pretty, even when she wasn't completely made up yet?
Closing
his eyes, Michael gulped loudly, willing himself to speak on the
subject he actually wanted to discuss.
“Vylette...”
His hand closed on her shoulder once more, drawing her attention.
“Yes?”
“You...you...”
He faltered a moment. “You do know once all this brouhaha with the
theatre openings is behind us, we'll begin the preparations for our
wedding, don't you?”
The tube
of lipstick she had been wielding tumbled from her hand and landed on
the floor with a small clatter, and she grew so very pale, blue veins
became visible on her flesh.
“We, we
will?” Was all Vylette could manage as the room began to spin and
tilt like a funhouse around her.
Although
Vylette knew she was to marry the man of her dreams, only then did it
seem so amazingly, shockingly real when pointed out to her about
starting the arrangements for it.
“Yes...”
More at ease, Michael's face shone with confidence. “...I figured
we could publicly announce our engagement next Sunday at Mass and
then we could start with the preparations. We'll have to get a
wedding planner and a locate a caterer and find you a dress
designer...”
Michael
continued to speak, but Vylette heard little of it.
Her
wedding!
She was
going to plan her wedding! And despite all of her very pious
upbringing that had been bedrocked with the utmost in modesty,
Vylette wanted a grand wedding. Something of an affair like bawdy
Lorraine boasted about time and again.
The kind
of wedding the likes of which had never been seen in Rainelle Parish.
A huge,
extravagant party.
Alas, a
girl was only supposed to have one wedding!
Vylette
wanted it to be a wang-dang-doodle that would be talked about for
years to come. It may have been selfish, but she truly had heart set
on such a wing-ding. She had for quite a spell of time, although she
was unsure of how to communicate her wants to her fiance.
“...I
don't believe we'll be able to have our ceremony at St. Ignatius...”
Vylette
was brought back crashing down to earth at that statement.
Scandalized,
she swung to Michael, who was retrieving her lipstick tube.
“Michael!”
She gasped, eyes growing in horror, “We have to be married in a
Catholic church! It's expected! Every woman in my family for
nearly a hundred years has married in the Catholic way! Why, I'd
never hear the end of it from Mama if I didn't!”
She didn't
want to think of how her mother would perform if her eldest child
wasn't married in an ironclad religious ceremony.
There may
have been a lot of newfangled things her mother had been forced to
tolerate, but this was the straw that would break the proverbial
camel's back if Vylette dared to break with tradition.
Religion
was one thing Kathleen Meraux would not endure anyone going left on.
Immediately,
a large hand was flagging at her to calm her.
“Don't
get your gander up! Don't get it up!” Michael was quick to exclaim,
“We'll
be married in a church with a Catholic ceremony, you can count on
that! I didn't go through the trouble of converting for nothing! It's
just St. Ignatius is quite small, and once we get to inviting the
family and friends most everybody in the Parish, and Marlon throws
his ass in the fire with everyone he's trying to get in good with at
the Club, people would piled up be ten to a seat.”
Her bare
knee was patted in assurance.
“We just
need to find a larger church, most likely in New Orleans. Stop that
pouting. I can't bear the sight of you upset. Father Lachey will
officiate—I wouldn't dare have it any other way.”
Vylette's
mood did manage to lighten and lift at the mention that aside from
the change of church venue, practically everything else would be as
she had imagined it would be.
For the
first time, Vylette made one solid, definite request in regards to
the festivities.
“May we
have the reception here, at the house?”
The curled
head nodded emphatically, throwing his neatly combed halo into chaos.
“You can
have anything you desire. I've told you that many times. You can ride
in on a giraffe, you can have acrobats lead the way doing somersaults
down the middle of Main Street, design your dress however you want.
It's your day, Vy. I want you happy.”
Her cheek
was pinched and she made a noise something like a snorted giggle.
“You
take your time and kind of think over what you want. The colors, the
food, the girls you want as bridesmaids, every little thing...”
Standing,
Michael moved to the twin mirror over the wash basin, and opened it,
producing a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches.
Firing up
and helping himself to a carcinogenic puff, he looked down at her,
brows flexing with candid emotion.
“Anything
you need, you tell me...”
Vylette
started to her mouth with her lipstick, and stopped.
“I hope
this isn't too much to ask--”
“Ask me
and I'll tell you.”
Vylette
made a show of slicking red onto her lips, to avoid his eyes, in case
he did refuse her this request.
“Is...is
there any way you could get Latoya to help me...and I suppose
Lorraine too.” The lavender eyes became clear aquamarine as she
glanced back to him, fiddling with the lipstick, some of its contents
staining her fingertips.
“She's
so savvy when it comes to things like fashion and hair and--”
Vylette
knew she would need some sort of guidance to bring her vision to
fruition, much as she had when she began her foray into the realm of
high-end fashion and cosmetics, not so long ago.
“I'll
call Manhattan as soon as we get to the hotel in a few hours. She
likes to stay out late with that Randolph guy she's seeing and always
sleeps late. Last thing I need is to be politely bawled out for
waking her. I'm sure my sister would be glad to help.” Michael
chuckled and added under his breath. “Hell, she's been married
three times already as it is!”
“Oh...”
Her shoulders were squeezed and a sigh bounced against her head. “I
get chicken-skin every time I imagine you in that white dress, coming
towards me on your father's arm...”
“Please!”
Vylette begged cautiously, “You'll make me cry, Sweetheart! Don't
make me spoil my makeup!”
“Ich
liebe dich.” Michael cooed and pecked the top of her head,
tossing his cigarette into a small black ashtray.
“I love
you, too.” Vylette replied tilting her head back and allowing him
to kiss her delicately on the lips to keep from smearing the color
off.
Gently his
hand was cradling her chin and she was inhaling Midnight in
Tunisia, as they continued to smooch after one another.
As the two
parted, Vylette whispered, her brows raising in teasing,
“It's a
good thing Mama and Papa are in town closing the practice for the
holiday, or you'd be in so much trouble...being so fresh...”
“I
suppose.” Michael agreed huskily, his own sculpted brows wiggling
with devilment, leaning into her, clutching her hand tightly in his.
“Of course, when the cat's away, the mice will play...”
Vylette
started to pucker up again, more than ready to partake of her most
favored sensations, Michael's lips on hers.
“Ahem.”
Both
parties stiffened at the sound of a throat being cleared nearby.
Turning,
the couple discovered Marlon Jackson easing through the crack in the
door.
Marlon,
much like his younger sibling, appeared casual, on the surface, from
the open plaid satin robe, revealing his incredibly, muscular chest
and abdomen and pajama bottoms, a smoldering cigarette held in one
hand, bearing a small, gold pinky ring, an arrangement of twenty
round-cut diamonds sparkling in it.
But there
was something queer about his face, and Vylette noted it right off,
though she remained silent.
Usually,
there was a light of peacefulness, joking and laughter to Marlon
Jackson's eyes. But that morning, those traits had vanished, leaving
his amber eyes widened and naked, showing what resembled acute worry.
And that
bothered Vylette, for Marlon Jackson had always come across to her as
the most carefree and footloose man she'd ever met.
What, if
anything, could possibly have worried him?
“Could...could
I talk to you for a minute, Mike? Please?” Marlon wondered
timidly, bringing the cigarette to his mouth for another puff and
releasing a smoke ring into the air.
“Certainly.”
Michael, also noting something was amiss, gave the small hand in his
an apologetic press, “Excuse me, Mein Liebling.”
“Sure...”
Vylette, quizzically, turned and watched as Michael joined his
brother at the door, a low-volume conference sparking, as curled
heads were held closely together.
Quietly,
so quietly, they went unheard, the men whispered back and forth
several moments, with Marlon pausing to take more drags off his
cigarette here and there.
Vylette
only heard bits and pieces as, at moments, Marlon's voice rose in a
strained manner.
“...and
I don't wanna go get it... I'd have to try to get dressed and my suit
is still being pressed...I'd feel like a damn sissy, man, getting it
myself...”
Marlon
lamented to his sibling having another deep inhale, smoke trailing
from his wide and flaring nostrils.
“You
shouldn't.” Michael returned to a normal decibel,eyes rolling
with perturbation, his voice taking a stern edge, adding, “It's
perfectly natural. And with the way you two cut up, you need to be
thankful for it!”
“I know
it's natural! I know! And I am thankful! You ain't gotta tell
me! I'm the first one to admit that!” Marlon declared, throwing his
hands up, as Michael, starting to cross the bathroom for the linen
closet, inquired.
“Do you
need a whole box or just a few?”
“Just
a few...Lori said it should have been over the other day.”
Marlon called after, in the most mousy tone of voice Vylette had ever
come from a man renowned for being boisterous and ribald and it only
sent her mind into overtime, wondering what was happening with her
cousin to cause such a secretive stir between the men.
Before she
could fix her mouth to ask, it instead fell open in surprise, when
Michael, who had been picking around the closet, finally revealed
himself, clutching a rather large black and blue cardboard box, the
name brand Kotex ,stamped on it in white lettering.
Vylette
was instantly taken aback.
She didn't
know what astounded and confounded her more: that Lorraine had
admitted to Marlon she was suffering through that “delicate time”
of the month, a condition Vylette took major strides to conceal from
Michael's knowledge each and every time it had troubled her,
or...that Michael actually had sanitary napkins on hand, to lend to
her cousin in her time of need.
“The
little belt that goes with it, is inside too...” Michael informed
his brother matter-of-factly.
(Author's
Note: Before the self-sticking pads of today were invented,
ladies had to wear cumbersome little belts to hold onto the pads,
underneath their clothing.)
“Thank
you, Bro, you're a lifesaver...” Marlon was grateful, beaming
brightly, the light returning to his eyes and face, as the package
was passed off. “I was worried, Lori's clothes are so
expensive...and she's so particular about her appearance. Always has
to look her best...”
“No
problem.” Michael nodded in understanding, as Marlon looked down at
the box meekly and couldn't have appeared more uncomfortable if he
had been handed a bucket full of lizards, snakes and toads.
“Thank
you, Mike, really...” Amber eyes swelled. “...I didn't know what
was wrong. She just had this funny look about her when I woke her up
a few minutes ago—I let her get some extra rest—and then she kind
of started to cry when I asked what was wrong...at first I thought
she'd taken ill, and I was going to send for the Doc, then I noticed
my sheets cause they're ivory and she cried harder...”
Marlon
shook his head somberly. “I don't care about no damn sheets, Mike.
I can get them cleaned or buy new ones. I was worried about her.
I love Lorraine. I want her to be alright.”
Marlon
nodded again and seeing he was exposed in a moment of heartfelt
seriousness, grew purple and made a speedy exit, leaving Vylette to
gaze in wonder as Michael returned to the vacant stool.
Picking up
her lipstick and placing it in her hand, indicating she continue
making up her face he stated answers to the unasked questions,
“I
grew up in a house with four women and was married once before,
Vy...'lady troubles' aren't a foreign topic to me...”
The
cigarette was picked back up, ashes flicked before being put to his
lips.
“You're
a lady, and you've called on me frequently at my home. It's only
good, common courtesy to keep things like that around...don't shy
away from me...”
He gripped
her chin as Vylette, embarrassed by a conversation so frank, tried to
look elsewhere.
“You
needn't be ashamed of anything, Vylette. We're to be married. You
will one day bear my children... and Vy...”
His eyes
were serious as he looked into hers,
“Don't
ever try to hide anything from me. If you're not well, tell
me! That's my job, to look out for you...and don't worry about if
there's an accident, like Lorraine had. That's what hot water and
Ivory flakes are for. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes....yes,
Michael....” Vylette stammered, overwhelmed, and allowed
herself to be hugged to him.
“Some
men are complete pansies about matters like this. I don't know why.
All women contend with it. Their sweethearts, their mothers...the
world isn't all boys. There's girls born. People make out women to be
so weak and frail and some are, but to hemorrhage up to a week every
month and not die...that's remarkable to me.” Michael
shrugged and patted her head lovingly, hearing a soft gasp exit past
her lips.
“I
apologize if you find this shocking, I know you're Southern and
things are different in these parts...um...” He scratched at his
head bashfully, and sought to change the topic as he could see it was
distressing Vylette to an extent.
“You
finish getting dressed. Hannah and her sisters should be here soon.
I'm going to head on down and see if Adelaide's gotten around to
pressing my suit. I need to get dressed myself.”
Michael
rose and stopped when his sleeve was gripped.
Vylette
dropping her eyes, whispered quietly,
“Thank
you...”
“You
needn't thank me for something I'm supposed to do in the first place,
Violette Blanche.”
Michael
gently pulled from her and departed.
Vylette
stared as the door shut, then turned back to the mirror, starting to
powder herself and trying to untangle her jumbled emotions over
Michael Jackson's so very broad-minded feelings about menstrual
cycles... and their impending nuptials.
A thankful
smile came to her face.
She really
was so very lucky and so very blessed.
A Short
While Later
“...click...click...click...”
The
three-inch heels of Vylette's blue kid pumps tapped lightly on the
surface of the polished hardwood of the upstairs hallway, outside of
the closed doors leading to Michael Jackson's home office.
As the two
had started on their way downstairs, Michael had abruptly ducked
inside, asking her to wait for him; he wanted to get something.
That had
been some fifteen minutes ago.
“...click...click...click...”
There was
a sharp twinge of guilt in her bosom, as she felt she was neglecting
her responsibilities as hostess. At that very moment, perched around
the front porch of the Manor were her own parents and kid sister,
Vinnie, the Jackson nieces and nephews, and the flock of Povah girls,
enjoying tumblers of refreshing lemonade.
And as the
soon-to-be Lady of the Manor, Vylette felt it was her duty to be
outside, entertaining and attending to her guests.
Also
skirting her duties as co-hostess, Vylette's cousin Lorraine had yet
to be seen.
Vylette
glanced over at the shut doors that led into Marlon Jackson's
bedroom.
In an
effort to disguise the fact that she was wearing a “feminine care
product”, Lorraine had discarded the clingy, bias-cut, lime green
watered silk dress she had initially chosen to wear that day and had
practically emptied the house of every spare frock that had not been
packed and shipped off to the Hotel Imperial already.
Lorraine
was so vain and finicky about her looks, it was plausible she might
just delay the entire trip for everyone involved!
“...Baby,
you're fine, really. No one can tell, I swear...”
The door
to Marlon's room cracked, and she caught a snippet of the embattled
couple's conversation.
“Are...are
you sure, Daddy?” Came Lorraine's uncertain reply, trembling a
bit.
“Yes,
Cherry! I watched you try on eight different dresses, and you looked
beautiful in every last one of them! Now quit griping, slap some of
that perfume behind your ears and let's go on downstairs, please!”
“Don't
you think I'd look better in the yellow--”
“You're
gonna be in black and blue when I pick your little ass up and hurl
you off the balcony!” Marlon snapped and Vylette clapped a
gloved hand to her mouth to silence her giggles.
Marlon
Jackson would have broken his hands off at the wrists before he did
his fiancee any real harm.
“Now
listen to me, Lorraine: you're standing there in a goddamn Jean Patou
dress, lingerie imported from China, silk stockings that cost
twenty-five dollars a pair and shoes that cost twice as much! If you
were White, you'd be on the cover of Vogue magazine! Here's your hat,
put it on, quit puckering your forehead at me, 'cause you'll shit
something you ain't ate if you get a wrinkle! Here is your hat, put
it on, Lorraine...here's my hand. Woman, if you don't take my hand
before I holler! Now, STEP!”
The door
opened wider, and through it came Marlon first, huffing on another
cancer stick to calm himself and sooth his frayed nerves.
Marlon was
sophisticated in a tobacco-colored, three-piece, linen suit, bringing
out both his bronze complexion and slightly darkening his
golden-amber eyes. He looked especially brown with his panama hat
blindingly white against his darker features.
“Please,
Baby...we can't tie up everything. You look gorgeous, ravishing! Jean
Harlow herself would be green with envy—please!”
His large
hand, the pinky ring twinkling, was held out, and a smaller hand, in
a white glove, reluctantly clutched it.
And
finally, Lorraine stepped into the hall.
Lorraine,
taking a cue from her ever-present idol, Jean Harlow, in that the
starlet was rumored to have an exclusively black and white wardrobe,
stood, looking rather exotic in a white and black chiffon
leopard-print frock, a wide panama hat of her own, at a jaunty angle
on her head, setting off her flaming tresses arranged in a low bun.
It was the
first time in ages Vylette had seen her cousin in any color other
than green!
“Would
Jean, really be jealous?” Lorraine questioned skeptically and
Vylette watched as Marlon gently placed a hand on the back of her
neck, drawing her close and whispering something into her ear.
Even from
so far away, Vylette could see the sparkle come into Lorraine's
mint-colored eyes and a mischievous grin curled her coral lips.
“Oh,
Daddy, I declare!” Lorraine snickered, patting his strong, barrel
chest, as he started to lead her to the staircase. “You do say the
wickedest things!”
“I
can do the wickedest things, too!”
“Daddy!”
They
trailed off as the pair moved from sight and a moment later, a
cacophony of voices greeted them as they went out onto the porch
below.
Curious as
to what was keeping her own man occupied for so long, Vylette crossed
the hall, and turning the large glass knob, let herself into office.
That was
strange, the office appeared completely empty!
Where was
Michael--
“...fifty-eight...eighty-two...nine...three...”
Vylette
stopped in her tracks, as she very distinctly heard Michael counting
from somewhere in the room.
It took a
long moment of looking before, from the small space between the
bottom of his desk and the bright Persian rug under it, she could
make out Michael's brown and white wing-tipped shoes.
Why, he
was crouching underneath his desk!
Nearing
him, she jumped slightly, as Michael swore sharply,
“Goddamn
hell! The one day I need to open this cursed thing and it won't
budge!”
“Darling,
what are you doing?” Vylette called and there was a loud thud.
“Ow!”
He grumbled, and crawling out slowly, he stood, rubbing near his
crown where he'd banged his head.
Briefly,
Vylette was stunned by her admiration of the man who owned her heart.
Michael
Jackson was a studied portrait of (transplanted) Southern
masculinity, that could have bordered on the inside of foppish in
some contexts.
Michael's
slim, lanky form was draped in linen of the palest, fairest shade of
roe-pink, with faint ecru chalk stripes—Vylette never even knew
suits came in that color until Michael had caught up to her on the
landing and asked her to wait outside his office for him only a while
ago.
He offset
the stripes with an ecru silk shirt, and more vibrant striped tie and
pocket square. And, as always, an opulent pin sparkled on his lapel,
this time a frankly large opal, set in gold, and accented with tiny
pink sapphires.
His straw
boater, with a matching pink ribbon around it set atop his desk.
Pointing
at it, he lamented,
“I've
been on my knees under that damn desk ever since I came in
here, trying to get my damn safe open!”
Upon
closer inspection, Vylette saw that part of the rug had been flipped
back and a hidden panel had been slid away, revealing the combination
lock on a square that measured a few feet in diameter.
It was the
first time Vylette had ever seen Michael's safe. She had always known
valuables such as heirloom gems and various stocks and bonds were
tucked away in one, but had never laid eyes on it.
How clever
Michael was to keep it beneath his feet at all times, and not behind
a painting, like in the movies!
“Would
you like for me to try it?” Vylette offered, taking care to squat,
rather than set on her knees and risk getting a run in her stockings.
“Please,
before I go out back and get a hatchet!” Michael cried with
impatience.
“It's
fifty-eight, left--”
“I heard
you.” Vylette interrupted him, peeling off a glove and quickly
spinning the combination, noting small tings with each number she
hit.
As the
passed three, right, there was a louder ting, and the lock itself
popped upwards.
“You got
it!” Michael was again on his knees, ruining the creases in his
trousers, and opening the wide, rectangular door.
Inside the
safe was line with black velvet and was a good five feet wide, packed
to the gills with scores of folded papers, some yellowed with age,
and what appeared to be half dozen, different, ornately decorated
boxes.
Michael
reached in automatically and pulled out of the largest of the boxes,
a beautiful creation of oval domed peach enamel, a huge rose carved
on top of it.
“This is
where I keep all the jewelry I buy for you. This is your jewelry
box.” He informed her plainly.
“M-mine?”
Vylette stuttered as it was opened and grew speechless.
Inside was
what appeared to be a king's ransom in gems, diamonds, rubies,
emeralds, sapphires, lesser known stones, set in gold and platinum.
Rings, bracelets, necklaces...more than she had imagined.
Thousands
upon thousands worth!!!
“Why...why
did you buy so much?” She was vaguely breathless as Michael began
digging through the treasure.
“Why?”
Michael echoed with a chortle, as if such an inquiry were ridiculous.
“You're my woman and I like to see you in pretty things.”
on shaky
limbs Vylette stood, as out of the box, Michael produced a thick,
bracelet, glimmering with dozens of princess-cut aquamarine, accented
by smaller diamonds. A pair of matching earrings also appeared in his
hand.
Swiftly,
the box was put back in its place, the safe shut and locked, with the
false flooring slid over it and rug kicked back flat.
“You
shouldn't have gotten so much...” Vylette started as Michael took
her right hand and was putting the bracelet on her.
“Too
late. I can't send it back now.” Michael squinted as he
carefully placed her earrings in their lobes.
“Besides...”
He placed his forehead against hers and wiggled his brows, eyes
laughing at her, “...you should get a load of the haul Marlon has
for Lorraine. Although hers is mostly emeralds because they're both
so on their heads for the color green. He's afraid to show her where
the safe is because he thinks she'll put on everything at once--”
“I do
believe your brother is right.” Vylette interrupted him and pecked
the tip of his upturned nose, knowing her cousin would be quick to
display anything and everything and trying her best to rub every last
carat in Mary Povah's face just for the hell of it and the thrill of
spiting her.
She knew
her cousin would be riding a high-horse at the moment if it weren't
for the threat of being slapped clear back to the dawn of time by
Kathleen for the sin of Pride.
“Oh...”
Michael offered Vylette his arm, and taking it, began to lead her
away and towards the staircase. “While I was wrestling with that
lock, I got a phone call. It should interest you.”
“Me? How
so?”
Vylette
rarely received telephone calls that didn't come from Michael
himself, and her curiosity was piqued automatically.
What was
causing Michael's hair to suddenly stand on end from his head as
though he'd been electrocuted? What caused the new glow about him,
the pulsing of his blood, the showing of his teeth so merrily?
What came
from his glossed mouth, brought her hands to face in utter
astonishment.
“Your
father's car is going to be here in about the next ten to fifteen
minutes!”
Vylette's
breath whooshed from her lungs and her eyes swelled in their sockets.
The
Cadillac!
Why, it
had completely slipped her mind that she had purchased the luxury
vehicle for her father, to assist him in his medical work.
It was on
its way? To the house?
“It's
coming, now?” She gasped dizzy and lightheaded, as Michael
took a firmer grip on her to keep her from tumbling down the stairs
and breaking her neck as her steps became unsure and weak.
“Yes--”
“But, I
thought it was going to be delivered to the hotel!”
Vylette
fairly floated to the front doors.
“Well...”
Michael beamed, hand on the knob, “I thought he'd get a kick out of
driving himself to New Orleans.”
“Kick
nothing--it'll be more like a Grand Mal seizure!” Vylette snickered
and a finger was pressed to her lips.
“Mum's
the word, Mein Liebling...mum!” He warned, turning the knob.
Stepping
out into the brightness of the day, Vylette was greeted by the same
exuberant chorus, and waved to all scattered about.
The entire
scene seemed something out of a watercolor painting!
Vylette
looked first to her father, tilting a full tumbler to his mouth for a
hearty sip of lemonade. Dr. Meraux did look so handsome in a new,
crisp navy suit, which he'd bought especially for the trip into New
Orleans.
Owing up
to the Doctor's modest nature, the suit had been worn simply, with a
plain matching tie, over a crisp white shirt. But nonetheless, the
color was charming against his reddish complexion. And it thrilled
Vylette to see her father in something other than stifling black
suits that seemed more appropriate for a funeral, than a nice break
from the normal, humdrum life of the Parish.
How very
surprised he'd be when his car arrived! How grand he'd look behind
the wheel of that shining black behemoth. How he deserved to own such
a car; a man of his standing practically cried out for such a mode of
transportation!
Vylette
could barely contain herself, she was so overflowing with excitement,
and wanted more than anything to grab him about his broad shoulders
and begin screaming.
At the
Doctor's side, her mother still managed to appear both pompous and
severe, despite the airy, buttercup-colored chiffon frock she wore.
(It had
been an uphill battle to get her mother to put anything new on her
stout figure, for the matriarch of the Meraux clan felt it wrong, as
President of the Ladies' Christian League to be so conspicuous, when
others lacked and yearned for. But much as Marlon had barked at
Lorraine, Almanzo had barked at Kathleen, and she had begrudgingly
deferred to her spouse.)
It was
truly a tragedy for any woman wearing a Chanel original to
scowl so and Vylette only hoped that at some point during the
vacation perhaps her face would show something that resembled a
smile. It was a long shot, of course, but a hope just the same.
Occupying
a far, secluded corner of the veranda, Marlon was sharing a cigarette
with Lorraine—behind Kathleen's back, for she had boomed more than
once that only fast, crass females smoked in public—the two
chatting and laughing, lost in one another, their argument far behind
them.
Lorraine
seemed to have swiftly gotten over her fears of being indelicate, and
was behaving just as brazenly and saucily as ever, fluttering her
lashes, and patting Marlon's hand and thigh, charming the curl out
his damn hair.
Taking a
seat next to Michael on the divan across from her parents, Vylette
gazed past them, towards the crowd filling the other seating area a
few yards away.
The
Jackson nieces, along with Vinnie Meraux and the younger Povah girls
looked like nesting birds, all in fragile pastels—the first three
in genuine silk, the rest in more economical percale –dripping in
bows, lace and other frills so dear to little girls' hearts.
Every so
often she could see one of the Povahs gazing down, lovingly, at their
new frocks and socks and shoes, and Vylette's heart lifted, knowing
the poor children were happy, as it was so seldom they received
anything that wasn't a hand-me-down. It was amazing what something as
simple as a dress costing less than three dollars could do for a
child's self-esteem.
In a lull
in the engrossing conversation between Dr. Meraux and Michael about
advances in brain surgery, of all topics to discuss with womenfolk
around, Vylette could clearly hear Jana and Jessilynn hotly debating
who played the better gangster, James Cagney or Paul Muni.
“...well,
I do believe Mr. Cagney is the handsomer of the two, and you know for
film stars, looks are everything!”
“Oh,
you would say that Jessie! But you don't have to be as good-looking
as a Barrymore to be a gangster! You can be a little ugly, just like
Mr. Muni!”
“Good-looking
as a Barrymore! Ha! Then I suppose you've never set eyes on that
creature named Lionel! Got a face only a mother could love!”
“You
shut up, you know very well I meant John Barrymore, you cretin...!”
“Don't
you call me a cretin, you louse!”
Hannah
Povah hadn't sat down since she'd been outside.
At the
moment, Hannah was off to herself, near the front doors, hunched over
and inspecting the fine urns flanking the entrance, and running
small, pale hands over the carvings of the peacocks on them.
So far,
Vylette had seen Hannah looking at and timidly touching everything
around the porch that morning, from the wicker furniture, to the lead
glass window panes—leaving fingerprints much to Adelaide's
distraction—to the extinguished electric sconces that lit the porch
at night.
Hannah was
clearly entranced by all of the finery, and was quite obvious in her
admiration of everything in sight.
Again
Vylette smiled, looking and her friend and finding the glow of
enchantment as almost transforming that homely face into something
beautiful.
For the
first time since graduation some months ago, Hannah wore a new dress,
albeit not as eye-catching or stylish as Vylette's or Lorraine's, but
new just the same. Interpreting the colors of the American flag, it
was a flat navy, with a white, rounded collar and cuffs. A wide, red
patent belt cinched her tiny waist, more reflecting her lack of
curves than creating the illusion of them, and patent shoes shone on
her feet.
Her hair,
so straight and colorless, had been pulled back into a bun at the
nape of her neck, an unobtrusive roll, over which a red felt hat had
been placed.
With such
a lively color next to her skin, one would think it would have
imparted some of that shade, but alas, Hannah appeared as pale,
washed out and white as a ghost, the only real color coming from her
blue eyes, fluttering wildly, rimmed with her flaxen lashes and she
looked like a scared jackrabbit as none of her features had been
accented.
She had
bought cosmetics, but was so frightened of her mother catching sight
of her wearing it in town—and publicly whipping her—she had
declined on applying even a coating of lipstick to her tiny, drawn
mouth.
It was a
small miracle Hannah was going along with the Jacksons in the first
place, considering Mary's bitter and vile hatred of them.
Hannah was
as wholesome as a bowl of oatmeal, and it showed glaringly.
Now she
was picking at the velvet valances, dancing on the wind through the
open doors leading into the dining room, where the scent of fried
pork still hung on the air.
Sprawled
on the steps, removed from such direct examples of femininity,Taj,
Taryll and TJ Jackson matched in dark brown pinstriped suits, cut
with short pants to display little ashy, knobby knees.
The boys
joked amongst themselves and every so often, TJ, being teased for his
missing teeth, would give one of the older boys a shove.
“...May
I ask how long it has been since you've had the pleasure of a
vacation, Sir?”
Vylette's
attention was brought back to the discussion nearest her, Michael
leaning forward to top off another glass of lemonade for her father.
At the
inquiry, those steely grey squinted behind their round, silver frames
and Dr. Meraux was silent for a spell, visibly trying to recall the
last time he'd taken off from work.
“Goodness...”
He said finally. “The last I can recall, Michael, my girls were
very young. Vinnie was barely out of diapers...so Vylette and
Lorraine had to have been about...oh...nine or ten-years-old.”
The eyes
drifted to his very adult looking daughter and he smiled,
“Do you
remember that? When I took all of you down to the beach near
Shreveport? And we had a big clambake right on the sand?”
Vylette
nodded, although she had only the faintest recollection of the event.
“Well,
I certainly remember it!” Kathleen chimed in, her tone acidic,
eyes growing in her face as she turned to glare at him, clearly
holding him to blame for the incident so long ago. “You let me get
stung by a jellyfish!”
“And I
saved your foot, Dear.” The Doctor responded dryly, tilting his
glass to his mouth and gulping.
“Well, I
would expect so, with your being a physician, Almanzo!”
“Eight
years ago...” Michael rushed to avoid what seemed like the first
strains of a quarrel. “I assume another getaway is well overdue—“
He was
doing his best to stall for time, waiting for the Cadillac's
delivery.
On the
steps, the nephews suddenly leapt to their feet.
“Hey!
Someone's coming! Someone's coming!”
Vylette's
heart panged against her breastplate so hard, she feared she was
going into cardiac arrest from a wave of excitement.
The car.
The car was coming! It was arriving!
She was
hardly able to contain herself as she stood beside Michael, moving
with the mass as everyone, looking in the distance, began to move
towards the steps.
Everyone,
except Marlon and Lorraine.
The pair
were in each other's arms, no longer speaking, only gazing in one
another's eyes.
Up the
lane, a vehicle was approaching at a fast rate of speed.
Vylette
started to smile, sure it was her father's Cadillac flying , kicking
up clouds of red Louisiana dust as it came forward.
The smile
became an expression of abject horror as Vylette began to recognize
the vehicle and hands going cold and clammy within her gloves, came
up and clutched her throat, which had abruptly become dry of all
moisture.
No...no,
this wasn't a beautiful, black coupe advancing towards the crowd on
the porch.
Instead it
was the unmistakably gaudy maroon and bronze vehicle, belonging to
Jermaine Jackson.
Vylette
was shaking her head, nearly throwing the beret from her tresses.
Jermaine
wasn't supposed to be in the Parish! He wasn't supposed to be there
at all!
As far as
she knew, Jermaine, who had been explicitly banished from even
associating with the rest of them during the trip for his egregious
social faux pas—and that was putting it mildly—had left for New
Orleans after dinner the night before...with his little vixen in tow.
“Goddamn
hell...” Michael was bristling beside her, growling through his
teeth. “...that imbecile came back and had the nerve to bring
that woman with him!”
Vylette
stared first up at Michael, in profile, his jaw muscles clenching
rapidly beneath his smooth skin, then followed his glare over to the
driveway, where the Rolls Royce was being parked beside his red and
black sports car.
And sure
enough, two heads were clearly visible behind the windshield.
Every hair
on her head went bone straight for a split second.
Wallis!
Jermaine
had dared to bring the girl with the worst reputation in the Parish,
Wallis Pelant onto the property!
Did he
want to die?
Instantly,
her eyes darted to the corner.
If Marlon
saw those two, there was sure to be a brawl. Not a possibility, but
a certainty!
Luckily,
Marlon was so busy giving her cousin an oral exam, he didn't see his
brother...yet.
Jermaine,
almost admirable in a purple seersucker suit, and straw boater hat,
trimmed with a purple grosgrain ribbon, had alighted and was passing
the front of the car to help Wallis out.
Vylette
was afraid to even glance towards her mother, as her mother knew
nothing of Jermaine's involvement with the worst talked about female
in the town, and was sure to bay like a werewolf at the moon at the
sight of such a misaligned paring.
Acutely,
Vylette also noticed that, aside from the muffled and aroused
chuckles of her cousin, still oblivious to the tragedy unfolding, the
porch was silent as a graveyard.
Jermaine
got around to the passenger side of the car—the Rollys Royce had a
European makeup, so the passenger side was where the driver's side
would be on an American car—and opened the door.
And
sultrily, Wallis Pelant slinked out, taking the arm offered her.
For a
moment, Vylette had to blink, as she scarcely recognized the creature
clinging to Jermaine Jackson and beaming up at him so brightly.
It was
wondrous what miracles variances in cosmetics and clothing could do
for a girl, and while she knew she was supposed to be cringing,
Vylette couldn't help but be in awe of Wallis.
As the
newly-minted couple slowly sauntered towards the gathering, Vylette
got an eye-full of how exponentially Wallis had changed in the short
time she had known Jermaine.
(And had
likely made him pay dearly for the transformation.)
Gone was
the garish, mismatched makeup usually adorning the round face, and
instead, her face was cool and matte, accented with thick liner
around her dark, sleepy eyes, a touch of blush in the cheeks and her
lips painted a perfectly brick red in a cupid's bow.
Wallis was
the epitome of flapper fashion in a dark teal, sleeveless, drop-waist
shift, overlaid with golden floral lace, the hips wrapped in a belt
of velvet.
On her
head, over her cropped black curls, a matching bell-shaped cloche was
perched .
Drawing
closer, Vylette saw that several gold bangles lined her arms and
studs shone in her ears—she almost looked respectable.
“Almanzo...is...is
that who I think it is?”
Vylette
went cold all over as her mother whispered harshly somewhere behind
her in disbelief.
“Yes,
Kathleen, I do believe--”
“Well,
I never!That creature...with a Jackson!”
On the
steps, the children, save for Jana and Jessilynn, were wide-eyed and
open-mouthed as Jermaine and Wallis neared the bottom step.
And moving
with the stealth of a ninja, Michael Jackson parted young ones as
Moses had with the Red Sea and took a solid place on the very bottom
step, making it quite clear he had no intentions of letting them come
any further.
Again,
lavender eyes, saucer-like with worry, took in Marlon Jackson.
He was
kissing Lorraine openly, ignorant of the storm brewing a few yards
away.
How long
could it possibly last? He had to come up for air some time!
Dark eyes
taking in the youngest of the Jackson brothers present, the oldest
gave a crooked smile, that might have been influenced by some sort of
cheap liquor.
“Hey
Mike--”
“Don't
you 'Hey Mike' me, you swine!” Michael Jackson spoke lowly, to
keep from drawing Marlon's attention, but with enough deadliness to
send torrents chills all through Vylette. “You know good and well
you were told not to bring that woman here. She is not welcome.”
There was
outright impudence on Jermaine's oiled face, and unmistakable hurt on
Wallis' and the huge, drowsy dark eyes sought out Vylette, which she
dropped her eyes from.
Vylette
knew Wallis had been welcomed into the house before, but it had been
an error, and she was about to receive an earful, first-hand as to
why.
Jermaine's
gander was up and he demanded, voice rising,
“And
why the hell not--”
“You
know why not!” Michael's voice grew hoarse as though he were
speaking through a straw and his hands became clenched fists at his
sides.
“You
know what you've done, Jermaine! You've disgraced Marlon and myself,
after all we've gone through to establish ourselves in this town. To
show this town that we are decent, God-fearing people and you come
and let lack of self-control begin to unravel months of hard, hard
work!”
Lashes
fluttered, he composed himself, continuing,
“You're
insulting every person here...especially your two daughters!”
Jermaine
eyed the two bookends in mint-green silk and pale pink lace looking
up at him with stoic, set faces, faces much too serious for girls so
young.
“My
daughters are fine--”
“No,
you're embarrassing them in front of their relatives and friends!”
Michael choked, and moving to him, Vylette grasped his shoulders from
behind, fearing she'd have to pull him back if he took flight.
He was
quaking with pent up rage!
“You
know what you did, you had an obligation. We made an agreement before
you even set foot on that train from New York for here. This isn't
New York City! You can't take up with every gal who tickles your damn
fancy--”
A long
finger was extended towards Michael,
“You're
trying my patience, Mike.” Jermaine warned. “ I won't have you
talk about Wallis like this to her damn face! Now I came here to get
the bottle of cologne I forgot to send to the hotel. I do believe
your skinny ass can be civil, while I take five minutes to go in and
get it!”
“You're
not getting past this first step, Jermaine!” Michael cried,
starting to put a hand out.
“The
hell I'm not! I'm half-Dauphine, same as you! I got every right to go
in this house as you do!”
“Why,
I'll be a goddamned son of a bitch!”
The entire
porch froze at the frenzied shriek from the far end.
Hustling
his way from the corner, Lorraine wrapped bodily around his arm,
using every last pound of her body in an effort to stop him, was
Marlon Jackson.
There was
that crazed, murderous look in his eyes, the same look he'd displayed
before putting Steven Wilkes to bed—and it had been weeks since
anyone had seen him!
Vylette
counted a half-dozen veins pulsating on his forehead as he continued
to drag her cousin towards the steps.
“Marlon!
Marlon please! Please don't do this! We have company!” Lorraine
was pleading using his actual name, trying vainly to dig her heels
into the flooring. “My aunt and uncle are here! Marlon! Marlon,
stop! Think of the children! Your suit came from Harrod's! Don't
spoil your suit! Marlon!”
With a
yank, Marlon pulled free of her and Lorraine went flying into
Vylette's open arms, trembling from head to toe, eyes huge.
“He's
gonna kill him!” She whimpered. “He's gonna kill his own
flesh and blood! He's too handsome to go to jail!”
Though
there was a height difference, Marlon Jackson's entire aura was
menacing enough to cause Jermaine to withdraw himself and Wallis a
good three paces back as he stepped down from the porch.
Michael
Jackson may have censored himself before the women and children.
Marlon Jackson appeared to have forgotten they existed.
“Jermaine,
I thought I told your Black ass last night, while Michael and
Adelaide were riding my back to keep me from putting my steak knife
in your fucking chest, that I didn't want to see you or that gal
there--”
He gave
Wallis a look so scathing she cowered, a hand to her large bosom in
shock.
“--you
know she's not welcome on this property!”
“Marlon,
please!” Lorraine pleaded, gripping Vylette tightly.
“I don't
see why the hell not!” Jermaine was bold, or crazy. “This
property is just as much mine as it is yours. We have the same
mother--”
Jermaine
laid on flat on his back, staring up at the treetops, having been
knocked out so swiftly, Vylette wasn't sure she'd actually seen the
punch or merely imagined it.
Again, the
children, with the exception of Jermaine's own daughters were gasping
and chattering wildly.
“I
was waiting for Uncle Marlon to sock him since last night!”
“Uncle
Jermaine got a glass jaw!”
“Uncle
Marlon always did knock him silly. You owe me a nickel Taryll!
Remember that time he hit him at Grandfather's birthday party for
drinking up all the Napoleon brandy?”
“Uncle
Jermaine could have at least tried to curl a fist! What a ninny!”
“Why
didn't Mr. Michael mollywhop him too?”
“You
hush, Hattie, Mr. Michael probably doesn't fight.”
“I
bet he could!”
Strangely,
Vylette noticed that neither of Jermaine's daughters made a move to
assist their father, and remained where they stood, gazing at him
with what appeared to be contempt.
Good Lord,
were the children used to his recklessly carousing with stranfge
women?
“Jermaine!”
Wallis, alarmed, dropped to her knees, patting at his face as he
continued to stare blankly. “Speak to me! Speak to me, Cheri!
Jermaine! Oh, Cheri, please!”
“Got a
hell of a lot of nerve trying to bring Mother into this mess.”
Marlon tossed his head with the utmost scorn and pulled free of the
hand Michael had laid on his forearm.
“When he
knows exactly what Mother would think of a gal like that. He's
brought gals like that home before and he knows exactly how Mother
feels about them! Mother told him time and again! He better thank God
we've got company, or I'd tear it down for him! Damn N(bad word)!”
“Dr.
Meraux, please!” Wallis begged, seeking out the older
gentleman, still lingering on the porch, hugging the limp body to her
bosom.
The doctor
made a move to offer assistance, but was held in place by Kathleen.
It would
do no good to be seen helping trash, when the Povahs would surely
tell their mother of the sordid event! And they hadn't even left town
yet!
“Vylette...Lorraine?”
She whimpered, bottom lip starting to quiver. “You...you won't help
me?”
The
cousins stared down at their shoes, refusing to dignify her with an
answer.
Vylette
hurt all over.
On the
ground, Jermaine began to sir and show signs of life.
“Oh,
oh Cheri!” Wallis was hugging his head to her bosom. “Are you
alright? I was so scared, Cheri!”
“Yeah,
yeah, I'm alright...” Jermaine grumbled, staggering to his feet,
his pristine suit, now spoiled with soil stains.
(At least,
Vylette hoped that was soil on his trousers!)
“Let's
get the hell--”
“Wait
a minute.” Marlon called, and jogged towards them.
Jermaine's
life clearly flashed before his eyes.
“Uncle
Almanzo!” Lorraine screamed, fearing Marlon was going to land
on his sibling and the Doctor hastily cautioned from the porch.
“Son,
don't do anything crude. There's ladies and children here!”
Amazingly,
instead of raising a hand to Jermaine to leave his jaw all over the
lawn, Marlon reached and caught Wallis by her wrist.
“Let...let
go! You're hurting me! Jermaine! Jermaine do something!”
Wallis, color sailing from her face, nearly shouted as Marlon pulled
her towards him, dirt kicking up onto patent pumps as she left hell
marks in the driveway.
Plump lips
curled harshly as he glared at her.
“You
want to fool with my brother, that's your business. I can't
tell your grown ass what to do...” Marlon started sternly,
overpowering Wallis who continued to struggle against him. “...you're
fucking around with the black sheep of an otherwise upstanding,
respectable lily-white family. In New York, Rhode Island or anywhere
else in the world we choose to stay! Now, that N(bad word) there...”
Jermaine
was indicated with a pointed finger.
“...is
the biggest goddamned philanderer you'll ever meet! Those two little
girls in the green behind me are his two legitimate children.”
Jana and
Jessilynn continued to look on bravely, though their little
girlfriends stared questioningly at them.
At the
mention of philandering, Wallis ceased her struggling, mouth sagging.
“You've
been making time with Jermaine. Did he happen to mention his son
in Lower Manhattan? His daughter in Newport? His other
half-white son in London? His half-caste twin daughters
in Bombay? No....”
Vylette
staggered, and stared as Jermaine pouted, being so viciously outed
about his global exploits.
“And
those are just the ones the family knows about. God only knows
how many other children are walking around with his tainted Jackson
blood coursing through their veins. Don't be a fool, Wallis. He's
only out for a good time. And all good times come to an end.”
He
released Wallis, a red hand print clear on her yellow arm.
“Get
off my land before I kick you off!”
Wallis was
quick to run where Jermaine stood holding her door open for her.
Jermaine
regarded Marlon and went to speak--
“Give me
a reason! Give me a damn reason you rat! You make a sound and I'll
break your jaw just like I did in Boston!” Marlon warned, and
Jermaine, scowling, rounded his car, slipping behind the wheel.
He paused
a long moment on the running board, hatred in his eyes.
Moments
later, he was making a U-turn in the driveway and speeding on for New
Orleans.
“Oh!”
Lorraine ran and threw herself against Marlon, holding him tightly.
“Gonna
come mess up my vacation. If I see him, I will stomp him and continue
to stomp him each time we meet, damn it!” He vowed, rubbing
Lorraine's back.
The Povah
girls stood behind the Jackson girls, Hildegarde whispering rapidly
to Vinnie, the smaller Povahs doing their best to eavesdrop.
Jana and
Jessilyn just stood there watching as their father's car disappeared
on the horizon.
Vylette
turned to scold the children, and her heart instantly fell to the
pits of her gut.. .
Seated on
one of the divans, was Hannah, her head lowered, a white hanky
pressed to her face.
Though she
was silent, her absent bosom was heaving as she wept, having realized
Jermaine had dropped her like a bad habit, for a true bad habit.
Had Hannah
been that dazzled by Jermaine Jackson? Either way, it pained Vylette
to see her friend taking on so hard.
As Vylette
moved to console the weeping teen,Taj Jackson hollered,
“Hey
look! There's a Cadillac coming! I can always tell a Caddy by the
grill! Look at that! Wooo! That's pretty! Hey look!”
Doctor
Meraux's new car was arriving, but it was nothing of the celebrated
event Vylette had hoped it to be.
Jermaine
Jackson had seen to the ruination of that.
And deep
in her heart, as she could hear her mother complaining about Wallis,
Vylette hoped that sometime, before the weekend was out, Marlon
Jackson would indeed beat his brother senseless.
If she
weren't a lady, she would have done it herself!
