Chapter One

 

Prologue:

Park de la Bellevue

New Orleans, Louisiana

July, 1932

The first weekend of the month, preceding Independence Day, found the coastal city of New Orleans as a thriving, proud, hotbed of activity.

Across the city, adorning the façade of nearly every building from the heart of the French Quarter, all the way to the docks rimmed by the mighty Mississippi River were festoons of red, white, and blue, and here and yonder, American flags hung and were wafting in the breeze.

Every so often, in the crowded streets and along the packed sidewalks, a man, woman, or child would pass, draped in the shades ubiquitous of these here United States, soon to celebrate it’s one hundred and fifty-sixth birthday, exceedingly young for a developed nation.

A few of the smallest children toted the star-spangled banners in tiny, fat fists, not truly knowing the significance of that scrap of cloth, only eager to enjoy the festivities surrounding it.

The barbecues, the balls, the fireworks displays, all celebrating the young country.

Indeed New Orleans was a young city and as such, did attract young people.

A popular meeting place among the belle vivants was Park de la Bellevue, a lovely wonder that really nothing more than a public rose garden, stretching on for the equivalent of three city blocks.

Filled with delicate marble and bronze statues depicting variants of the female form, boasting blooms in blinding shades of white, red, yellow and pink, and the air heavy with fragrance, the Park, as it was colloquially called, drew the youthful and beautiful to it, just as pollinating bees were drawn to the roses.

Among the throng of weekend idlers, all strolling, pausing to pluck a flower to place in their hair or the lapels of their sweethearts’ blazers were two ladies.

The two could not have been more different in appearance. Though both were of the same fine, porcelain complexion, the taller of the pair had hair a deep, rich, raven black, bobbed to just above the shoulders, waved delicately away from her face, a few spit curls accenting her hairline, all tucked beneath a navy blue, wide brimmed, gauzy hat.

Walking along, with no particular destination, the shorter of the two slipped her bare, white arm through that of the taller woman’s.

The shorter was just as fair, but her hair was a stark, bright white, obviously she was an artificial bleached blonde. While it was a look that so few could do justice, this woman was one of that definitive few.

Worn in looser, painstakingly set finger waves that fluffed about her shoulders from under the bright red hat that matched the blue one of her counterpart, the women were a pair of American beauties; the brunette in a fine, linen dress of blue and white polka dotes, with a frothy, puffed sleeved blouse, that tied at the throat with a large dotted bow, the blonde in a red rendition.

Hugged together, the two women were happy and carefree, smiles on both of their crimson painted mouths, as they joined the line that was about seven deep all clamoring for an ice cream cone, to bring relief from the heat of a balmy, humid summer’s afternoon.

As the duo stood, the brunette patted at the pale arm of the blonde with a hand protected from the harmful rays of the blistering sun by a white kid glove, accented with a small dotted bow, mimicking the one around her neck.

“Lorraine, Dear, don’t you think we ought to wait for the boys? We did promise to eat our ice cream with them…” She cautioned sweetly, in a husky, almost smoky and accented voice, bearing all the South in those few words.

As the line advanced, the blonde chuckled, in a higher pitched voice that mingled both a Southern and French accent queerly,

“Vylette, Marlon and Michael agreed to meet us at exactly one o’clock and it’s…” She shielded her eyes with her own gloved hand and squinted at the clock tower of a church in the distance,

“It’s a quarter past. And Honey, if I don’t receive some type of refreshment and soon, this delicate blossom will soon wilt. We can have one ice cream without them, AND one with them, whenever they do arrive.”

Grinning, Vylette patted at Lorraine’s arm again fondly,

“You are a most devious one, Cousin…” She trailed off and glanced at the clock. “…but I do wonder what is keeping them? It’s not like the boys to keep us waiting; they’re usually so punctual. You don’t reckon something’s happened, do you?”

“Oh, Vylette, you always have been such a worrywart. Perhaps they stopped for some petrol, or if Marlon had a few snifters of that bathtub gin before he got behind the wheel, drove his car into a ditch and they’re pushing it out…”

Nodding, but still very concerned, Vylette tried to push the more unpleasant thoughts of a loopy Marlon behind the wheel from her mind. Or at least to the very recesses of it.

It wasn’t foreign notion that Marlon had wrecked his vehicle.

He had driven into ditches and even coasted into tree before, when he had a pink elephant riding shotgun with him.

Finally arriving at the ice cream stand, the elderly gentleman server, in a pristine starched suit, wielding a scoop greeted them with a deep voice thick with French accents,

“Good Day, Mesdemoiselles. I have zee vanilla, strawberry, and berry azure, in honor of zee Fourth. Zee red, white, and blue--oh-ho-ho!” He snickered heartily and picked at the thick, curling handlebar mustache above his upper lip.

“Ooooooh, I’ve never had blueberry ice cream before!” Lorraine tittered merrily, clapping her hands together. “I’d like one scoop of blueberry, sil vous plait.”

“Mais oui!” Instantly a scoop appeared on a waffle cone. “Five cents please.”

As the coin was exchanged, Lorraine moved over to the side and gamely, yet politely, licked at the icy treat.

“Vylette, this is simply divine, so sweet! And there‘s mashed berries in it!” She gushed as her cousin produced a nickel out of her glove.

“You know I don’t care for blueberries, Lorraine, Dear.” She smiled at the server. “One scoop of strawberry, please.”

“Right away!” The man was eagerly scraping and scooping the pink ice cream into a cone.

“Really Lorraine, I don’t know that I’d want to eat anything that may stain my mouth purple…” Vylette started to tease turning back to her cousin, smiling as she reached for her cone.

It was a smile that quickly vanished as she took sight of Lorraine.

Lorraine, who just a moment before, had been the picture of exuberance, teeth flashing and sampling her treat, had taken on a new and startling expression.

So uncommonly pale had she gotten, it frightened Vylette.

Her spare hand clutched at her throat and above it, her light eyes were widened and glassy.

“Lorraine--Lorraine, Darling, what’s the matter?” She gripped her cousin’s shoulder, mashing her ruffled sleeve in her haste.

Lorraine’s lips moved, but no sound came from them.

Vylette peered at her, hunting her meaning and a chill lit her spine, as she recognized what Lorraine was saying without speaking.

Michael.

She was saying Michael’s name!

And Lorraine wasn’t looking at her, but past her, somewhere behind her.

And that’s when she heard it.

Strained and haunted gasps.

Something was wrong. Terribly, catastrophically wrong!

Vylette, her own breaths becoming labored, forced herself to turn.

The untouched strawberry cone tumbled from her hand and splattered on the sidewalk at her feet.

People, a few yards away were stepping off of the sidewalk, some flat-out running, all staring curiously and bug-eyed, as a man staggered down the center of it.

A tall, slim man, who would have been painfully attractive, had he not been so disheveled.

His curly black hair stood up all over his head, ruffled and unkempt. He wore no jacket, his pale blue shirt was partially untucked and wrinkled, his bowtie askew, one of his checkered suspenders, hung loose and off his shoulder. His grey trousers were streaked with dirt and a gash in the left leg exposed his fine, brown thigh.

At least, grey and blue were the colors that Vylette could identify through the blood.

The blood!

A trembling hand came to Vylette’s mouth, muffling a soft cry of dismay.

Blood--blood was all over him!

God, there was so much blood saturating the front of Michael’s body, staining and starting crust on his face, chest, and hands, it was though it had been scooped up in a bucket and thrown on him.

His thin body was simply drenched.

The blood, was it his blood?

Both Lorraine and Vylette stood frozen as Michael got to them.

The entire Park, bustling and loud a second before, was suddenly silent.

“Vylette, Lorraine…” Michael spoke hoarsely through quivering lips and gritted teeth. “We…we have to go…now. We have to go. We have to go to ….to the hospital…”

Bloody hands went to grab at each one’s wrists.

Vylette, limp inside, allowed him to touch her, but Lorraine, ghostly white, to the point she was becoming an asen shade of blue, pulled back.

“Michael…” She choked, tears appearing in her eyes. “It’s M-M-Marlon isn’t it….something’s happened to Marlon?”

Michael’s entire form quaked and his head lowered.

Salty droplets of tears fell from his face and his chest heaved.

“He wrecked his car again? He drove into a ditch or a tree, didn’t he? Right Michael, right?” Lorraine begged, throwing her ice cream away and clutching her hands to her bosom, hope in her face.

“He’s alright? He’s okay? He wrecked his car? Busted his nose? Broke out a tooth? Michael…? Michael? Tell me he‘s okay. He‘s okay, isn‘t he? ”

Lorraine stopped, flung her head back, went stiff and shrieked,

“TELL ME!”

Michael, pressing his hands to his head replied, more tears falling, voice breaking,

“I’m sorry Lorraine…I’m sorry…He’s…he’s been shot Lorraine! That goddamned son of a bitch shot my brother!”

“Shot? Shot! Oh no! Oh no, no, no!” Lorraine screamed and ran into Vylette’s open arms, the two of them sobbing and clutching each other as if the world was at its end.

In some ways, the world had ended.

“No! No Michael! He didn’t shoot Marlon! Not Marlon! NO! Marlon’s the kindest, sweetest man I know! He didn’t Michael! Oh Vylette!” She buried her face in Vylette’s shoulder and howled, the deep cry of heartbreak.

“Michael…” Vylette whimpered, seeing blurry through her tears as Lorraine whimpered a prayer in Latin, performing the sign of the cross on herself,

“Is…is he…”

She couldn’t make herself say the words. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. It was too awful, too terrible.

Marlon was a friend--a dear, dear, friend.

She’d spent so much time with him. Laughed at his jokes, ridden in his car. Just that morning that had all eaten breakfast together!

He couldn’t be shot!

A wild, dark, glaze of hatred came to Michael’s eyes as he looked down upon her.

Rage like she had never seen in eyes that were usually so loving, tender and affectionate.

Pure rage surged though every last inch of him.

She didn’t recognize him.

“He was breathing when I left him at the hospital…but if he stops…”

His thin lips curled over his white teeth in a determined sneer.

“If he stops…So help me God, before this city goes dark, the bastard responsible will be in the morgue with him--and it‘ll be a CLOSED casket funeral!”

“I can’t live without him! Do you hear me? I can’t! I simply can’t!” Lorraine wailed suddenly and collapsed against Vylette.

“My God!”

“What’s happened?”

“The lady’s fainted!”

“Has she any smelling salts?”

Whispers went up and stares remained as Michael took hold of Lorraine, out cold in her grief and lifted her easily as he would a baby.

Her hat fell from her tow-head and silently, a young boy, no older than ten retrieved it, carried it for the traumatized trio.

Vylette, in something of a state of shock, moved numbly and stiffly alongside Michael, the crowd of onlookers parting like the Red Sea for Moses.

“Violette Blanche…” Michael was barely audible and Vylette stared up at him, misting up again.

“Yes?” She sniffled, shuffling along.

“Pray Darling…please. Marlon…” Michael choked and more hot tears dampened his sharp cheeks. “He needs it…”

Crossing herself automatically Vylette began to recite a Hail Mary, crying harder.

Michael, not connected to any organized religion, was quietly reciting with her.

Even the young boy with no association to them, prayed willfully.

As they left through the masonry arc of Park de la Bellevue destined for Michael’s coupe, parked on the curb, all Vylette could think was why?

Why had it come to this?

Why did Marlon, one of the easiest people to befriend and like have to be shot and possibly be somewhere between light and darkness at that very moment?

It didn’t make sense.

Christ--nothing made sense anymore!

Would it ever make sense again?








For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved watching old black and white films. Anything from the silent and early sound eras, I’m always watching it. Even at home, my television stays on the classic film channel. And through watching the films with filled with dapper gentlemen and fancy ladies, I wondered, “Why not put Michael Jackson in that era?” It seemed like a logical thing as Michael always struck me as such a kind and gentle fellow, so much like the men I admired in the old movies. And so this story is inspired by the men of the early films--and just a touch of that “Smooth Criminal” and “Say, Say, Say” magic. Just a touch.

“Rage In Hell”

A Michael Jackson and Marlon Jackson

Fan Fiction Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

　

Fifteen Months Earlier

Meraux Residence

Rainelle Parish, Louisiana

It was so very hot.

That was the only way to truly describe the feeling that was seeming to emanate from every crack, corner and crevice of the room.

Hot.

Suffocatingly, devastatingly hot.

The window beside Vylette Meraux’s bed was wide open, yet there was no single gasp, no mere offering of anything that was even close to a breeze to move the threadbare curtains at all.

And through said window, that allowed the heat in to do nothing more than annoy her that morning, Vylette could see the sun, having just barely risen over the horizon, still an angry ball of ripe red, that would mature to a blazing yellow as the day progressed.

Vylette languished in her bed, without a stitch of cover or quilt on her, the assaulting heat with it’s strong, vice-like grip on her young body, squeezing every drop of perspiration from it as you would wring the water from a towel.

A person would think she’d have been used to it by now--this slow and low, bubbling heat that was the precursor of the sweltering summer to come.

And yet, after nearly eighteen years, and nearly eighteen of these creeping heat spells, Vylette could not get used to it by any means whatsoever.

There was just no getting used to it for her--she simply refused to.

Hardly possessing the strength to move, the weary girl tried to roll over onto her side.

Her thin, cotton nightgown was soaked clean through and clinging to her, like a warm and wet second skin.

Her long hair was hanging on just as fiercely, a tangled and sweaty mess, cloaking her to the waist.

And poor Vylette had been plagued with this sort of reception each morning since the middle of March.

The damnable heat always started in the middle of March and didn’t even think to wane until sometime near the end of September.

(If it were a rare, Indian Summer, the heat could stretch on well into November!)

It always was a chore to Vylette to scrub all that worrisome, odorous liquid from her body, in order to be presentable and reasonably well-smelling.

Turning her head, as her body was still weary and uncooperative, Vylette stared at the face of the small, gleaming brass-tone clock on the bedside table between her and the window. The hands presenting the time as five minutes past six.

She groaned deeply, not because of the time, she was quite used to being up before the sun itself decided to rise, but because of the small slip of paper that had been placed beside the clock.

And written on it, in a very elegant, and fine hand, was a note from her mother:

 

Clutching the note to her damp bosom, Vylette’s eyes fluttered a moment, before focusing up on the ceiling overhead.

‘…be on your best behavior…God sees all of your misdeeds…’

The words resonated in her mind. It was a word of warning she’d heard every day of her life as far back as she could remember. (And she knew just what would happen if word reached her mother of her acting out. Retribution usually involved a leather strap.)

Vylette had always had to be on her best behavior, and not just because of social stigmas of the times, a time slowly moving away from the prim Victorian era, where many customs were still practiced, but also because of just whom her parents and her people were.

Vylette’s father and mother, Almanzo and Kathleen Meraux, had long been pillars of society in Rainelle Parish before Vylette had ever been born.

Almanzo was one of the few Colored doctors for miles around and widely known through out the entire state of Louisiana as one of the best in his profession. People came from all over and as far away as Georgia and Mississippi to experience his expertise in the art of healing.

It was a title and profession that alluded to his intelligence and superiority over many others in the community and it guaranteed his esteem and respect.

The same went for Vylette’s mother, Kathleen.

While her father’s people were scattered mostly between Alabama, and Kentucky, with only the last two or three generations hailing from Louisiana, her mother’s people could be traced back, exclusively through Louisiana bloodlines for over one hundred and fifty years.

And her mother’s maiden name, De La Croix was one that was well-known to everyone around the parish as it had been one of her descendants who had settled the parish in the first place, in the early eighteen hundreds.

And as a child of the founding family of Rainelle Parish, Vylette knew inherently and had been taught that she was watched and looked at, at all times as an example of what a responsible young girl should be.

She attended classes at the Saint Ignatius Catholic School, where her grades had her in the running for being class valedictorian, was always in attendance for Mass on Sunday mornings, practically a member of the Ladies’ Christian League, which her mother presided over, of course, and would be officiated once she turned eighteen years old.

The Christian League was why Vylette had to go into town for groceries in the first place. Since the Stock Market Crash of 1929, that had been the catalyst for The Great Depression as it had come to be known, many people were left unemployed and many more without even a stale crust of bread to lay claim to.

Every afternoon, out of the back of the Saint Ignatius Cathedral, various members of the Christian League could be found doling out bowls of homemade hot soup, slices of fresh bread and cups of coffee to those in need of a warm meal.

For some, it was the only meal they received in a day.

Vylette knew in her heart, that her family had been one of the lucky ones, left relatively unharmed by the Crash.

Though the Merauxs weren’t exactly what could have been considered as ‘wealthy’, they were considerably better off some others who called the Parish home.

Vylette did eat three hot meals every day, had a few changes of clothing and her family did own the small cottage which had been bought as a wedding present by Vylette’s grandfather upon her mother’s marriage over twenty years ago, as well as her father’s medical office in town.

Sure, Vylette wished she had a spare nickel and dime here and there to afford a day at the local movie house or a chocolate bar from the store, as girls her age did enjoy such extras. But such extras were frivolities that Vylette tried to learn to do without. These were times of sacrifice and scrimping, and everyone, in order to survive had to learn to do without.

One thing Vylette was keenly aware of not being able to do without, was the grocery shopping.

Also, she felt positively gross lying there, in a relative puddle, with the stink of sweat about her.

Not really wanting to, Vylette heaved herself into a seated position, running her hands through her stringy tresses, clearing it from her moist and dripping face.

She lingered a moment, looking around her bedroom.

It was a simple, country bedroom, just the kind one would imagine for a girl her age.

With its plain, whitewashed walls, a few solid pieces of furniture, the bedside tables, the armoire across from the bed and a large chest of drawers, and framed portraits of The Last Supper and The Pope, with a wooden crucifix between them.

Looking off to her left, Vylette was not alone in the room.

Two more beds lay between her and the far wall. While the bed farthest away lay vacant, and neatly made up, covered by a floral blanket that matched the other two, a small lump was concealed in the bed immediately beside Vylette.

Vylette grinned a moment, knowing that the lump was her kid sister, Vinnie, still dozing peacefully.

Resting just above the child’s covered head, was a very worn, and much loved teddy bear, called Mr. Bear, the little girl’s dearest possession, passed down from Vylette herself.

Deciding it was best to let that child sleep until breakfast was prepared, Vylette managed to extract herself from her bed, nearly sliding and falling, her feet so slick, and started towards the closed door of the room, tiptoeing along in her bare feet on the polished floor.

At the door, she paused and glanced back at the empty bed on the end. It’s occupant was missing, but Vylette had a pretty good idea of where she was.

Locating the third member of her trio would have to wait, as the smell of an unwashed body was calling her attention and much more of a priority at the moment.

Out in the hall, painted a bland cream with no hint of pink to it, and dotted here and there with different religious icons--as all hand chosen by the deeply religious Mrs. Meraux, as if she were trying to construct a church herself within the walls of her home--to the bathroom, that sat a few feet away from the open door to the kitchen in the rear of the home.

The Merauxs were one of the very few families in the Parish with electricity and running water, with the exception of a few very wealthy families on the other side of town. But Mrs. Meraux had insisted upon an indoor bathroom, as she deemed it wasn’t safe for any of her three girls to go out, sometimes in the dead of the night, to relieve themselves.

“Anything could happen to a young girl in the middle of the night…” She had expressed to her husband when she first presented the idea to him. “Girls can simply disappear and never be seen or heard from again…”

And the bathroom had commenced being built that same week.

Of course, that had been before the Crash, when the calf was fatter, and times less lean.

The bathroom itself was rather modest, as was the rest of the house, as both heads of the family didn’t believe in frills and excess, only buying what was needed, not wanted.

It was dark with wood and bright with contrasting white porcelain fixtures.

A bare, unadorned bulb hung from the ceiling.

Vylette eagerly knelt alongside the clubfoot tub and began drawing a cool bath in which to refresh herself.

As the water caught, Vylette went over to the washbasin and readied herself to brush her teeth.

Plucking her pink brush from the cup on the basin, she rinsed it off and started to open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror to retrieve the toothpaste.

Vylette stopped and stared at herself, as she did most mornings when she found herself alone in the bathroom, one of the few times in her day when she could be to herself.

Vylette had taken after her father, a man who was easily over six feet tall, if he were an inch; and was taller than the average girl her age, standing at five-foot-seven inches.

Vylette’s heritage was a mishmash mingling of French and Colored, in varying amounts from both her parents--with a dash of Irish coming from a distant paternal many-greats grandfather--and to the untrained eye, a person not aware that Vylette was Colored, could have easily mistaken her for “pure” White.

Though both of Vylette’s parents were more of a café au lait complexion, Vylette and her sister Vinnie had come out with very fair, milky, alabaster complexions. Complexions Mrs. Meraux saw were taken care of very well, with them being bathed in buttermilk once a month to keep their skin clear and supple and any freckles banished with lemon-juice.

(It was said that the Meraux sisters had taken after their late maternal grandmother, Leona, who had indeed looked just like a White woman, as they did.)

In stark contrast to her white skin, Vylette’s hair was a rich, deep and when freshly washed, a shining, raven black, with a slight, natural wave to it. Vylette, who had always been told that a woman’s hair was her crowning glory, took pains to maintain her waist-length mane, even if it did choke her to death on those humid mornings.

Vylette possessed a delicate, heart shaped face, the whiteness of her skin interrupted by thick black brows, hanging over her eyes.

Eyes that no one else in the family seemed to have. They were wide and sparkly, showing the seriousness, warmness and kindness through them which Vylette was known for, and were a unique, queer color.

Her eyes weren’t quite blue, but not quite violet either, and could go either way, depending on what color Vylette was wearing in a given day, and were framed by sooty, naturally long black lashes.

Her mouth was a small pink ribbon at the base of her face, above a proud, strong, pointed chin.

Pushing her hair off her shoulders, Vylette continued to stare at herself, her shape visible beneath the wet and snug nightgown, that she had outgrown years ago.

Vylette had a healthy, almost enviable figure, even if she was a bit on the thin side. She wasn’t truly skinny, and even a weight gain of up to ten pounds would have suited her well.

For a girl of only seventeen, her body bore womanly curves, as it was common for the women in her family to “develop\” early--Vylette’s own figure had seemed to sprout as soon as she had turned twelve!

Her skin was soft and white with just a teeny hint of roseleaf pink in the cheeks, she had gently rounded shoulders that were connected by a swanlike and graceful throat, and hips that didn’t protrude out too far, a plump, dimpled belly, and plumper pink legs.

Her bosom was full and pert, her nipples making points in the fabric, standing up proudly as the ripening breasts of all girls so young generally did.

It was a beautiful young body attached to a beautiful young girl.

And yet, Vylette never considered herself beautiful, despite what she regularly saw reflected back her.

That was seen as vanity in her household, and vanity was a sin. Sins and sinners were not welcome nor tolerated in the Meraux residence.

Indeed Vylette didn’t lead a very glamorous life, that needed beauty anyway. Most days found her tending house or cooking or running some errand, or passing out bowls of soup at the church.

That was her simple, country girl’s life in nutshell.

Work, praying and church.

A few moments later, with the taste of minty Ipana toothpaste in her mouth, her teeth clean, Vylette peeled the soaked gown and panties from her body and slipped into the cool bath, happy to feel some sort of relief from the heat.

Picking up the red-orange bar of Lifebuoy soap, Vylette took to the dreaded chore of washing all her hair. She hated using plain soap on her hair, it dried her scalp so, but real shampoo was one of the extras cut from her life, when soap raised a lather just as well.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

A swear word lit in Vylette’s mind--but never came out her mouth. Well brought up young ladies never swore--as she raked her low clipped fingernails across her scalp, suds running down her back.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” She grumbled. Couldn‘t she even bathe alone? “Come in!”

Before the sentence had cleared her mouth properly, the door opened and another young girl slipped inside, shutting it behind her and leaning against it.

Still scrunching and soaping her hair, Vylette blinked around the bubbles falling her eyes, and stinging them, and for the first time that morning, caught sight of the third member of their trio: Lorraine Devereaux.

Lorraine, Vylette’s first cousin, as both their mothers had been sisters, was only nine days younger than she, but the two girls could not be more different had they tried.

While Vylette was sweet, a bit naïve, and always respectful, Lorraine was a volatile firecracker.

Lorraine was lusty, quick to argue and a bit boy-crazy, with waves of emotions inside that matched her outside perfectly.

Lorraine was porcelain skinned much like her cousin, but while Vylette was dark, Lorraine was as red as a girl could be.

Lorraine had taken after her own father, inheriting his deep, fiery auburn locks, which fell to her trim waist, without a single wave or curl to it, piercing, haunting pale green eyes under light brown brows and fringed with red lashes!

Like Vylette, Lorraine had a well-proportioned figure, much to her chagrin scattered with freckles along the arms and legs, which no matter how her aunt tried to bleach them away with milk and lemon juice, always remained.

The freckles were as stubborn as Lorraine Devereaux herself.

Lorraine had lived with the Merauxs, following the untimely deaths of both her parents during the worldwide Spanish Influenza epidemic of 1918, which left her an orphan, when she had only been five years old.

(Lorraine had also contracted the disease, managing to survive it, with months of recuperation, much prayer and tending to on the part of her doctor uncle.)

Though Vylette and Lorraine were cousins, they had been raised like and were closer than sisters. In younger years, they had been treated as something of twins, always with matching dresses and hair bows.

Indeed, they were best friends, one another’s confidant and one knew the other better than they knew themselves.

And judging by the way every pearly tooth in Lorraine’s head was showing past her rosy lips, Vylette took her time to sink under water and reemerge, rinsing her hair before inquiring,

“What?”

“Oh my Dear!” Lorraine gushed happily, rushing over to the side of the tub and sitting on it, hiking up the bottom of her plaid gown to nearly indecent heights, showing off a generous portion of her spattered legs. “I was just reading the most divine new article in Film Stars Monthly--all about Jean Harlow!”

Picking up a sponge and lathering it, washing after herself, Vylette smiled up at her cousin, giggling on the inside.

Not another article about Jean Harlow!

Vylette had never seen anyone so cuckoo about film stars as Lorraine.

Every month, Lorraine could be found scrounging and saving pennies to afford all of her favorite motion picture magazines--Film Stars Monthly, Photoplay, and Silver Screen Digest--to keep up with all of the exploits and gossip on her favorite actors and actresses.

Players that could literally be named into the dozens--Joan Crawford, Wallace Beery, Greta Garbo, Clara Bow, Ann Harding, Leslie Howard, Jeanette MacDonald, Paul Muni, John and Lionel Barrymore-- but Vylette knew Lorraine’s absolute favorite above all, placed on a marble pedestal in her mind, was Jean Harlow.

The young, platinum blonde bombshell, only a few years older than themselves, had just naturally been Lorraine’s favorite, as it seemed she symbolized everything Lorraine longed to be--vampish, sexy, full of life, without a care in the world.

In the midst of the Depression, the breed of the Flapper had all but died out, but had been replaced with the Siren that was Jean Harlow, and imitations of her.

A fast-living, bootleg-liquor-drinking, free-wheeling sort who scared any matron worth her rosary beads, was stressed to be avoided by “good” girls, but had somehow come fascinate and be idolized by Lorraine Devereaux.

Lorraine, when she wasn’t nose-deep in a film ‘zine or sporadically taking up a seat in a theatre to live vicariously for an hour through the buxom maven, she could be found reading trashy, tawdry romance novels bought for a nickel apiece--that her Aunt Kathleen had banned from the house as being immoral and ungodly--and cooing over a dream world of torrid affairs with flashy cars and mink coats at every turn.

Perhaps it was her way of escaping the challenging times, and the tight moralistic constraints of what was life in the Parish, but Lorraine always managed to stay in her escape a bit too long, and away from the ‘real’ world, whilst Vylette was more aware and in it.

Rubbing after her shoulders, Vylette chuckled,

“And what has the snow-haired Miss Harlow done this time, that’s giving you the vapors, Dear?”

Discovered another shade of blonde previously unknown to beauticians? Worn an even skimpier silk dress? Run off with another woman’s husband--again?

Lorraine’s light eyes sparkled with mischief. Did they ever not sparkle like that? Vylette couldn’t remember a time when her relative’s eyes had lacked that gleam of the adverse.

“There’s a seven-page write up about her wardrobe…you know she always wears the best fashions from Paris and London. Oh…silks, furs, diamonds and pearls…it’s all so beautiful! I swooned looking at it all. And it says she only likes to wear else black or white, because her hair is so blonde…”

Rising, Lorraine went over and was gazing at herself in the mirror.

While Vylette hardly ever revered what was reflected back at her, Lorraine was wondrously vain, a trait Mrs. Meraux had failed to preach, nag and beat out of her personality.

With a figure as rounded, soft and dimpled as her cousin’s Lorraine noticed, mentioned it often and looked up on it every chance she had.

She was forever pinching after her white cheeks, encouraging color to spring to them, examining her eyes, a washed out, grey-green framed by the red lashes she hated so, but had been forbidden the use of cosmetics as it was seen that only the worst of women painted their faces.

And as a blood relative to the De La Croix family who founded the Parish, it would have been an insult to them all to walk around looking as something other than what she was--a respectable girl. At least that was point Vylette’s mother had laid before her headstrong niece time and again.

“Vylette, Darling, what do you think it’s like…you know…to have such finery hanging in the closets waiting for you? Day dresses and evening gowns, and stoles and wraps? Waiting to be worn? Minks, and foxes and ocelots…all those gems?”

Lorraine twisted and turned before the mirror, surely envisioning the finest of the fine on her, and nothing else.

Lately, that was all Lorraine ever seemed to think about.

Rinsing her body, Vylette snickered, “Lorraine, Dear, I wouldn’t know. I only have five dresses, a few blouses and skirts--ALL cotton, mind you--and two pairs of shoes. I’m just the daughter of a country doctor. In times like these, I‘m happy I have that much. You should be too.”

Ignoring that bit of sensibility as she usually did, Lorraine was gathering up her hair and holding it out the way, revealing her neck and seashell-like ears.

“I hate how straight and lifeless my hair is. I’d kill to have a Marcel wave. I hear that’s what Jean has done to her hair…” Lorraine paused, her throaty voice dropping to her deepest registers, “I don’t understand why Aunt Kathleen won’t let me get a wave. She gets a wave every two weeks, herself! I can‘t do anything. I can‘t wear make up, I can‘t polish my nails, I can’t bob or wave my hair…Mon Dieu!”

There was that argument again. There was that argument always. Hardly a day passed without Lorraine lamenting and whining and wanting to do something to herself.

It was those magazines’ fault. All they did was advertise different cosmetics and fashions and trends. Everything Lorraine desired.

Often, Vylette wondered, just what her cousin would look like if she had been given free reign to do to herself as she liked.

Would she even be recognizable?

Now she had to say,

“Yes, that is true, but Mama is thirty-five. You’re only seventeen, Lorraine. You know Mama thinks it’ll make you look too ‘grown’. And you’re so lovely, just as you are, right this moment. Be a Darling and hand me a towel please…”

As Lorraine came up with a large towel from under the sink, she bemoaned, her pretty face puckering into a distressed pout,

“Confound it, we’re going to both make eighteen next month! You know Aunt Kathleen is laying in wait, like a spider on a web, ready to tie us to The Ladies’ Christian League and marry us off to Steven Wilkes and Ulrich Povah--”

Vylette waved her peachy hand at her cousin in disdain, her entire essence seeming to sag.

“Please don’t mention them to me, Lorraine, please…”

Vylette never did like to give much thought to the two young men her parents had been pushing them towards since they were children.

Yes, Steven and Ulrich came from two of the most upstanding Colored families in Rainelle Parish, besides her own and a union between the three clans would have been quite choice, linking money, name and prestige.

Vylette wasn’t quite sure how she felt on the matter.

At only seventeen, though she took care of many womanly duties around the house, she hadn’t experienced what many would think of in more modern days as a typical teenager experience. The only dances she had attended were nearly all church-run, and heavily chaperoned, sometimes by her own mother. She had never been on a ‘real’ date, kissed or even held hands with a boy--even Steven.

Vylette only knew that once her education was complete, most girls in the parish married and started their own families right away.

The purpose for most of these dances, ice cream socials and cotillions were for girls to catch husbands.

And sometime later, if she had a daughter, the cycle would repeat.

Wrapping the towel around her nude body, Vylette, unplugged the stopper and began ringing her hair out as the water seeped from the tub.

Tentatively, she tried to reason,

“Well…Steven and Ulrich are nice boys…”

“Nice boys?” Lorraine scoffed as her cousin stepped from the bath tub and grabbed a comb to untangle her hair. Taking a second comb, Lorraine spoke as she helped her cousin with her mane.

“Vylette, that’s all we have in Rainelle Parish--nice boys. All the boys we know are nice. Ulrich, Steven, Lucian, Micah, Darnell, Peter, Pierce, Johnny and Josiah…all of them are nice. Full of how-do-you-do’s, and yes ma’am and no ma’am. Good day Dr. Meraux. Mighty fine weather we’re having, aren’t we, Mrs. Meraux? Each boy is one and the same, just with a different name, all cast from the same mold and one might be darker or lighter than the other. All from good old Southern families, all from Louisiana, all the same…” Lorraine, groaned, pausing with the comb in her Vylette’s hair near her ear, looked up and over her head, her unused hand pressing into her own smallish hip.

“We all know each other, all go to the same school, got baptized together by Father Lachey, take Sacrament together…Josiah will go to seminary in the fall and one day he’ll be the one giving us Sacrament in Father Lachey’s place! Don’t you…” She bit her bottom lip and looked on her cousin with eyes of wonder and a touch of sadness.

“Don’t you ever think of what it would be like to meet somebody new for a change? Because even though Steven and Ulrich and all the other boys we know are pretty well-set, they’re well-set HERE. If we marry any of them, more than likely, we’ll stay right here in Rainelle Parish. We won’t even get as far New Orleans or Baton Rouge or Shreveport. We’ll stay right here.”

Lorraine tossed her hair defiantly in a red arc.

“That may work for some girls, it may even work for you Vylette, becoming a matron of the Parish one day, but not for me. I want to get out, go places. All the places I read about in my books and magazines can’t be imaginary. Some of them are real. Dance all night in clubs and drink champagne at New Year’s. Wear my pearls and diamonds and furs and ride in a big Cadillac or Chrysler. Do whatever I like to my hair--wave it, bob it, shave it bald, even bleach it blonde like Jean’s! Wear as much makeup as I like!”

“Lorraine!” Vylette gasped, thinking of just how the town would talk--and oh how it would--if Lorraine dared to be as bold and brazen as her idol.

And if she were talked about, it would shame the entire family for generations to come!

“This isn’t Hollywood, Honey. This is Rainelle Parish. You know girls just don’t do those sorts of things or act or dress that way--except Wallis, but she‘s one step from the gutter anyway. Hollywood is all make-believe, you know that. All the painting and costuming--”

“But my Dear!” Lorraine suddenly gripped her cousin’s white shoulder’s so hard it turned scarlet. “You and I can do better than any of those passel of wet blankets Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Almanzo are trying to send us to. We’re both smart and pretty, Vylette. There’s more out there, I’m certain. If only you and I could get away. Even to New Orleans--that’s only fifty miles from here! Fifty miles to another world! Get around new people, fresh people, people who didn’t know our grandparents! Somewhere I know there’s the kind of men who can show us real life, Cousin! Wining, dining, fine things!”

“Oh Lorraine…” Vylette ducked her head at such a thought, incredulous. “The only people like that, in times like these are bootleggers…and you know Mama and Papa were a part of the Temperance Association before Prohibition kicked in--”

She couldn’t imagine any man really having an interest in her. She only knew Steven was after her because his parents were encouraging a union just as much as her parents.

“Damn it, Vylette!” Lorraine swore, her white cheeks taking on a violent pink glow in consternation and caused her cousin’s eyes to bulge at the blatant swearing.

Good girls didn’t use harsh words.

“Lorraine--”

“What do you want, Vylette? Not what Aunt Kathleen or Uncle Almanzo or the Povahs or Wilkeses or the whole damned town wants. You’re almost eighteen! And you possibly could be married the rest of your life to Steven! Don’t you want to see some of the world, before you’re chained to the kitchen here with five or six screaming babies? Do you even like Steven, much less love him?”

Vylette gripped onto the side of the washbasin and lowered her head, with it starting to pound right at the temples.

“Lorraine…go…go start breakfast, Dear. Oatmeal and raisins. And make sure you get Vinnie up, please. And give her a big glass of milk to drink with her oatmeal…”

Lorraine stared at the back of her cousin’s lowered head for a long moment, before turning on her heel and leaving her alone.

Breathing heavily, quite suddenly, chest feeling like it was trying to cave in with each unbalanced breath, Vylette stared up at herself in the mirror.

Her face was pallid and bluish eyes consuming the greater part of it.

Was Lorraine right? Was Vylette being set up, by her well-intentioned parents, and destined for a life in which she never ventured out of the Parish?

Vylette had only been out courting with Steven a few times, always in broad daylight and always in public places or in the home with one of her parents nearby.

He had never gripped her hand or pecked her cheek or made any sort of untoward moves on her.

It was hardly anything that spoke of love or symbolized any sort of intimacy.

Not that Vylette had a true a picture of what love or intimacy really was.

Her own parents were so stiff and proper with each other around them on one hand, and the sort of things Lorraine let her read in her hidden sagas were comprised of acts so unspeakable, Vylette couldn’t imagine anyone, no matter her reputation, performing them.

But, somewhere between Bible-clad stone and cinematic loose morals, was there a middle ground?

Where a man wooed a woman, politely, and held her hand and whispered sweetness into her ears and tried to steal kisses when no one was looking.

That certainly was not Vylette Meraux and Steven Wilkes.

Steven never said anything too witty or endearing, and most anything else was forgettable.

Two people wasting an afternoon, at the utmost.

And yet, as Vylette stood there, staring in the mirror, if something didn’t change, something didn’t happen, and happen soon, by that time next year, it was an almost certain possibility that she would be Mrs. Steven Wilkes and have her gut sticking out, expecting her firstborn.

That was always how it was in the Parish. Girls married early and were pregnant as soon as they uttered “I do”. Why, three girls Vylette knew were already engaged--one being five months along with child and getting hitched to keep it legitimate, avoiding shame and forever wagging tongues--and to be married at the tender ages of seventeen and eighteen.

Vylette’s own mother had wed her father when she was just sixteen and Lorraine’s mother had been even younger--fifteen at the time of her marriage.

Perhaps there was a grain or two of truth to Lorraine’s ranting.

Maybe there was life to be found for girls who took the initiative to try to find it.

Vylette returning to combing her hair free of tangles, stood contemplating this fork in the road of her hardly-lived existence, without a single inkling that instead of her finding life, life was going to rush right up to her when she least expected it. But life is very much like that, isn’t it?

* * *

“…ow…”

“Oh, hold still, you ninny, I’m almost done!”

“…ow…ow…ow…ow…”

“You little liar, I am not hurting you--quit saying ‘ow’ and hold still!”

“Yes, you are--you’re brushing too hard, Vylette! Ow!”

Small, stiff-bristle brush in one hand, Vylette reached down and clamped onto the pointed shoulder of the child wriggling before her.

“Now be still, please. I can’t spend all day doing this!” She cautioned sternly, her hands returning to the deeply waved mass of thick black hair on her sister’s head that she was trying in vain to get a bow tied into.

As soon as the brush made contact with the strands near the little girl’s hairline, she whined,

“…ow…”

“Lavinia Rosalind!” Vylette cried, throwing the brush onto the foot of her bed and grabbing her sister by the arm, whirled her around to glare at her.

Lavinia, known to all since birth as Vinnie, was usually a model ten-year-old, whose temperament was just as mild and gentle as her older sister’s.

Mild and gentle, so long as no one came near her hair.

Vinnie was particularly tender-headed, and it appeared the lightest tug on any of her tresses put her into agony.

Every morning was a battle along the lines of the Great War whenever Vylette tried to tame her sister’s locks into something that would make her look more little girl and less jungle woman.

Vinnie was a beautiful child, with a heart-shaped face, just as white as her sister’s and cousin’s, only interrupted with beige-y freckles crossing the bridge of her rounded nose. (Her freckles went without notice or lemon-juice bleaching, as at her young age, she was not on the look out for a mate, yet.)

Her eyes, somewhat downward slanted at the corners, giving her a forlorn look, even when at her happiest, and contrasted by her short bristly lashes, were a deep, steely grey and despite their ‘cold’ color, showed all the warmness and affection bubbling just below the surface of the child.

Standing before her sister, her scant, spindly little body was covered at that moment, by a white, eyelet trimmed chemise and matching drawers, white socks on her feet and folded neatly at the ankles.

A few feet away, spread on the foot of her bed, was a dress of brown calico, trimmed in off-white at the collar and cuffs of the short, puffed sleeves.

Staring down at the sweet face, gazing back up at her so placidly, it was difficult for Vylette to remain angry with Vinnie for more than a few minutes at a time.

“Vinnie, be good, and let me finish your hair, so we can go ahead on to the store and get the eggs for Mama…” Vylette reasoned, her voice softer, trying appeal to the goodness in her sibling.

“Alright, Vylette, but do it quickly, please.” Vinnie relented, turning her back to her again, her naturally high-pitched voice reaching tinny heights. “I don’t like the brush, it’s so hard and hurts me!”

“I’m not trying to hurt you…” Vylette rolled her eyes, and made a quick business of sectioning off the top half of her sister’s hair into a ponytail, fastened by a brown ribbon, and left the rest fluffing down Vinnie’s back.

With her sister pulling the dress over head, Vylette, fully dressed in a simple, baby blue shift that turned her eyes from lavender to Ceylon, her hair swept back into a low ponytail by a white ribbon, with white socks and sensible black shoes on her feet, she left through the open door of the bedroom, to find the dime for the eggs her mother had left behind.

The cottage was quite small itself and she didn’t have far to go between her bedroom and the living room.

Draped carelessly across an armchair, with her bare legs in the air, the skirt of her dark green dress raised, was Lorraine.

In the absences of her aunt and uncle, she was openly reading a romance novel, its title emblazoned in gold on a blood red cover, Millicent’s Mistake.

Lorraine kept her books so well hidden, that even Vylette didn’t know where they were stored in such a small, intimate abode as theirs.

Passing by her ravenously reading cousin and going to the table, by the open front door that allowed a breeze in by way of a screen door that banished swamp mosquitoes, located the lone quarter and deposited it in her pocket.

“Is that a new story?” She wondered, reaching back and pulling the long end of her ponytail over her shoulder.

Lorraine’s green eyes never left the pages, flying back and forth, consuming the tale.

“No…I got this one last month, but I’m just now getting around to reading it. It’s been positively scandalous so far.”

In spite of herself, Vylette did enjoy hearing about the flaming plots of the novels, even if she did refrain from actually turning the pages herself.

“Do tell me about it.”

“Well, it’s all about this girl, Millicent Andrews. She works as a scullery maid for this count in the English countryside. He’s a Spanish count, but he’s on vacation in England. The count’s wife is this big fat, sickly creature…it really is amazing how some people get together…and he grows quite tired of her. And Millicent is this stunning girl, with waves of hair like wheat and cornflower eyes. Nothing like the piggish countess. So, of course the count becomes chummy with her and the very next thing you know…”

“Good morning, Vylette, Lorraine…” A deep, richly resonant voice spoke from behind the two, causing Lorraine’s mouth to fly shut on international extramarital affairs and Vylette’s to draw up like a prune.

Vylette’s spine stiffened at the all too familiar voice, forcing her to rapidly erase any and every trace of distaste from her face and had no other choice but to turn.

“Good morning…Steven.”

The screen door had been opened, the young man holding it, remained on the front porch, as it had been taught to all young men to wait to be invited inside of any given home, rather than barging in.

Steven Wilkes was a very tall, solidly built and broad shouldered boy of eighteen, but so massive was his girth, he appeared in his mid-twenties.

As with the Meraux and Devereaux girls, Steven could have easily passed for White. Though, through his love of being outdoors and spending much of his time doing so, Steven possessed a healthy, bronze hue to his complexion that was generally discouraged for any and every girl unless she had been born with such coloring, but was favorable in young men, as it showed they were virile and active instead of lazy. (Sloth was a sin.)

His hair, a dark chocolate brown, worn slicked back and glistening with pomade only enhanced his tan. Beneath thick, bushed brows, his eyes. a blazing blue-green were focused on Vylette. His eyes always seemed to be focused on her, whether a few feet laid between them, or the few miles between their two homes.

His bulky, muscle dense body was dressed in a pair of much-mended denim trousers and a rumpled, button-down shirt, with his large feet bare and dusted with Louisiana soil.

His outfit was casual, much too casual to be worn when calling upon the girl who may become his wife.

But even dressed like he was a Colored Huckleberry Finn, Steven was standing erect and carried himself in a more sophisticated fashion than his clothing would have led one to believe.

He was usually one of the better dressed boys in town.

Indeed, Steven was one of the fabled Wilkes and though the Depression had affected the money of his family, who owned and ran the five and dime where Lorraine sought her magazines and novels, and Dr. Meraux procured his pipe tobacco, he was still considered better off.

(And a very desirable catch to any girl of a mature age.)

The Wilkes’ had inhabited Rainelle Parish almost as long as the De La Croixs and Merauxs. Steven’s family was one that blended African, Afro-Cuban and English, resulting in Steven’s unique appearance.

Assured of his placement in life as one of the big wheels of the Parish, and his exotic lineage and good looks, Steven was a willful, sly and arrogant man, accustomed to being afforded and given just about anything he desired from doting and spoilsome parents.

Over a month before graduation and already he had begun boasting about receiving a brand-new Ford from his parents who wouldn‘t have dared to say “no“ to their only son.

“How are y’all doing this morning?” Steven’s pinky lips, under a mustache that was not too thin, but not too thick, revealed his even, bright white teeth, glowing in his face.

“We’re all quite well, thank you.” Vylette was speaking out of elementary good-breeding and politeness that had been instilled since birth. She had no true desire to have set eyes on him that day. “And how are they all over at your house?”

“Just fine, just fine, thank you.” Steven’s grin grew as he looked upon two of the most attractive girls in the Parish.

“I would invite you in, but unfortunately, both Mama and Papa are out at the moment. I’m sorry.” Vylette was thankful that custom dictated a chaperone be present if company became mixed.

She heard Lorraine stifling a giggle, but kept her face on the serene side.

“Oh, that’s alright.” Steven was easy, leaning against the open doorframe, his piercing eyes drifting from Vylette a moment, surely taking in Lorraine’s indecent legs, then staring boldly back at her. “I knew that. I saw your father opening his practice this morning, and your mother stopped by the house to join my mother to pass out soup at the church. I was just on my way down to Jamison’s Pond to go fishing with Ulrich--”

“Lord…” Lorraine was barely heard.

“--and I wanted to stop in and see about you, since it is on the way.” Steven’s eyes flashed as they ran up and down Vylette’s figure and she wanted to crumple up into a ball and seep through the floorboards out of sight.

Steven had a way of looking at her, that made it seem like he could see clean through her clothing and undergarments straight to her naked flesh.

A dirty, learned way that she didn’t like and that gave her a case of the hee-bee-jeebies.

It only crept into his eyes when they were alone, as they were then, with out either of her parents around.

The look left his eyes, as Vinnie emerged from around the corner, and aligned herself beside Lorraine in the armchair.

Vinnie bent instantly and was whispering at the still all-legs Lorraine, causing her push at the child.

“I can sit how I like, quit vexing me!”

So much for making Lorraine sit like a lady.

“…but there’s a gentleman in the room…”

Going over, Vylette clutched her sister’s hand.

“If you’ll excuse us, Steven, we have an errand to run for Mama, and it has to be attended to presently.” She stated kindly and tugging her sister so hard, her feet fairly left the polished hardwood floor, they were brushing by the towering Steven and out onto the concrete walk that led to the dirt road.

Lorraine, left behind and taking her own sweet time brought up the rear.

“Well that’s a shame. If I didn’t have to fish…” Steven, hands in his pockets was sauntering after her. “…I’d have been more than happy to escort you, your sister and cousin into town. But Mother Dear insists I bring a fresh trout or mullet home for dinner. My apologies.”

“I do thank you for your thoughtfulness, Steven, but we are capable of walking to and from town…” Vylette’s patience was wearing thin with him and she was beginning to struggle to remain a cool belle.

Steven’s lips curled with pleasure.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at Mass then?” He questioned, his eyes already reading in the affirmative.

Mouth tightening, Vylette bobbed her head.

“Wonderful. Y’all have a pleasant day.” Stepping off into the dirt road, Steven grinned, and started off on his way.

Silently, Vylette, Lorraine and Vinnie watched him go, each wearing a different expression.

Vylette’s was one of nausea, her white skin becoming slightly green in her distress, Lorraine’s of unaffected contempt, her snoot wrinkled, and Vinnie’s, with the naivety of a child was smiling sweetly at the man destined to become her brother-in-law.

“For all he’s worth…” Lorraine shook her head slowly as the boy was becoming a speck in the distance. “…Steven Wilkes is a frightful bore.”

“I think he’s awful nice.” Vinnie sighed, with it beyond her youthful grasp what it seemed Steven was truly about underneath all of his courtesy. “Going through all the trouble to come and call on Vylette.”

“Nice…that’s the problem…”

Turning away, Lorraine started in the opposite direction, towards Main Street.

Tugging at her elder sister’s hand, Vinnie’s voice bore her confusion as she inquired,

“Why is Steven’s being nice a problem? Aren’t we supposed to go with nice boys?”

Squeezing her sister’s hand and walking a few yards behind Lorraine, Vylette shushed her,

“Hush, Vinne, please. Let’s just go and get the eggs for Mama.”

* * *

Rainelle Parish was a small, cloistered town, numbering around a thousand or so residents, both Colored and White. It was a rural community, with the greater part of those on the lower rungs of society as nothing more than tenant farmers and sharecroppers, whom, if they were lucky, had one or two heads of cattle.

They were all a hard-working, hardy type of folks, the sort of people the town had been founder for and by over a hundred years ago.

In 1829, when everything was still wilderness and untamed forests, Gerald Fontaine De La Croix, Vylette’s four-times great-grandfather, himself a freedman of Color, felled the first tree on the home for him, his wife, Marie and their thirteen children. Gerald, who had only started out to provide a home for his family soon saw more and more people, both freedman and escaped slave, both White and Colored and a mix of the two, coming to him, foraging a settlement, named in honor of Gerald’s mother, Raina, that had slowly and steadily grown to where it was now.

Though, over a hundred years later, Rainelle Parish could still be considered nothing more than a rural town, as evidenced by what was passed off as the “Main Street”.

On either side of a long, much-treaded dirt road, rows of wooden buildings stood, dating back to before the Civil War, many with the original horse hitching posts still outside of them, as the luckier families who didn’t walk, still rode horses or mules to get around. In a population of a thousand, there were a dozen cars and trucks at most.

On one side of the street was a grocer, City Hall, the post office, Mumfree’s, the one and only diner in town, and at the very end, Dr. Meraux’s medical office. On the opposite side was a hardware store and lumberyard, and the five-and-dime mercantile with an adjoining feed store.

Off in the distance, about a mile or so, up on a hill, was the large, imposing structure of Saint Ignatius, that during the week housed a school run by a small group of nuns and held Mass on Sundays, led by Father Lachey.

Several other dirt paths cut through virgin wilderness leading back to old homesteads far off and out of sight.

The road, that Saturday morning, was pretty much empty, as most adults with jobs, else on the main street or tending their own crops at home were busy there, only the children of shopkeepers running back and forth.

The poorer, mostly bare footed, thin, popeyed creatures, moved on the fringes, some still too proud to want to be seen in their destitution, slowly making their way to the church on the hill for a bowl of soup.

Tall, disenfranchised men in ripped overalls with no shirts, women in dresses made from flour sacks, children limping along, moaning from hunger pangs in their bellies.

Vylette saw them, her heart ached for them and had fed some of them.

Why right then, she could see, just beyond the buildings, a man, perhaps in his forties, holding onto the hands of two little barefoot girls, one weeping, as they made their way out to the church.

Vylette could only look down at her own sister, so pink-cheeked, satisfied and well-fed and be thankful they had been spared.

Vinnie, seeing her sister’s face, smiled up and asked,

“When we get to the grocer, may I buy a chocolate bar? I’ve saved the five cents for it… see?”

Reaching into her pocket, she came up with a fist bearing five shining pennies.

A candy bar. Vylette’s eyes sought out the slow-moving trio and wondered if those girls, no older than maybe seven or eight, had ever tasted chocolate in their lives.

Patting at her sister’s head, Vylette replied,

“Of course…pick any you can afford.”

Vinnie’s smile enlarged, change tinkling in her palm.

“Gee…” Lorraine drew up beside her cousin and took her arm. “I wish I had another nickel, so I could buy a tube of lipstick…maybe in something close to what Jean wears!”

Before Vylette could produce a sound, little Vinnie, aware of whom was being referenced, spun around on her heel.

Staring up boldly at Lorraine, her steely eyes sparking with fire, she pointed out,

“Well brought up girls don’t go around bleaching all the color out of their hair and painting up their faces like…like Jezebels!”

Pissed, with fresh, hot color flooding her cheeks and neck, Lorraine gave Vinnie a push, nearly throwing her into the path of a man galloping by on a swaybacked mule.

“Aw, dry up!” She cried, face twisting with aggravation. “You sound more and more like your mother with each passing day! And what makes you such an expert on men? You’re ten-years-old! I know more than you and I know this: Men don’t want plain, homely-looking things for wives! Every woman could benefit from a bit of make up. Men want beautiful, elegant women to hang on their arms--”

Hands on nothing hips, Vinnie, regaining her balance, stamped back up onto the rickety wooden sidewalk.

Pointed chin protruding and quivering, she blasted back,

“How I look is exactly the way God intended me to look. I don’t need make up--and you don’t either! We’re all perfectly fine just the way we are! And now I’m going!”

With that, Vinnie turned and ran off through the open doors of the grocer.

Grimacing, Lorraine watched her go, adding,

“That’s some kind of nerve. A baby lecturing me and she’s never even kissed a boy!”

Vylette, patting that mottled arm looped through hers, continuing down the walk, stated matter-of-factly,

“Neither have you, no matter how many of those books you read. The last kiss you looked at was outlined in The Flapper’s Foolsome Folly!”

She knew her last statement had stung, the way Lorraine’s eyes had widened.

Instantly, Vylette regretted her last statement, as she knew Lorraine longed to be held and kissed and petted even more than she, and Vylette went to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Dear--”

“Look at that sleek set of wheels there!”

Lorraine’s voice was an awed whisper.

“Huh?”

Vylette stared at her cousin and then followed her gaze.

In spite of herself, Vylette’s small mouth dropped open, just a tad.

A few feet away, parked in front of the store, was a car.

It wasn’t one of the dusty, old, utilitarian jalopies that Vylette had grown accustomed to seeing over her lifetime.

No, the car couldn’t have stuck out any more had began speaking in Greek.

Sitting there, seemingly out of place with all the dreary surroundings, was a car of luxury.

A beautiful little roadster, gleaming black, shining with wax and accented down the hood with a red chevron and more red details along the doors and running board on the side.

The girls drew closer, taking in the sparkling chrome grille with a tiny winged woman in flights as the hood ornament, pristine whitewall tires with silver spokes, and spares on both sides of the vented hood.

The seat was blood red with what looked like real velvet.

Standing there, the hood bore the name of the best car brand being manufactured in America: Cadillac.

That car… it wasn’t for a person who tended fields, who threw feed at animals and hauled their paltry crops in trying to turn a dime.

It was the car of a person who had likely never heard the word “Depression” much less been affected by it.

Vylette had never seen a Cadillac other than in magazines and in films.

It had never dawned on her that a “normal” person could own one, only those with their names in lights.

She became aware of Lorraine’s nails digging into her arms.

“Vy, if you see the owner of that vehicle, and he doesn’t already have a best girl, introduce me to him! Anyone with a car like that HAS to be rich!”

“I’ve never seen that car before.” Vylette stated the obvious. “The owner must be from out of town.”

That was already odd to her. No one, unless they were a native, would ever STOP in the Parish, but merely pass through it to the larger cities.

That’s all the Parish was, a gateway to bigger and better things if one could get out to start with.

Saucily, Lorraine tossed her hair and replied,

“He could be from outer space for all I care…”

Vylette didn’t speak it, but she felt the exact same way.

“I need my magazine.” Lorraine, letting go of her cousin, passed by the car, staring at it and proceeded across to the five and dime.

Vylette lingered a moment, wondering what kind of excitement that car had been party to, then proceeded on into the grocer.

The grocer wasn’t very much, just a little store with a few canned goods, produce brought in from the countryside and a candy counter bearing a dozen or so treats.

“Hey Vylette, did you get an eyeful of that Caddy outside?”

It took a moment for Vylette’s eyes to adjust and spot the girl standing behind the counter.

Wallis Pelant.

Wallis, the oldest of the six Pelant children, and a second cousin of Steven Wilkes, in general was the type of girl Vylette, under any other circumstance, would not even acknowledge.

It was widely known throughout the Parish that Wallis was the perfect example of what a girl was NOT supposed to be.

Wallis, nineteen, but had been held back in school twice because she never made an effort to do schoolwork, was as fast and as torrid as any tramp could hope to be.

Wallis lost her mother in the Flu epidemic, but unlike Lorraine who was taken in by her aunt, Wallis had been exposed to her father’s four marriages which produced all of her half-siblings. Two of her step-mothers had also died, one from a bout of yellow fever when Wallis was eight and another had been trampled by a horse when she was thirteen. Now on her third stepmother, Wallis had never really gotten the teaching and guidance she needed.

She had always flirted with men, ran around with boys from the lower-rung families,(there was even talk she’d had an illegal abortion resulting from a fling with a married man) and despite her good name, was considered by many as nothing more than common trash.

She did everything Vylette, Lorraine, Vinnie and all good girls had been forbidden: painted her face, bobbed her hair, wore revealing clothes, smoked, drank bootleg gin and chased males.

Why right then, leaning from behind the counter, Wallis had her arms out in a sleeveless dress that was supposed to be buttoned up to under her chin, but had been left undone, exposing cleavage.

It was really a shame, Wallis could have been a very beautiful girl.

She was petite, barely breaking five feet tall, with a rounded, plump body top heavy with a large bust.

Her face, oblong and chubby-cheeked had large, dark sleepy eyes, under penciled in brows, black, as was her hair, cut into a crimped bob that fell to the apples of her cheeks.

Cheeks which glowed an unnatural shade of red, in a face powdered several shades lighter than the rest of her caramel colored body, a beauty mark off to the right of her chin.

Grey shadow ran from her blackened lashes clear up to her drawn brows, and her lips, painted a deep brick shade were a cupid’s bow on her face.

Her dress, in lime green polka dots, was matched by the green scarf wrapping her head. Cheap, glass and metal bangles lined her bare arms.

She smelled loudly of inexpensive perfume.

Wallis was one of the dying out Flappers left behind from the twenties.

“Yes…” Vylette replied curtly, glancing at Vinnie who was still contemplating what candy to purchase for herself..

“It is a rather impressive car.”

“Child, if you think that car is something, you should have seen the man that got out of it! Woo, refined and bona fide!” Wallis’ dark eyes rolled with lust and while Vylette knew Lorraine had been making big talk of going after the rich man, Wallis was guaranteed to make after him like hornet. Wallis made after every man with a pulse. It was her way.

“I swear if Loretta didn’t have me tied to the counter, I’d have gone after him…and gotten acquainted.”

Wallis’ over-made face frowned at the thought of her current stepmother, and she cracked a crooked smile at Vylette.

“What can I do you for, Sweetie?”

“A dozen eggs, please.” Vylette stood straighter as Wallis looked over and saw Vinnie at the candy counter across the shop, shouting shrilly,

“Winston! Edward! Elizabeth! Rachel! Alfred! One of you shiftless N(bad word)s get out here! There’s a customer at the candy stand! Quit hiding or I‘ll take a piece of birch to you!”

Automatically from the back, Winston Pelant, the youngest of the clan, a small, ill-looking boy of eleven, came moseying out from the back of the store. His mother had been Wallis’ second stepmother and he looked like her in that he was a dark, mousy looking boy, with shifty eyes and a bald head.

“Lazy little worthless so-and-sos. I wish Loretta would raise them…ain’t my children…”

As he spoke with Vinnie, Wallis wondered,

“Do you want white or brown eggs?”

“White, please.”

Twelve eggs appeared in a carton and were placed in a paper sack.

The quarter was exchanged, with a nickel and ten pennies coming back in change.

“Vinnie, when you get your candy, please come across to the five-and-dime.” Vylette instructed, unintentionally feeling superior to Wallis.

“Sure, Sis.” Vinnie called back softly, and said loudly, “Plain chocolate, or with peanuts…?”

To the town tramp, Vylette gave a thank you and started out, bag hugged to her on one side.

Emerging from the store, she saw the Cadillac still was parked out front, before starting towards the five and dime.

Through the large, display window, Vylette could see Lorraine cooing over the rack with lipsticks on it, a magazine tucked beneath her arm.

Smiling to herself, knowing that if Lorraine could, she’d have taken ever tube of lip color with her, Vylette stepped from the sidewalk and started across the dirt road.

But really, what was it like to put on make up?

To sit before a mirror like that trash Wallis surely did each morning and apply it?

Her mind on the lifestyle she lacked, the change Vylette was trying to slip into her pocket instead missed and fell into the dirt around her feet.

“Goodness gracious!” Vylette moaned as the coins scattered and rolled every which way.

“Mama will have a conniption if I lose her money!”

Setting her bag on the ground, she crouched low and started to retrieve her mother’s coins.

“…five…six…seven…eight.” She counted to herself knowing if she didn’t bring all fifteen cents home, the difference would be made up by a leather strap across her back. Waste was a sin.

“Oh my God!”

There was a sharp cry, somewhere close behind Vylette and at once, she was clutched around her middle and yanked backwards so hard she all but flew.

As she went back, she was quite stunned to see a large milk truck go roaring by, crossing the exact spot she had been gathering her change, completely obliterating the bag containing her eggs.

The truck continued on down the street, never stopping and turned the corner.

The only thing left in the middle of the road was the mashed brown paper back, and a mess of white shells and scrambled yellow yolks.

She…she had almost been run over!

A pair of hands, warm and large pressed her shoulders from behind.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

A tender voice, so high and delicate, Vylette couldn’t determine it was male or female, questioned.

Vylette, with absolutely concern over the fact she’d nearly been flattened, only stared at the mess a few feet away and whimpered,

“My…my eggs.”

She could feel that leather strap on her hide right then.

Oh, how her mother would carry on about her not paying attention to her surroundings and wasting both the eggs and money. She wanted to cry.

“Miss, please…are you alright? Are you hurt in any way?”

Turning, Vylette looked up, and found herself utterly dumbstruck.

Standing onside of her, face full of concern and worry, was a young man.

He was quite tall and exceedingly slim, with a complexion like that of a cup cocoa, strong and brown and smooth.

Vylette’s breathe caught in her throat as she continued to gaze upon him, unwaveringly.

He was possibly the most handsome man she had ever had the blessing to set her eyes upon.

He had huge, wide brown eyes like a puppy dog, focused on her, under trim, arched black brows. He had a small, sculpted nose, tapered at the nostrils and slightly upturned at the tip. His cheeks were hollow and cheekbones sharp.

His mouth, thin and mildly pouted, showed the barest, merest trace of a mustache attempting to grow in.

His hair, a thick shock of glossy, ebony curls, combed back attractively a few tendrils falling into his eyes.

Those eyes on Vylette like a spotlight in the dark, never leaving her face.

He was extremely well-dressed, clad in a three-piece, highly starched navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and dotted bowtie with matching pocket square folded fancily, so that four peaks were seen.

Eyes sweeping down, Vylette noticed he wore blue and white, wing-tipped shoes, so polished she could see reflection in them.

New shoes, not with the soles worn out of them like most boys and men in those parts.

Had he come right off the pages of a magazine? He looked too perfect to be real.

“Are you hurt, Miss? I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, you were right in the path of that truck. You’d have been killed. Please say something…”

Somehow, by the grace of God, Vylette managed to find her voice, still awe-struck.

“No…I’m quite fine. Thank you, Sir. I’m very grateful to you for your quick thinking and cat-like reflexes.”

Reaching out, Vylette touched his arm, marveling at the soft wool of his suit.

It was soft like eiderdown, not still at all like her father’s suits.

She noticed, that as she spoke, a strange light came into the man’s eyes, whisking away the worry that had been present.

“Indeed. I’m glad the only casualty seemed to be your eggs.”

He motioned to the leaking mess on the road, with a cheerful smile, his eyes polite and playful, his manner seeming so kind.

“Oh the eggs…” Vylette’s head ached at the temples. “Those were for Mama to bake with this afternoon!”

“Please…” A large brown hand eclipsed the white one gripping his arm and Michael squeezed it. “Don’t be upset. I’ll buy you another dozen, right this minute. Please, don’t get upset, Miss.”

A coy smile flashed harder.

“Eggs can always be replaced--young ladies, cannot.”

Vylette’s ears perked up at the statement. Not so much that this man was offering to buy the eggs, but that he had called her a ‘lady’ right to her face.

Never, in her seventeen years of life, could Vylette recall being referred to as a ‘lady’. Only ‘girl’ by everyone she knew.

Did…did this gentleman really think she was a…a lady?

“Why, thank you, Mr. ...” She hesitated as she didn’t know his name.

Still squeezing at her little hand, the man chuckled,

“I’m Michael--Michael Jackson. Pleased to meet you Miss…” His brows went up indicating he know her name.

“Vylette Meraux.” Vylette ducked her head, feeling her cheeks start to tingle as blood rushed to them.

“Glad to know you, Miss Vylette Meraux, and to help you…I’ll go retrieve those eggs, you will pardon me…”

Gingerly, he peeled her hand from his arm, nodded, and walked the few feet back into the store.

Vylette watched him go, her heart pounding so hard, so suddenly, she had to audibly gasp for air.

Who was this man? From whence had he come?

Moments later, Michael was there again, small paper sack in hand.

“Here you are Miss Meraux.” He greeted her handing her the bag.

Looking down in it, Vylette saw a dozen of the whitest eggs, with an addition. On top of the eggs was a Gigantic, the largest chocolate bar the Pelant grocery store stocked, weighing in at three ounces.

“Your eggs…” Michael chuckled, sounded more like he was singing than laughing. “…and a piece of chocolate. I feel chocolate soothes the nerves after a harrowing ordeal.”

Staring down into the bag, Vylette, cheeks aflame, whispered,

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Mr. Jackson.”

“I wanted to.” Michael stood a bit closer to her, invading her personal space, but not being offensive.

“I enjoy giving sweet things to sweet people.”

Vylette was speechless gazing up at him. The things he said!

“It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance Miss Meraux. I hope to see you again and please…stay out of the path of milk trucks from now.”

That warm hand patted her arm causing goose flesh to spring up all over her.

Seeing more stars than what the Milky Way could contain, Vylette heard herself reply that she would.

Yes Sir, she would.

Michael Jackson turned and started away, Vylette breathless.

But this dashing man had one more surprise in store for Vylette.

“Oh!” The startled gasp left her as he went directly to the black Cadillac, opening the door and slipping inside.

Wallis appeared in the doorway of her father’s store, hand on her hip, trying to appear alluring.

And was promptly ignored as Michael continued to gaze at Vylette. And only at Vylette as he started the engine.

Backing up, and driving towards her, Michael tooted his horn and waved.

Grinning, Vylette waved back as he continued on his way.

“Vylette!”

Lorraine was rushing to her, a look of pure shock on her face.

“Who was that? Was that the guy that guy who owns that Caddy? You spoke to him?” She demanded, as they both stared after the car.

Chin going up with pride, Vylette replied,

“That’s Mr. Jackson…we’ve just been introduced.”

“Jesus Christ…I wonder if he’s single…” Lorraine whispered and for a moment, Vylette was quiet.

Eyeing her cousin.

Lorraine wanted everything…but she wasn’t going to let her cousin get her claws into Michael Jackson.

No…

Face plain and serious, Vylette informed Lorraine,

“Drop it, Darling, he’s mine.”

Lorraine whitened and her eyes swelled but she said nothing else, her mouth tightening into a pink line.

* * *

In the heat of that same night, Vylette Meraux found that she could not sleep a single wink.

Not so much from the heat smothering her as she flipped and flopped restlessly on her hay stuffed mattress, but from her mind and the thoughts it was producing.

All that afternoon and on into the night, Vylette had been distant and silent.

Her mind on one thing and one thing alone: Mr. Michael Jackson.

After being so stagnated around the likes of Steven Wilkes and his cookie-cutter kind, she had found it particularly thrilling and refreshing to meet Michael Jackson.

She couldn’t help but be curious about him.

Where had he come from? What had brought him to the Parish.

When they had spoken, she hadn’t noticed any sort of hint of a Southern or Creole accent to him.

Was he…had he come from the North? Detroit or Chicago or St. Louis maybe?

A zealous chill ran from head to toe as he thought of how he had said he hoped to see her again.

Did that mean he was going to be staying in the Parish, or was he just being gentlemanly.

It was all soon to come out, perhaps even the following day, as any sort of news traveled like a bullet from mouth to mouth, household to household. It was just the way of the Parish.

Especially no one had quite seen anyone like this Jackson fellow in those parts, Lorraine had pointed out in a jealous whisper as they had prepared dinner that night. (She was positively stewing that she hadn’t been around when Mr. Jackson had appeared.)

He was most certainly rich, riding around in a fancy car like that--a Cadillac at that, a car designed as a showpiece to only be beautiful and a status symbol to its lucky owner.

And that suit, it had to be custom made or at least store bought--when everyone they knew sewed their own. Lorraine claimed she had seen one just like it on Conrad Nagel in Photoplay.

Imagine, Vylette knew someone who dressed like a film star!

She couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride--though pride was a sin--that this gentleman had taken the time to help her, going so far as to replace her eggs with out a cry of complaint.

But did the ten cent dozen and fifteen cent candy bar even matter to someone like him?

Perhaps he bought and ate all the candy he desired.

Perhaps the whole world was one Gigantic bar of chocolate to him…

Turning over, Vylette saw, on the far side of the room, Lorraine was stretched out, flashlight in one hand, reading another of those novels, the only time she could do it in peace and away from the prying, disapproving eyes of her mother.

How Vylette didn’t want to be like her cousin.

She adored and loved Lorraine and would have ever stood in the path of a bullet for her, but she didn’t want to be like her. Lorraine who devoured those romances like a starved convict devoured scraps. Lorraine who, as much as she had been raised and taught otherwise, only showed interest in a man for what rested in his wallet. What he could afford for her. If he could buy her the silk stockings and lacy frocks and dancing shoes she craved. Nights out on the town in speakeasies filled with illegal cocktails and cigarettes.

All Lorraine saw in her books and magazines and movies were wealth, the good life and all the extras.

Lately it was all she seemed to care about.

Vylette desperately didn’t want to admit it, but she knew Lorraine, as ladylike and dainty and sweet natured as she appeared and put on, was really nothing more than a greedy little opportunist.

She didn’t want to label her a gold-digger, that label was for fast, cheap and common girls like Wallis Pelant. Not a Deveraux, not a relative of the esteemed, Merauxs, not a descendant of the De La Croixs.

Lorraine, who kept company with Ulrich Povah, not because she loved him or even truly liked him.

She kept with him only because he showed promise at becoming a doctor and had bragged about receiving a new Ford upon his graduation like Steven.

And Vylette knew if the two became serious and married, Lorraine would likely work that poor, simple-minded boy to death to get her avarice satisfied.

Though, whatever flame had been kindled by Ulrich Povah, had died the moment Lorraine caught sight of Michael Jackson and all the finery and extras associated with him.

As silly as it seemed especially in the wake of the Depression, when a girl was only as set as her beau, Vylette wondered if romance; real, thriving, endearing true romance and love existed or were they just myths.

Was life really just a rat race to get the most money?

She certainly felt nothing like the passages in the novels Lorraine shared, of women fainting and jilted lovers hanging themselves when thrown over.

Something so intense, a love so intense, you would both live and die for it.

Something she never ever felt with Steven Wilkes…

And if nurtured…would it blossom with anyone?

Perhaps the dashing Mr. Jackson?

If only she could see him again!