Chapter Two

“…Peace be with you…Peace be with you…Thank you so much for coming out today…May God bless you…”


Life, for the nearly one thousand men, women and children of Rainelle Parish, Louisiana, was one of constant habit and ritual.


Mondays through Fridays, men worked, if they were lucky enough to have not been laid off in the Depression, else at on-site jobs, doing menial labor or out in their backyards, tending to crops and livestock to provide for themselves and their own.


Women, when they weren’t keeping house or cooking meals for their families, were in the kitchen in the back of Saint Ignatius Cathedral, passing out soup to the poorest of the poor. (With weekly meetings held every Wednesday evening in someone’s home.) Just about every woman over the age of eighteen had some form of membership in the Ladies’ Christian League.


Children were expected to go to school in the day and boys helped their fathers in the fields and girls, their mothers inside, after classes.


Saturdays were reserved for picnics, outings to the movie house, calling on friends, young lovers going courting and other church-sanctioned activities.


Sundays….Sundays were reserved for Mass.


With such a large, deeply and solely Catholic population, two Mass services were held each week to accommodate everyone.


(Even Wallis Pelant, as ungodly as she seemed, could be found in the back rows of the sanctuary with her father, current stepmother and flock of half-siblings.)


And for as far back as she could remember, Vylette had attended the second service, which usually started at eleven in the morning and concluded just after twelve noon.


They had always attended the latter services in order for the girls and Mrs. Meraux to get a jump start on Sunday dinner as it was usually the most elaborate meal cooked in the week.


It was sometime close to noon on another bright and balmy spring day, as Vylette, along with the rest of her family, were filing out of the church house, everyone being greeted by Father Lachey at the door.


Father Reginald Lachey had been as integral in Vylette’s life as her own parents. He had baptized all the girls as infants, and given them their first Holy Communion--Vinnie’s just last year--and had been the one to give Lorraine’s mother and Father their Last Rites as they succumbed to the Flu.


Plus, he’d been the priest to marry the Doctor and his wife.


Once a month, he joined the Merauxs for dinner, where he was always, viewed as a guest as esteemed and revered as Pope Pius XI himself, and was graciously presented with a box of his favorite cigars by Dr. Meraux.


No other guest was more welcome in the Meraux household than Father Lachey.


He was practically a member of the family, a friend of Dr. Meraux’s from the time he’d been a teenager, quite a few decades ago. And it was always a sheer and wonderful pleasure to be around him.


Nearing him, automatically, Vylette could feel her mouth turning up into a smile, as she could hear the deep, slightly hoarse voice--from years of inhaling the smoke of cigars--with a bit of a twang repeating the same phrases to parishioners.


“…Peace be with you…Peace be with you…Thank you so much for coming out today…May God bless you…”


Getting closer, Vylette was nearly overcome with a sense of pride, as she always felt when near so holy a vessel as Father Lachey. He wasn’t really so much a person to her, but a link directly to God himself, in the shape of a kindly, middle-aged gentleman.


Father Lachey, somewhere in his early fifties, his pecan-colored face lined deeply and marked with darker freckles along his sagging, jowls. His eyes, deep set and dark, showed his knowledge and passion for his life of Christ, appeared huge from behind the small, thick, and round lenses of his tortoise shell spectacles. At one time, his hair had been black and lustrous, but over time had gone a light grey and missing from the very top. The bald patch was notorious for shining and even a person standing in the very back of the church, could see it reflecting from the pulpit.


He was a jolly rotund man, his gut protruding forward, lending to the comical look of what a man would appear like if pregnant. His body, despite the very warm weather, was covered from throat to floor in a black, woolen robe that buttoned up the front, little white collar circling his fat neck. Golden and wooden rosary beads hung from his waist and a crucifix, suspended by a thin chain laid on his bosom.


The family moved out onto the long staircase that led up to the massive brick building, and Vylette could audibly hear her mother inhaling to speak.


Kathleen Meraux never let a Sunday pass with out personally speaking to the priest. As a head of the Christian League, she erroneously felt herself as in touch with God as he.


“Well, Father Lachey…” Mrs. Meraux’s voice boomed with clarity and dignity, as one would expect of one of the matrons of the Parish. “…that was certainly a rousing sermon you gave today!”


A smooth, pale brown hand, covered in a white kid glove, was extended and eagerly patting at the Father’s wrinkled one.


Kathleen Meraux was a stout woman, her thickset curves and largish bosom concealed beneath a black cotton dress, printed with tiny pink and white blooms with said curves contained in an ironclad girdle.


Her hair partially concealed by a black cloche, was also jet, save for a singular streak of stark white, tattling on her thirty-five years of age.


Just as long as her daughter’s, Mrs. Mearaux’s locks were finger waved in the front, up off her forehead, the rest gathered into a braided bun at the base of her neck.


Her face, unmarred by her age, was smooth as a girl’s, accented by dark, hazel-green eyes above a proud nose and pert, small mouth.


As she felt any and all make up was worn by “trash and show people”, she wore nothing more than lotion on her face to keep her skin supple.


“Why, thank you, Mrs. Meraux.” Father Lachey chuckled as others streamed past. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Its always a joy to see everyone here…”


His eyes found Vylette, Vinnie and Lorraine each smiling back but remaining quiet, then looked to Dr. Meraux as he stood behind his wife.


Smiling the two shook hands.


Dr. Almanzo Meraux, ten years his spouse’s senior, was an imposing figure.


Towering to nearly six and a half feet tall, he was broad shouldered and dense of body. Had he not looked so stern, his mouth in a constant tensely set straight line when not speaking, he would have been quite the handsome man.


His hair, black and a “good” grade, worn parted on the left and combed back, neatly, stood out against his reddish complexion.


Like Vinnie, his eyes were a stormy grey, accented by the thin, rectangular, silver frames of his eyeglasses.


Beneath a wide nose, his upper lip was obscured by a thick and heavy mustache he had been cultivating since the Great War.


(Author’s Note: The Great War is World War One. That‘s how it was referred to until America’s involvement in World War Two in the 1940s.)


Just as serious and severe as he looked, Dr. Meraux was dressed in an austere black suit with a highly starched white oxford and tie. He never wore anything but black to church, as he felt one needed to be as modest and unassuming as possible in church.


It had taken upwards of nearly seven years for the girls to be allowed to wear colored dresses to Mass instead of black. But the girls had won this small victory by some grace of God, and stood off to the side, Vylette in a lilac, floral adorned dress, Lorraine in a soft pink one, young Vinnie in a plaid frock.


“A very wonderful sermon today.” Dr. Meraux’s voice was a bit lighter than one would expect given his appearance.


Father Lachey grinned, his attention being called to Mrs. Meraux again, as she began booming about ideas to raise funds in order to keep the soup kitchen operating.


While Vylette and Vinnie stood at attention, the last of the congregation exiting, Lorraine started to lean against the white wooden railing on the steps, slumping in her, dropped-waist dress.


Through pretty and becoming on the older girls, the dropped waists and boxy silhouettes of their dresses had gone out of fashion with the Crash some two years earlier, but the dresses remained, as Vylette’s parents saw no need to purchase any extra dresses since they still fit and looked like new.


Her head lowered, Lorraine’s pretty face was hidden by the wide-brim of her gauzy pink hat, matching her dress.


“…we are in dire need of money for more chickens to make the noodle soup and eggs and green peas…the hungry need good, hearty, nourishing soups to stick to them and keep them full…” Mrs. Meraux was droning on.


Dr. Meraux, listening solemnly, glanced over and caught sight of his lazing niece.


Swiftly, her white, spotted bicep was clutched and she was up righted, with him whispering lowly, but loudly enough for her cousins to hear.


“Lorraine, you’re in the presence of a Holy Man! Where is your respect? Have you had leave of your senses, child? You’ve been raised better than that! You remain standing, or I’ll let your aunt fix it so you can’t sit down! Don’t let me catch you being disrespectful like this again! Do you understand me?”


Lorraine, could barely be heard, “Yes, Sir, Uncle Almanzo.”


There was a flame of hatred in her eyes as her uncle turned back to join the adults’ conversation.


Lorraine, like most all teenagers, hated to be faulted in public and her cheeks glowed with her scorn.


Vylette only offered her a sympathetic look from beneath the brim of her lilac hat.


It was all she could do; you didn’t speak until spoken to--even at seventeen and practically engaged.


Looking from her cousin, Vylette saw a new person had appeared a few steps down.


A skinny, pale, popeyed child, her long, golden brown hair gathered in two looped braids about her ears stood staring up at Mrs. Meraux expectantly.


She was Vinnie’s best friend and one of Ulrich’s sisters, Hildegard Povah.


She waved at Vinnie who waved back, but both children had learned not to interrupt adults when they were speaking.


Vinnie knew the leather strap all too well and Hildegard wasn’t fond of the birch rod Mrs. Povah implemented.


Eventually there was a break in the conversation and Mrs. Meraux questioned,


“Do you need something Hildegard?”


The child’s eyes, a watery, sky blue that seemed to glow, widened,


“Yes Ma’am, could Vinnie come over to my house and play awhile, please? My Mommy said it was alright with her, if it were alright with you.”


Mrs. Meraux huffed, as everything, even her own children took a backseat to her work for the Christian League, and she gave her youngest a swooping glance.


“Lavinia…” She started, putting on her airs before the priest--she called the child Vinnie in any other context,




“You mind your manners and be home by six for your supper. And don‘t you dare get your dress dirty!”
“Yes Ma’am! Thank you!” Like a flash, Vinnie and Hildegard were scampering away, as frightened kittens would run from a pit-bull.


And before she could start in on her second verse, Lorraine interrupted.


“Aunt Kathleen?”


Mrs. Meraux’s gaze was cutting. “Yes?”


Oh, how that foghorn hated to be interrupted.


Folding her hands in front of her, Lorraine begged too sweetly,


“May Vylette and I take a walk before supper, please?”


Annoyed, Mrs. Meraux merely nodded and without so much as a thank you, Lorraine had taken her cousin’s arm, the two making a getaway.


As the made it off the stairs and onto solid ground, and starting past the picket fence surrounding the church, Lorraine sighed triumphantly,


“Great Scott! I didn’t think I’d be able to get a word in edgewise, with the way Aunt Kathleen prattles on so! She never shuts up--”


“You know how Mama is…” Vylette looked at her cousin impishly through her own hat’s brim. “Incredibly passionate about the Ladies’ Christian League.”


“It’s going to be a bleak day when we get inducted into that cult.” Lorraine tossed her hair, arranged in a single, gleaming braid off her shoulder. “For the Good and Gracious Cause, Aunt Kathleen will run us ragged--”


“G-g-good afternoon, Lorraine, Vylette…m-m-mighty nice weather we’re having isn’t it?” Someone wondered, amidst a gaggle of stammers and a mangled Southern accent, as the cousins passed the far end of the fence marking the church’s property.


It was a voice the pair knew all too well and Lorraine just barely managed to stop herself from allowing a growl of despair to pass her pink mouth.


Hand in hand, the two turned to see, leaning against the fence, a young man.


Soaring over them, was an awkward fellow, who always looked like a baby giraffe trying to take its first steps on solid ground, skinny and lanky, his body covered in a dark brown suit with a matching, crooked bowtie at his long throat.


His head was lowered a bit, showing his short, golden brown hair, limp, straight and severely parted down the middle.


His eyes, a lackluster blue, beneath a short forehead were on the ground, his long hands twirling in front of him.


There he was, in all of his bashful glory, Ulrich Povah.


Ulrich, like Steven, came from one of the best and well-moneyed families in the Parish.


The Povahs had owned and run their namesake hardware/feed store in the community for upwards of seventy years.


Ulrich, had a lineage could be traced clear back to his great-great grandfather who had immigrated to the United States from Germany and married his Creole great-great grandmother shortly thereafter, spawning quite a large family numbering in the dozens and dotting all over the South.


Ulrich, though he and Steven had been joined at the hip, almost since birth, he and his best chum were night and day.


(Vylette never saw Steven at Mass; his family attended the earlier, five-in-the-morning Mass, and he spent the rest of the day, unless the two had a date, out at the pond sleeping and fishing.)


Steven was swarthy, a braggart, arrogant, and had been known to brawl at the slightest provocation--and could box like a prizefighter--while Ulrich was much more subdued, modest and typically tried to avoid hostile confrontations.


Ulrich, the only boy in a family of seven, with six younger sisters between the ages of three and thirteen, was more sensitive to the point of being a sissy and while he fished and hunted, and pursued all the manly sort of things with the other quality named boys, it was more to be social than anything.


There was no true passion behind him in these pursuits.


The only thing that seemed to bring life to Ulrich, was Lorraine Devereaux.


Head coming up, his eyes sparkled sapphire and widened, taking in Vylette’s cousin happily from head to toe and it was no secret his attraction to her as he wore it so plainly.


Lorraine was staring down her nose at him, full of utter contempt, and Vylette, running damage control answered him,


“Yes, it is a lovely day, Ulrich. Did you enjoy Father Lachey’s sermon?”


“Yes…” Ulrich inched closer. “It…it was very moving.”


Lorraine’s grip on her cousin’s hand tightened; she prepared to fly the coop.


And then Ulrich asked something that made her stop cold.


“Lorraine…do…do you like Jean Harlow, the actress?”


Lorraine’s mint-colored eyes widened and she smiled so beautifully, so brightly, at the poor boy, Ulrich’s knees trembled and he struggled to remain standing.


“Why yes, I like Jean. She’s my favorite.” Lorraine spoke so sweetly, sugar granules were almost visible and Vylette rolled her eyes. Lorraine engaged in talk about film stars the way her aunt engaged about the Christian League.


Once she began it was often a long interval of time before she stopped--if she stopped.


Ulrich, had a few false starts and a lot of sheepish giggling, before he got out,


“If…if it’s not too late tonight, and Dr. and Mrs. Meraux allow it, would you like to come out to the movie house with me? I hear they’re screening Hell’s--pardon me--Heck’s Angels. I hear it has a Technicolor sequence. You can see Jean Harlow in color…”




Jean Harlow in color.
Vylette peered at Lorraine through her hat again, certain her cousin, in spite of her definite low tolerance of Ulrich, would have gladly put it aside to see her idol in color and covet her blonde mane for an hour or so, while snacking on a bag of roasted peanuts.


Lorraine never could resist the allure of that Siren.


(Author’s Note: I’ve seen Hell’s Angels (1930) three times. It contains the only known color footage of Jean Harlow ever shot.)


So, Vylette almost cried out when Lorraine, playing with her braid replied mockingly polite,


“I would love to accompany you, Ulrich, it would be an honor…”


The boy began to puff up,


“…only…only I will have to decline. Sister Roberta is giving a spelling exam tomorrow morning, and I‘d like to study for it. I‘m so very sorry, Ulrich. You understand.”


Only a well taught belle could shovel such a load of shit and make it turn a person into a diabetic it was so saccharine.


“What?” Vylette’s mind screamed at her, but her mouth never moved.


Ulrich couldn’t conceal his disappointment. His face fell and entire body seemed to be sagged over under the weight of that letdown.


“Oh…well, that’s alright, Lorraine. I…I wanted to offer.” He whispered, tears in his very voice, and his hand went out to clutch Lorraine’s gloved one.


“Ulrich!” Lorraine gasped, snatching her hand away and slapping the top of his. “People can see you!”


Seeing his breach in etiquette, Ulrich reddened to the shade of a tomato and begged profusely,


“I’m sorry Lorraine! Forgive me for being so forward. You…you just look so nice today…you look so nice every day! Oh, I’m so stupid. I know better than to paw at a girl! I must learn to control myself, I have such an awful time with my impulses…Forgive me! I didn‘t mean to do it! I‘m sorry Lorraine!”


Ulrich, scandalized, eyes consuming his face, sputtered, before turning and running away, tail between his legs.


Vylette, feeling a raw and thorough pity in her heart for the boy, scolded her cousin,


“Lorraine, you shouldn’t chastise him so! How can you be so cruel? Can’t you see how much he likes you? He’s trying so hard. He complimented you. He even offered you a chance to see Jean Harlow’s picture--and I know you’re dying to see it.”


Placing a hand on her hip and starting away, Lorraine simpered,


“I know he complimented me. He always compliments me. He’s silly, not blind. He knows I’m pretty. Anyone with eyes can tell you I’m pretty, Vylette. And of course, I’m dying to see Hell’s Angels. I wish I could see every picture Jean ever does…just. Well…” She looked over her shoulder. “You know how I feel about Ulrich.”


“Yes…it’s how I feel about Steven.” Vylette replied knowingly, and the two linked arms, ambling down the dirt road.


Both were quiet a moment, contemplating the inevitable paths they were to take, only a short while from then.


“It’s not that Ulrich isn’t a decent catch…” Lorraine spoke suddenly her delicate face hardened with reality and pulled away.


“What, with the hardware store and all. And he has those blue eyes…it’s just, the boy doesn’t interest me at all. He’s like a puppy dog…and I hate puppy dogs.”


She stopped long enough for Vylette to fall into step with her, the two walking a weaving and winding path, leading back to the main strip in town.


“There’s not much to Ulrich, Vylette. He talks to me, and compliments me but it’s nothing I’d write home about. He bores me to tears. And I know he tries. You don’t have to tell me that. He tries hard. I just don’t feel for him the way he’d probably like…you saw how he cut up just a minute ago, because I slapped at him for trying to grab my hand.”


Lorraine sucked on her teeth.


“Some man he is. The kind of man I like would grab my hand and hold it and touch it until it turned red, give me a deaf ear if I said no and most likely slap my hand back if I slapped his.”


“Lorraine, you know none of the boys here act like that. You and your stories…” Vylette chuckled, the idea of any of the boys they knew trying that as silly as…as a flying car.


“Yes, me and my stories.” Lorraine was defensive, chin jerking. “But, all of those stories didn’t fall right out thin air into the laps of those writers; someone had to inspire them!”


The two were quiet and reflective a moment--did boys and men like that really exist outside of the bubble in which they lived?--with Lorraine inquiring,


“Is Steven interesting to you?”


Vylette shook her head, her ponytail bouncing down her back.


“No…lately all he’s been talking about is that new Ford he’s supposed to be getting for graduation. I mean, that’s nice, that Mr. Wilkes is getting him the car, not many have cars to start with or the money to buy them…but I don’t like to hear of it each time we meet. But that’s just how Steven is. When he gets something new, he likes to show off.”


Both girls giggled and stated in unison,


“Pride is a sin!”


While Lorraine’s face was reddened in the cheeks, and beaming with all her teeth, Vylette’s expression was shrinking and her mouth tipped at the corners.


“Darling?” She stopped and stared off down the wooded lane looking nowhere in particular, “Do you know something?”


“What?”


A cool mist began to spring from Vylette’s hands, inside her gloves.


“Do you know, ever since I met that Jackson fellow yesterday, I haven’t stopped thinking of him.”


“Why Vylette…” Lorraine was clearly stunned but fell silent as Vylette added,


“I…I was barely able to listen to Father Lachey--God forgive me--but I kept thinking of him. He pulled me out the way of that truck. Just jumped and…and save me, Lorraine. He…he was so very kind to me…”


She trailed off, heart beginning to flutter more rapidly as she recalled how he had patted at her hand during their brief encounter.


Usually a man didn’t touch a girl in so benign a way unless they were engaged, it was believed and staunchly taught if a man were permitted to touch a girl and they weren’t absolutely serious, it would inspire him to take liberties and the girl could wind up with more trouble than just a ruined reputation.


No man had ever touched Vylette. Steven made attempts; he withdrew with spanked and bruised hands all the time. And Vylette was generally so cool with him to begin with, he usually would up apologizing in some form--though not as feverently and fanatically as Ulrich had to Lorraine.


Michael Jackson had seemed so concerned for her well-being, so worried for her. Patting and coddling her. Throwing caution to the wind to yank her out of harm’s way.


Those warm dark eyes so sincere and serene as they peered into hers.


His touch and look had thrilled her so…she was becoming lightheaded and giddy at the remembrance.


Lorraine, seeing the peaceful joy in her cousin‘s attractive, pink-tinged face, patted her back,


“I got a dime from Uncle Almanzo. Why don’t we go to Mumfree’s for some Coca-Colas? And we can talk about him some more.”


Nodding, the two continued. After a few paces, Vylette couldn’t help herself.


“Lorraine…you saw Mr. Jackson…you don’t believe he is a bootlegger, do you? Even if he does drive that Cadillac?”
Though he had introduced himself by his full name, and had a youthful, boyish look, Vylette felt it was more respectful and dignified to refer to Michael as Mr. Jackson. Refined men demanded to be labeled and called appropriately.


“I don’t know.” Her cousin admitted slowly. “He definitely has money, and lots of it. He rides around in something like a Barrymore would have, and looking at him, he’s probably lived a life and a half. A man like him has to. Bootleggers do make a lot of money…”


“I hope he isn’t a bootlegger.” Vylette repeated solemnly. Bootlegging was and illegal and dangerous practice in a Prohibition ruled America--especially for Vylette, as her parents had headed the Temperance Association in the years preceding the nationwide ban on liquor.


Anyone caught distilling or distributing any form of spirits faces hefty fines, jail time, or worse.


And if word got around that Vylette had been conversing with a “bad” man…she’d be beaten until blood ran from her with that strap!


A descendant of Gerald De La Croix with a common law-breaker!




“He didn’t seem like a bootlegger.”
With a soft chuckle, Lorraine challenged,


“And just what other bootleggers do you know?”


They laughed at the ridiculousness of the statement.


Everyone they knew were homegrown, church-going folks.


“But we’ve read all those detective stories about all those illicit people in those magazines Papa likes to read…evil, running from the law, gangsters, and well, Mr. Jackson seemed almost too good to be in that sort of racket.”


He had to be.


Throwing an arm around Vylette, Lorraine hugged her close and offered,


“Maybe he had a rich uncle that bought the farm and left him a fortune.”


Slim shoulders went up and down as they started for the little diner that sat at the end of the lane and across from her father’s medical practice.


“We’ll probably never know now Lorraine…” She pouted, crossing her arms, wanting to drown herself in a soda. “He’s probably gone off to New Orleans or elsewhere by now.”


Never seeing Michael Jackson again. Vylette’s heart felt a tiny stab of grief at that awful notion.


How someone so bright, so new, so refreshingly marvelous could make such a cameo appearance in her life.


And now…now he was gone.


She’d never see him again.


She halted cold in her tracks when Lorraine, mystified cooed.


“Maybe not, Vy, maybe not.”


Gloved hand rising, Lorraine pointed and all the breath whooshed from Vylette’s lungs.


A few yards away, parked in front of Pelant’s Grocery, was the majestic black and red Caddy, standing out among all of the raw Louisiana soil and neutral painted buildings, like a misplaced ball gown on a rack of Levis.


Vylette’s hands intertwined and mashed to her bosom heaving with shaky breaths, pupils dilating as she gazed on that piece of luxury in velvet and iron.


“He’s here…he’s somewhere still here…”


Lorraine’s eyes scanned around and except for little Winston sitting out front of his father’s store, reading a Saturday Evening Post, the road was vacant.


Eyes narrowing to a feline slant, Lorraine’s words were sharp and catty,


“Yes but where…if he’s in the grocer, I’ll bet that cow Wallis is flinging herself at him. You know how she is when any available man is around. Even when the man isn’t available! No couth or scruples at all--”




Tap! Tap! Tap!
Perplexed, they looked all around themselves a few moments, before the source of the noise was located.




Tap! Tap! Tap!
“My God…” The two gasped, every strand of hair on their heads rising up on end.


Through the large window of the diner, with the Mumfree’s name painted on it in blue and white, a young man was waving.


“It’s him…it’s him--oh Lorraine!” Vylette crushed the girl’s hand with such excited force she had to jerk it away before she lost the very use of it.


The two stood, inhaling far less air than they needed, as he rose and was exiting the diner, straightaway, making a beeline for them.


Michael Jackson, moving with careless ease, was again dressed like the stars the graced the pages of Lorraine’s film periodicals.


His long, willowy form was clad in a sleek single-breasted suit, constructed of a light brown, worsted wool, interwoven with pale blue threads forming a scant windowpane checkered design.


The same pale blue was reciprocated in his starched shirt and offset by a brown tie with a small, blue floral print and matching pocket square, folded to show four peaks.


His shoes, made of fine, camel brown leather, shone dully as he approached Vylette and Lorraine.


New clothing. All new clothing. No hand-me-downs, no recycled, out of style garments from years past. Had he ever worn out of style garments? Did he even know what the words hand-me-down meant?


His eyes showing the same light and kindness, as when he had been patting at her the previous afternoon, were on Vylette and she met his gaze a moment, before dropping it, her heart unable to bear such ferocious beating.


“Mr. Jackson…” She was as fluttery and nervous as poor Ulrich had been earlier around Lorraine.


“How do you do?” Michael greeted them and the girls repeated the phrase, seeing stars.


They had never been in the presence of someone like this man. The thrill. The very thrill.


“Miss Meraux…” His big hand found her arm and was patting at the white skin, taking on a crimson hue all over. It was a tremendous no-no, but Vylette, savoring the sensation made no moves to halt him.


How could make herself slap at him?


Even if she could have mustered the strength, she wouldn’t have stopped him. His hand was so soft and warm on her flesh.


How could a man have such soft hands; even shiftless rabble-rousers like Steven had roughened, calloused hands.


Michael’s felt like flesh clouds.


Didn’t he feel the goose pimples he was forcing to sprout from Vylette’s dermis?


“…you can’t know how pleasantly surprised I was to look up and see you going by after our rather informal meeting yesterday.”


He was so well-spoken, so intelligent, so…everything.


Vylette’s eyes roved his face, taking in his looks, her ears cherishing his light voice, absorbing every syllable.


He was so beautiful, so handsome, so attractive.


Was he real? Did he truly live and breathe?


A cherubic smile curled his features and he teased,


“Have you been staying out the way of speeding milk trucks?”


A terse laugh popped from Vylette’s mouth and with it all the tenseness she felt seemed to leave her, permitting her a bit of ease and relaxation, allowing her to say,


“Yes, I’ve kept out of the road.”


Michael’s eyes glittered, as Vylette looked upwards at him, her eyes showed entirely purple, complimented by her lilac church dress and hat.


A set of green eyes narrowed as the third party was all but forgotten.


“Ahem!”


Remembering her manners, Vylette, wrenched from the spell Michael was casting, rattled off an introduction,


“Please, allow me to present my cousin, Lorraine Devereaux. Lorraine, Michael Jackson.”


“I’m happy to know you Miss Devereaux.” Michael was holding her hand and shaking it.


“Enchanted, Mr. Jackson.” Lorraine, who’d been dying to use the ritzy phrase ala Harlow, smiled willfully, tilting her clefted chin up, looking into his striking face.


Lorraine’s eyes ran up and down that man like a searchlight.


Eyes drifting back to Vylette, Michael suggested,


“It’s so warm today, may I be so bold as to invite you ladies to join me for a cold drink?”


The cousins fairly reeled.


Never before, had they been referred to as ladies.


Girls, little girls by some, dame when Steven thought he was out of earshot, but not ladies!


Did…did he really consider them on par with ladies?


Impressed and wildly flattered, the country girls were consenting.




“Why, yes!”


“Thank you, Mr. Jackson!”
Michael stepped behind the girls, just as a male would, accompanying more than one female, allowing them to walk on ahead of him, and the newly minted trio made their way back to Mumfree’s.


Mumfree’s wasn’t anything all too fancy, a small, hole-in-wall sort of joint that specialized in typical diner fare, and during the week, saw a few dozen people, plunking down a nickel and dime there for a frosty soda or sandwich if they could spare it.


Run exclusively by the Mumfrees, a family, distantly related to the Wilkes, Mumfree’s comprised of a main counter, with a few swivel seats, near the back of a wood paneled room under a few bare bulbs, dotted with a few tables and chairs in the front, by the display window.


From somewhere in the far back, in the kitchen, hymns, via the radio were playing faintly.


On a Sunday afternoon, when most were making after-church calls on others or slaving away over a hot stove preparing supper, Mumfree’s was empty, save for the three and someone starting to bang around, out of sight, in the kitchen.


One table near the window, showed that Michael had been the only patron; an empty drink glass sat with a much-handled menu and a pristine brown fedora.


Automatically, two seats, one beside the chair Michael had been occupying, and the other next to that, were pulled out, Michael waiting until the two were seated, before sitting down himself.


Right beside Vylette.


“There, now we’re all settled.” His voice slipped into something of a falsetto, a cross between a whisper and something almost too high-pitched to be male, that gave Vylette a chill all over.


Starting to pick up the menu, he questioned,


“What would you like to drink?”


Somewhat tentative looks were exchanged, before Vylette, casting her view down on her gloved hands, replied,


“A…a couple of Coca-Colas, please--”


“Oh no!” Michael declared, a large hand coming up and he shook his head violently, all those glossy, willy-nilly curls atop it bouncing.


“I can’t get you Cokes! You both look too nice…too special to have just a plain old Coca-Cola!” A hand was wagged between them. “All dressed up like you are. You can drink a Coke any day. I insist you both have an ice cream soda--I had a rather delicious one prior to our running into each other.”


Both Lorraine and Vylette lit up.


An ice cream soda? They hadn’t had such a treat-- a treat that rang in at a dime apiece, twice the price of a Coca-Cola--since the Fourth of July celebration last year. It was almost the Fourth again!




(Author’s Note: I know a dime for a drink doesn’t seem like an awful lot, but during the Depression, most people were lucky if they saw a dollar extra in a year! Just imagine if you could only drink ten sodas for the whole year!)
It was then the idea dawned on Vylette: Michael Jackson was intending to pay for the both of them!


“Um…” Flustered, Vylette looked to her cousin for guidance on such an unprecedented manner.


She was unaccustomed to having things bought by a man--again, it was taught so often that men paying for girls would try to take liberties. So many things seemed to cue a man to take liberties…


Even when she went out with Steven, her mother or father gave her money to pay her way.


She was worried, but Lorraine was nodding so hard, her hat almost flew clean off her red head.


“If…if you truly insist, Mr. Jackson.” Vylette cautioned unsure of herself again.


The thin, arched brows above Michael’s twinkling eyes wiggled, and he spread the menu on the tabletop.


“I do…and please, call me Michael. We’re friends.”


Friends. They were friends!


Again stars paraded before Vylette’s eyes. Yes, she wanted to be his friend.


Only a fool would have opted for otherwise.


Eagerly the girls contemplated the various flavors a few moments, before Lorraine spoke up.


“I’d like the Pineapple soda, please.”


“And would you care for a Pineapple one too?”


Michael’s gaze was penetrating and Vylette was waffling.


Could he see straight to her soul?


“No…no, I’d like a Mint one.” She managed, desperate to look anywhere but at him.


Large hands clapping, Michael smiled,


“A Mint and a Pineapple, and I do believe I’ll get a refill on my Vanilla Crème. If you’ll excuse me.”


Michael, with each hand, patted at the shoulders of the girls, as he rose.


Vylette noticed he paused for a moment, his hand on her shoulder longer than her cousin‘s, before going over to the counter and ringing a small bell for service.


Vylette stared forward, out the window, and Lorraine twisted in her seat to watch him.


“Vylette…we are so lucky.” Lorraine’s voice dropped and she leaned closer to her cousin. “And though I hate you down to your core, because it seems…Michael…prefers you, perhaps he has a friend. A man like him can’t be too short on friends…fine, fine friends, just like him.”


Sighing victoriously, Lorraine folded her hands together on the tabletop.


“To think, an ice cream soda, and it’s not our birthdays or anything. And I bet he’d buy as many as we could drink too!”


At the counter, there was clacking and the sound of liquid gushing as one of the Mumfrees, prepared the cold drinks, Vylette didn’t notice who as she was only seeing Michael Jackson in her vision at the time, .


Her mind swirled over what Lorraine had said. Not the envious bit--Lorraine seemed to envy and wish ill-will on anyone who had a remotely stimulating beau, it was her spiteful way--but what she had said before it.


Turning from the window, to her cousin, her best friend, she asked, barely hearing herself.




“Do you think Michael likes me? Really?”
A man like him. A man like Michael Jackson.


“Are you daft, Vy? Yes!” Lorraine insisted sharply. “He almost bust a hole in the window for your attention and now…now he’s playing host…”


She played with her braid absently.


“Besides, he hasn’t stopped charming you since we sat down. Look at you any harder, those big, bug-eyes of his will fly right out his face…oh…oh my goodness gracious…”


Lorraine trailed off quite abruptly, and Vylette saw why.


In the open doorway of Mumfree’s, that allowed touches of a warm breeze in, and the aroma of cooking food and stale chicory coffee out, a man had materialized.


Very much like Michael, who remained at the counter, quietly watching the ice cream sodas being constructed, this new fellow was the pinnacle of a dapper gentleman.


His body, a bit compact and standing a few inches shorter than Michael‘s, appearing to have the same sort of wiry-like build, was exceptionally dressed.


The man wore a light, heather-grey suit, double breasted and cinched closed over a stiff white shirt and a plaid tie that mixed various shades of grey, as was the square in his front pocket. While Michael’s square had been folded to four peaks, his square had only two. For a splash of color, a pink carnation was in his lapel.


He was quite attractive, his features a bit more manly, compared to Michael’s boyish, somewhat androgynous ones.


His hair, arranged in the same fancy curl dressing as Michaels was thick and black, framing his flat face like a halo. Beneath full brows, his eyes were dark as he stared across the diner at Michael.


Broad, plump lips, accented by a pencil-thin, painstakingly trimmed mustache, twisted in angst and Vylette realized he didn’t notice her and her cousin sitting there.


Lorraine had noticed him though. Lorraine noticed every good-looking man.


Somehow, the skirt of her dress had been hiked up, showing her freckled legs off from the mid-thigh in the cheap, artificial silk stockings she wore. The only pair of stockings she owned.


Vylette shook her head; if her mother could see her niece now.


Lorraine had found her prey…whomever he was.


Her green eyes were widened, consuming the man, from his head down to his grey, patent leather, lace-up, shoes.


Hat still in hand, he made beeline directly for Michael, storming past them.


Both girls turned in their seats, curiosity wearing them.


Who was this man? What was he to Michael?


“You know they don’t carry Gold Crown cigarettes in this hovel?”


He questioned in a soft voice a skosh deeper than Michael’s. “I just asked at the five-and-dime across the way. Man says he’ll have to order them! Takes a week to come in! I had to buy Camels! Me! Smoking goddamn Camels! I don’t even like Turkish tobacco! Gold Crowns are American. Why would I want something from a country named after…after…poultry? But it was the only name I knew. Had a bunch of off-brands I never heard of in there. Can’t smoke just anything. I’ll have a coughing fit…”


Michael, still facing the counter answered,


“Camels are American, too. They just add the Turkish tobacco in for flavor.”


The shorter man went to reply, when the three sodas were placed up on the counter.


He stared at the glasses of brightly colored liquid topped with a dollop whipped cream.




“Just what the hell kind of drinking do you call yourself doing, Mike? You crawl across the Sahara while I was gone?”
Michael took his own sweet time to hand the man one glass and retrieve the other two, before he spoke roughly through gritted teeth,


“We have mixed company, you darn fool, and you’re in here cursing like we’re out in a barnyard somewhere!”


“Company?” The man repeated and for the very first time, took sight of the girls.


The two smiled, Vylette sweetly, and Lorraine with a bit of the imagined sultry she possessed.


“Oh! I left my manners and common sense outside--pardon me!” The man chuckled, rushing over to the table, tossing his hat on top of Michael’s, hand extended. “


I didn’t see you there. Don’t know how I missed a couple of roses like you. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m new here and still trying to adjust. I’m Marlon Jackson.”


Ah…Marlon Jackson. So they were brothers.


The girls nodded at each other, both pleasantly happy.




“Marlon, this is Lorraine Devereaux…”
His hand eclipsed Lorraine’s and the two were all teeth and dancing eyeballs.




“…and her cousin, Vylette Meraux.”
Michael saying Vylette’s name was like listening to the chorus sing during Mass. It was a heavenly noise.


His hand was another flesh cloud, gently squeezing hers.


“Well it certainly is nice to have delicate company…” Marlon cackled, going and moving the chair on the opposite side of the table closer to Lorraine‘s.


Lorraine full of her own vanity was visibly puffing up, basking in the attention, the refined Marlon was bestowing upon her.


“Is this yours, Honey? Smells like pineapples!” He questioned, passing the drink under his wide nose and Lorraine nodded. He set the loud yellow beverage before her and positioned the glass straw in her general direction.


Michael slipped into his seat, the glass of green Mint soda given to Vylette and he took a drag of his own, clear Vanilla Crème.


Vylette savored that first sip. It had been so long since she had tasted a Mint ice cream soda.


It was just as she remembered it, relatively sweet with a punch of spearmint so strong it cleared the sinuses.


“This is delicious, thank you.” She looked up at Michael, his eyes blazing.


“So…are you ladies sisters?” Marlon was being familiar, touching after the auburn braid trailing over Lorraine’s shoulder, eyes dropping to her exposed legs every so often.


Though his eyes had seemed dark earlier, up close and shining with merriment, the two saw their true color was a strange and bright gold-tinged amber.


“We’re first cousins--” Lorraine gave Vylette a scathing glance as she reached and pulled her skirt to where it belonged.


Vylette had to help her maintain some level of decency. You didn’t just throw your legs at a man, no matter how nicely he was dressed.


“Ah, cousins…” Marlon nodded deeply. “I figured as much. You don’t look exactly alike, but favor in some ways.”


“We’re brothers.” Michael stated the obvious, taking a bit of whipped cream on his fingertip and eating it.


“Who’s the older?” Vylette wondered as Michael stole some of her cream.


He moved so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to swat him for his impertinence.


“Marlon’s a year older than me.” Michael’s gaze was so pure and wonderful, Vylette could barely drink.


“And what…what brings you gentlemen to Rainelle Parish?” She asked, years in the art of polite conversation benefiting her now more than it had in her lifetime.


Michael’s thin mouth parted, but he was drowned out by Marlon exclaiming,


“Say, what kind of gag is this, Mike? All you got Vylette and Lorraine was a drink? What about food? I know I’m feeling a bit on the empty side. They might be, too.”


Cheeks becoming burgundy, Michael spoke up.


“Would you ladies care for some lunch, it’s…”


Vylette was winding up to decline, he’d already spent so much and she didn’t want to take advantage of his generosity.


Michael reached down and came up with a pocket watch.


Vylette felt her eyes swelling in her head and not really wanting to, she was staring.


In his hand, was possibly the most stunning timepiece Vylette could recall seeing.


It gleamed, made of royal blue enamel, marked in the center by an scrolling script “M” made of bright gold and also rimmed around the edges in more curling gold inlay.


Her father was a doctor, and didn’t own a watch, himself.


“I broke my watch chain this morning…I’ll replace it later…” Michael mumbled to himself, and with a click, the top flipped open, revealing a mother-of-pearl dial and delicate gold hands.


Louder he added,


“It thirty-five past twelve. Perfect time for a bite…” He looked over at Marlon. “I looked at the menu, they only make breakfast and sandwiches here.”


With a statement like that, Vylette wondered to herself, just what kinds of meals these Jackson men were accustomed to eating.


Again the menu flopped open.


“You ladies get whatever you like…” Marlon was still playing with Lorraine’s hair. Vylette hoped word never reached her mother. Lorraine would have been whipped bloody. And Vylette would have also been whipped for letting Lorraine behave so loosely.


A man touching her hair, like he knew her.


Seeing the sandwiches listed, between ten and fifteen cents a pop, Vylette had to stop. Lorraine was too greedy to ever say no.


“I…I have to decline. You’ve already spent so much.” She started, and Lorraine’s head turned so quickly, her braid was wrenched from Marlon’s hand.


Eyes sparked with evil, but she held her tongue.


Onside of her, Marlon snorted.


“Thirty cents? That’s all the sodas cost. Mike and I spend that much on a pack of our Gold Crowns.”




“Huh?”
It was an incredible idea. The most expensive cigarettes they knew of were the Camels Marlon had complained about, and those were a dime a pack. Did these men really have what it took to spend three times as much, just to set paper and leaves on fire?


“Now, come on and eat…dinner is too far away.”


“He’s insisting, Vylette.” Lorraine agreed, as Marlon took hold of her hair again. “It’d be impolite to say no.”


Lorraine couldn’t have no if God himself appeared on a beam of light and demanded she do so--she’d have just gone to Hell.


“Yeah, we’d cry into our pillows all night over being snubbed.” Marlon cracked and both he and his brother cackled raucously.


Feeling outnumbered, she looked up at Michael.


He had his fist pressed to his cheek, gazing on her quietly.


Vylette was going to order a sandwich.


“May I have the Baked Ham and Cheese on White, please?”


Leaning closer to Vylette, Michael patted her arm.


“You can have the entire pig, oinks and all, if it were there to order.”


His hand was immediately slapped.


“Fresh.” Vylette was reacting purely from teaching. Inside she was typhoon of gladness. And her cheeks flamed and flared.


“I’m sorry.” Michael was sheepish, eyes a blend of open playfulness and remorse.


“Ooooooh, I love ham. I think I’ll have that too.” Lorraine cooed.


“Sure, Honey.” Marlon smiled. “That BLT is talking to me, how about you, Mike? Want some pork, too?”


“No…the Turkey Club.” Michael was eyeing Vylette some more.


“That has bacon on it fool!” Marlon snickered, getting up and going over to the counter, ringing a bell.


“Oh…” Michael hummed, no care to him.


“Excuse me.” Lorraine started to go after Marlon and Vylette put a death grip on her arm.


She was acting too fast and Vylette had to see an end to it right then. She was getting to be as bad as Wallis!


Lorraine reddened with anger, and her lips jutted out


“Ahem…earlier you asked what brought me and my brother to the Parish, Vylette…” He began lightly, eyes growing serious.


“Yes.”


“My brother come from New York City--”


Vylette had to control herself. New York City? They came from New York? Mouth gaped and she and Lorraine stared at each other before staring at him awed.


No wonder they were so fine and stylish and cultured. He came from the center of all the goings-on and heartthrob of the nation!


“--we lived there about five years. Then last winter, I came down with pneumonia. H-had a bad time with it. In the hospital for weeks…I-I-I nearly died.”


“Oh no!” Vylette took Michael’s hand in her own, looking up at him, heart aching.


“You poor man.” Lorraine chimed in, her greed being cut by true sadness.


He had been sick? Almost died? It couldn’t be true.


Not this robust, lively, joking man. No…


“The doctor suggested I move down South, where the climate was warmer and would be accommodating to my lungs. Marlon wanted to go to New Orleans, but I talked him into coming here…I felt the country air and open spaces were better for me. So, here we are.”


“How long do you plan to stay on here?” Vylette glanced up through the window, bracing for him to say a very small dash of time.


A fellow from New York used to the speeding pace of a metropolis would be bored right out his head in the Parish.


Gooseflesh took her when Michael replied,


“Indefinitely, if possible.”


Vylette turned to see he had dipped his head, eyes huge as he peered up through his curls at her.


“Food’s here!”


The trance-like gaze was broken by Marlon’s chirping voice, with him returning to the table, balancing four plates on his arms better an expert waiter.


Thick, toasted sandwiches, all with a mound of home fries, were placed on the table.


Shaking out his jacket, Marlon admitted as he hung it on the back of his chair,


“This looks like the kind of food I’m used to having up the country. But I’ve never had real Southern food before. The farthest south I’ve ever been before this, was Maryland and I got gorged on crab salad in Baltimore.”


Picking up half his BLT, packed with crisp bacon and cut on the diagonal, Marlon took a bite and chewed, large lips bouncing. Then he wondered.


“Just what sorts of things do people eat in these parts?”


“All kinds of good things…” Lorraine, struggling to open a bottle of ketchup remarked.


Marlon took it, and easily got the cap off for her.


“Thank you.” Lorraine nudged her cousin with her elbow.


“Oh!” Vylette tore her eyes from Michael again.




“Fried chicken--”


“Smothered chicken--”


“Beef stew--”


“Okra with tomatoes and onions--”


“Fried fish with hushpuppies--”


“Shrimp and crawfish, we like seafood here--”


“Potato salad, black-eyed peas--”
The girls rattled off several more dished to a the Jacksons, so caught up in different delicacies, they had quit eating just to listen.


“That all sounds good to me.” Marlon pulled a strip of bacon out his sandwich and popped it in his mouth. “I’ll have to try that sometime.”




“Well, I can cook all of that--”
Vylette dug her nails into Lorraine’s thigh through the fabric of her dress.


She was going to have sock Lorraine in the jaw to bring her speed down to a crawl. Telling a man she could cook…why she was practically offering to keep house for him. And they’d only been in Marlon’s company for less than a half-hour.


Obeying and seeing her error, Lorraine’s head dropped and she focused on her food.


There was a smugness on Marlon’s face, as he went to toy with her hair again and withdrew a hand popped so hard it showed a red mark on top.


“I…I like being here…in Rainelle Parish…” Michael spoke up shyly, forking potatoes into his mouth.


“We’ve only been here since Friday, you goon.” There was a loud slap, as Marlon’s hand was popped a second time, this time for trying to pinch Lorraine’s arm.


Seeing Marlon picking after Lorraine, Michael stated dryly,


“Quit molesting that woman before she breaks your hand.”


A frown crossed Marlon’s mug before he said with a coolness Vylette thought belonged only to Steven Wilkes.


“I apologize. I keep forgetting this isn’t New York. I’m sure the women here are much nicer--”


As a reflex Lorraine spit out.


“Not Wallis!” She instantly ran damage control tacking on, “Did I say that out loud, pardon me.”


Vylette snickered into her palm.


And both the Jackson snorted like hogs.


The table fell silent, everyone partaking of and enjoy their sandwiches.


It was interrupted a few minutes later with Lorraine inquiring where the Jacksons were planning to stay in the Parish.


It was an innocent question, but Vylette knew Lorraine was already planning for the future and how to “bump” into them.


Dabbing his lips with a paper napkin, Marlon said,


“At a hotel in New Orleans, at the moment. Until the paperwork on the house me and Mike are buying comes through. We still have so much to do really…”


“Yes.” Michael concurred. “Once we get the place, we still have to get the deed, ship our furniture and things in from up the country--”


“Get my car here.” Marlon put in, through a mouth full of bacon.


Green and lavender eyes focused on Marlon first, then out to the black Caddy on the curb.


“But…but isn’t that your car, there?” Lorraine asked, voice low with confusion.


Taking another bite, Marlon shook his head, hair glittering with it’s dressing.


“No. that there is Michael’s car.” He corrected her. “Mine is still up somewhere in Albany being painted. It’ll be here in the next few days.”


Gasps left the cousins and hands clasped under the table.


Both of the Jacksons drove their own cars, when most families were doing well to have ONE to split amongst themselves.


A loud sigh exited Marlon and he commented sweetly, eyes fluttered its long lashes at Lorraine.


“We’ve been here three days, and this is the first pleasant conversation we’ve had with someone other than ourselves.” Marlon said and was patting at Lorraine’s hand. “Thank you, kindly.”


Lorraine, glowing, replied with a titter. “I’ve lived her all my life and can say the very same…”


Lorraine permitted him to touch her hand again, gazing up into his face.


Vylette didn’t try to squelch her; she was sharing peaceable stare with Michael.


“Um…begging y’all’s pardon…are either of you Mr. Marlon Jackson?”


A new voice inquired, destroying the intimate moment.


From apparently nowhere, little Winston Pelant was at the table’s edge.


“I’m Marlon Jackson--what’s shaking, kid?” Marlon, annoyed, grunted.


If looks could have killed, Winston would have been skinned alive the way Lorraine was glaring at him.


“Sir, there’s a Mr. Buddy Sackett on the wire for you.”


Pelant’s Grocery was the only place in town, with the exception of a few homes, that had a telephone in it.


“Buddy Sackett? That’s the house broker!” Marlon exclaimed leaping up and retrieving his hat and jacket.


“Please excuse me Lorraine, Vylette, but I have to take this call. It was such a delight to meet you both. Thank you so much for your company. I hope we can do it again soon--”


“This is a small town--I’m sure we will.” Lorraine beamed and with a wink, Marlon was gone.


Lorraine watched after him as Marlon jogged across the street and into the grocery, a satisfied smile on her face.


Ulrich Povah--who?


Picking up her ham on white, Vylette noticed that Winston remained at the table.


“What is it?” She questioned and choked on her bite when the boy informed her,


“Vylette, your Mama came into the store earlier and said if we saw you, to tell you and Lorraine to come on home. Father Lachey is joining y’all for dinner and your Mama needs both of y’all’s help.”


Winston was a black blur, running off.


“Jesus Christ!” Both Vylette and Lorraine lamented, their perfect afternoon suddenly spoiled.


Michael Jackson was on his feet, pulling out the chairs for the girls.


“We’re sorry, Michael. We had a very wonderful time getting to know you and your brother.” Vylette was truly apologetic, and in physical pain at the prospect of having to leave.


“It was one of the best afternoons I’ve ever had.” Lorraine added as the two linked arms, Michael seeing them to the door.


“It was one of the best I’ve had too.” Michael whispered, meekly, staring down at his shoes. It tickled Vylette to see him so timid again.


“May…maybe you’d like to join us for lunch again tomorrow. We’ll be in town anyway, I come for the air and Marlon is getting the house it seems. Please join us for lunch again.”


Michael’s large hand was on Vylette’s back and it she died a little bit on the inside when she had to tell him,


“We can’t…we have to go to school tomorrow.”


Michael deflated a little, but wasn’t dragging the ground as Ulrich had over a broken movie date,


“Oh, you’re schoolteachers. I should have known--”


Both girls were a smattering of flattered and surprised giggles at the notion. Them? Teachers! The very idea!


“We’re not teachers!” Vylette snickered as her cousin nearly doubled over. “We’re pupils!”


“Pupils? My goodness!” Michael’s eyes bugged, he wore his shock like his suit. “How old are you both?”


“Seventeen.” The cousins cackled in unison.


If their youth bothered Michael Jackson, it didn’t read on his handsome face, as his mouth showed his perfect white teeth in a friendly grin.


“Well, thank you again. May I at least drive the two of you home?”




“You sure can--ouch!”
Lorraine’s foot was stamped and Vylette spoke over her.


“It’s such a lovely afternoon, we’d like to walk on home. It’s not so very far, but thank you for your kindness. Come along Lorraine.”


Tugging her cousin along, the two started away.


It wasn’t lost on Vylette that Michael hovered in the doorway watching after them until they turned from his sight.


And Lorraine was on the warpath.


“Vylette! Why on God’s green earth did you turn Michael down? I’d have given my arm to ride in the Caddy, and made Wallis Pelant die a slow death of envy! How could you tell that man NO?” She cried in dismay, clutching her cousin’s hand so hard, bones popped. “And I bet Marlon has one just as fine. And he’s having it painted. I bet it’s a Caddy too! I can only imagine what color he picked!”


“We didn’t go because…” Vylette held her head up high. “You know what happens to girls who go riding, un-chaperoned, with men in cars. That’s why Mabel Waters is rushing to the altar to marry Lucian Caisson as soon as we graduate, and why Wallis had that procedure…”


Lorraine’s lips puckered, but she understood the magnitude of the dangers of loose morals when being dazzled by a man in a car, especially ones as flashy as The Jacksons.


But there was more than enough time to get around to that sort of thing…if they wanted it.


There was time for everything.


And Vylette and Lorraine did want The Jacksons.