Chapter Five

The Following Morning
Meraux Residence
Rainelle Parish, Louisiana





She should have been dressed.


She really should have been dressed a full ten minutes ago.


But instead of being on her body, Vylette’s best dress, her lilac floral, drop-waist frock, remained spread across the foot of her bed, with her matching hat and the one and only pair of stockings she owned.


Back and forth, over and over, Vylette paced, still clad in nothing more than a white cotton slip, and step-ins, her long, black mane loose and cloaking her.


(Author’s Note: Step-ins are what panties were called.)


For the last half hour, as she attempted to dress, she found she simply couldn’t for sheer worry.


Tiny white hands wrung and smooth cheeks paled beneath large, glassy eyes, looking more blue than purple that morning.


And feverently, through a completely sleepless night, she had been bothering God every five seconds, it seemed, with a prayer, begging his help.


Not for herself nor her kin, but for Michael and Marlon Jackson, due to make their social debut at Mass in just a short while.


The poor girl was besides herself with grief.


If only Michael and Marlon knew just was kind of skewered, prejudiced crowd they were going to be walking amongst.


She and Lorraine had only vaguely hinted as the sort of mindset against them, when it was revealed by Michael to Marlon that they were to be attending church.


Neither girl knew what religion the men had truly been brought up in, and neither had thought to ask.


But it did make them feel good that both were making an attempt, either way it went.


They only sought to help the men make as good a first impression as humanly possible.


Michael Jackson had relatively been a human sponge, wanting to know everything from what to wear--sedate black suits were the unanimous vote over anything of color, with Marlon griping he’d feel like he was attending a funeral--to what hymns to sing and if they needed Bibles.


Marlon was a bit of a struggle and proved as headstrong as his match in Lorraine, finding problems here and there with every little thing. He was a man, and men generally spoke their minds.


Vylette knew full well that even turned out in plain black, the suits would be spanking new, as that was all the Jacksons possessed and would draw stares for their up-to-the-second style. They had already done so in a little over a week in town.


The topic of their cars had caused Marlon Jackson to squeal like a stuck pig. At the suggestion of walking to church, Marlon had stated a flat “Hell no”, citing he didn’t go through the trouble of buying a car and spending two weeks having it custom-painted AND going down to Alabama to retrieve it from the impound lot, just to leave it to decorate the front lawn.


He was driving to church.


Reaching the end of the room, Vylette turned and began pacing back, nibbling at her fingertips.


It just wasn’t fair: how could anyone dislike someone else just because they were wealthy? Legitimately wealthy.


Not mired down in the illegal liquor business, but because they owned an empire of theatres flanking the country.


It was beyond Vylette’s naïve and sweet mind that the Jacksons stirred jealousy.


While just about everyone else in the Parish scraped and sacrificed, even those better off than most, the Jackson sat idly in a cool mansion, surrounded by luxury, were waited on hand and foot by Adelaide, with no further care other than what beautiful clothes to put on and how many cigarettes to smoke. Misery loved company and the rich men were a minority of two.


Hands aching, Vylette didn’t even believe the fact both were half-Dauphine could save them.


Their mother had come from one of the oldest families in the Parish, but her family had always been snubbed and disregarded, and now with a new generation walking the same plantation, old habits were dying hard.


Stopping at the foot of her bed, Vylette swayed as her thoughts suddenly diverted from the disaster at hand to her encounter with Michael in the archway of roses.


Those queerly colored eyes closed and a smile of decadence wrapped her lips as she recalled every second of splendor with him.


The way he had looked at her, and had held her, told her intended to court her.


Her hand touched her flaming cheek, recalling how he’d kissed her there.


His lips had been so silken and tender.


Later, he’d also kissed her cheek as she and Lorraine had departed for home in the evening.


Oh, how could anyone hate someone so sweet and only living to be nice and bring niceness to those around them?


Sitting on the end of her bed, Vylette began to slip on her imitation silk stockings, held up with plain garters.


As she slipped the second one onto her shapely leg, the door to the room opened and Vinnie, in her chemise and drawers, freshly ironed plaid church dress in hand, wandered over and began slipping it on.


Turning her sister around, and holding her hair out the way, Vylette began doing up the many buttons on the back of the dress. Midway through the thirty buttons, Vylette, not sure why, questioned,


“Vinnie, do you remember meeting Michael Jackson last week?”


Her sister wouldn’t lie; the child lived in fear of God striking her down if she did.


“Oh yes!” The child bounced, clapping her hands. “He’s the nice man that bought me the candy!”


Still buttoning, the elder Meraux girl pushed,


“Do…do you like him, Dear?”


“Sure, he’s swell Vy! I had candy for four whole days--even after I shared with Hildegard!”


Tying the sash on the dress into a bow, Vylette bit her lip, a harder question coming out.


“And…do you like Michael better than Steven?”


It was unknown just why the opinion of a ten-year-old mattered to her so, just then, but it did.


Spinning around in her socks, little Vinnie shrugged,


“Steven’s so conceited, Sis! He’s real proud--he thinks he’s better than folks cause his Papa owns the five-and-dime and makes Mr. Goebbels run it…Pride‘s a sin!”


Sitting on her own bed, Vinnie was lacing up hand-me-down shoes.


“Plus,” She added with a flip of her hair. “Steven Wilkes has never bought me any candy or spoke nice to me, like Michael did.”


It always did make a child feel some kind of superior to be treated as an “equal” rather than a baby by someone older.


What the child said next made her sister snort.


“And Michael looked just like a movie star! Like a Colored William Powell!”


“Oh Vinnie!” Vylette stood and hugged her sister to her bosom laughing at the comparison.


“Michael does NOT have a huge nose like William Powell! William Powell looks like a pelican!”


“Awww! I like William Powell!” Vinnie cried in defense, “And I saw him in a pinstriped suit just like Michael’s in one of his Philo Vance pictures!”


(Author’s Note: The Philo Vance series was a popular mystery franchise in the 30s and 40s, based on novels, featuring William in the title role for the first few movies until 1934, when he started starring with Myrna Loy in the Thin Man mystery franchise as sleuth Nick Charles.)


Grey eyes lighting up, Vinnie inquired in a hushed voice,


“Is Michael a movie star, really? Hildegard, Harriet and I saw his car one day, on the way to help Mama at the soup kitchen. It sure was fancy--Hildegard said it was a Cadillac. Only rich people drive Cadillacs, Sis!”


“No, he’s not a movie star…but he does work in movies--”


“Zowie!” A small jaw hung open in awe.


Still holding her sibling, Vylette ordered,


“Vinnie, please, Honey. Promise me, you won’t tell anyone I know Michael or about what he does…just yet. Not even Hildegard. And especially not Mama or Papa. Promise me, Lavinia Rosalind.”


If word got around, Vylette was apt to be whipped by her mother, or killed by Steven.


Her full name brought into the mix Vinnie vowed,




“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a red-hot needle in my eye, Vy!”

Holding the little face in her hands, Vylette kissed her forehead confiding,


“If I’m lucky, I’ll see more of Michael and less of Steven as time goes on.”


That was her prayer.


Quizzically, Vinnie, who had known Steven as the only boy in her sister’s life, squinted at her and wondered as Lorraine came flouncing through the door in her underwear,


“Vylette, don’t you love Steven?”


Pretty face going stony, Vylette glanced at her cousin, then back at the inquisitive face upturned to hers.


Her chest fluttered and her hands were so cold all of a sudden.


Vylette’s voice trembled and cracked as she answered,




“No…I don’t love Steven Wilkes.”



* * *


Sunday morning in Rainelle Parish was another one of those uncommonly beautiful days, which so many were accustomed to, it was almost taken for granted.


A clear, cloudless blue sky, and in spite of the lurking heat, from time to time a breeze afforded all those out of doors a fleeting tinge of relief.


Walking along the dirt path, leading to Saint Ignatius Cathedral, rising up on the crest of the hill in the distance, was the Meraux clan.


Up front, of course, were the doctor and his wife, and skipping along merrily betwixt the two, not a single care to her uncluttered mind, was little Vinnie.


Trailing along, a few feet behind, heads close together in conference, were Vylette and her cousin Lorraine.


Since leaving their house, the two had lagged far behind, discussing only the most important topics of the day.


“…I don’t care if it is considered too fast or two forward…”Lorraine was whispering, her eyes fixed on the stout figure of her aunt a few feet away.


She clutched her cousin’s arm so tightly the two nearly tripped over one another.


“…I let Marlon kiss me. A real kiss like in my books! Right smack dab on the lips!”


“Lorraine!” Vylette chuckled her own eyes dancing with glee. Any other time, she would have been offended and worried for her cousin’s reputation upon doing something deemed so loose, as kissing a man she had only been in the company of twice.


But she was talking of a Jackson, a half-Dauphine, and to her that made it acceptable.


“I tell you Vylette…” Lorraine grinned broadly. “Marlon Jackson has a mouth handcrafted by God for kissing! My first kiss, I nearly swooned! Why, Darling, he could give lessons if he tried. My hair almost curled up.”


Seriously, she stared at her best friend fondly.




“I know Michael told you pretty much the same things Marlon told me after we split up. About us going together. I had to scream. I couldn’t take it! To be on his arm…as his sweetheart! We really are so lucky and blessed! Did Michael kiss you?”

“Yes.” Vylette admitted and Lorraine muffled a delighted squeak. “Just not on the lips. He kissed my cheek--”




“That’s a nice start. He can work his way over to your lips!”

“I know you don’t care for nice men, but I think Michael is a very nice man.” Vylette’s head lifted and her shoulders broadened, as she stared at her parents sauntering ahead of them. “I…I don’t think he’ll move fast. Marlon may be faster, but that’s what you want--”

“Frankly my Dear…” Lorraine confided with an emphatic nod. “I don’t care how fast or slowly Marlon Jackson moves. Any pace is just fine with me, as long as he includes me!”

They giggled, but it was cut short as the Church came into better view and the congregation by the hundreds was milling around in front of it.


“Oh Vylette.” Lorraine’s gloved hand was in hers. “I do hope everything goes perfectly! These people are so closed-minded!”

Truer words had never been uttered.


Vylette had no chance to agree, for as soon as the phrase left those pouted red lips, than they received a clearer view of just how the Jacksons were disregarded.


Beating a quick and direct path towards Mrs. Meraux, in a solemn grey shift of a dress looking like a relic from the Victorian era, was Ulrich’s mother, Mary Povah.


The very same woman who had raised red flags at the Christian League meeting about the Jacksons in the first place and inciting needless hatred for them.


Small, worn Bible tucked to her concave bosom, Vylette and Lorraine heard the breathless exclamation from her twisted face.




“Kathleen, Almanzo…those…those rich men are at the church, right now!”

(Simply because they had money, they weren’t allowed the right of worship?)


The cousins lost their breath, hands breaking one another’s.


Vinnie, who had been skipping, quit abruptly, and turned peeking at her sister over her shoulder.


Vylette pressed a finger to her lips and the little girl nodded, folding her hands in front of her.


Big bosom flung forward, Vylette was helpless to follow her mother as she began leading the pack, followed by that instigator, Mary Povah, towards where many of the League matrons had gathered on the steps to the church.


“I hate them. Jesus Christ, give me strength…” Lorraine was praying through gritted white teeth, her face a scowl.


From the steps, Vylette had a fuller view of the Church yard, and it was no obstacle to spot the Jacksons.


Across the lawn, filled with men, women, and children, in their reused, recycled “best” clothing, Michael Jackson and Marlon Jackson stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs.


Leaning against Michael’s black and red Caddy, polished to a high gloss, the brothers looked a pair of book ends.


As requested, both stood, wearing double-breasted black suits with black ties, fedoras on their heads.


Marlon had a cigarette in his hand, blowing smoke rings in the air.


Vylette thought they looked mysterious and dashing, and her heart swelled. Next to her Lorraine had a hand to her heaving bosom, taken with Marlon.


Vinnie, whom had Hildegard materialize at her side, were both staring and clutching the banister.


Every drop of red blood within Vylette’s veins turned to ice when her mother boomed, a few steps up,




“Such needless extravagance! Flaunting themselves in front of decent people.”

Automatically the men are marked for death.


Vylette wanted to cry, as more of the matrons chimed in,




“What on Earth brings them here?”


“They can’t possibly be Christians!”


“Just showing off in that pile of metal!”


“Absolutely shameful!”

“Vylette…I’m going to kill them all…” Lorraine promised, lips ashen and barely moving. “Set the church afire.”

Vylette’s heart was aching, and she wondered how things could possibly get worse. Could they possibly get worse?


Across the lawn, she saw the whiteness of Michael’s teeth--he was smiling--and he lightly hit Marlon’s shoulder, saying something to him.


The same whiteness appeared on Marlon’s face and he dropped his cigarette butt, mashing it.


Both men began waving.


She stiffened and groped after her cousin in terror.


The Jacksons had spotted them and were coming over!


And the action sent the matrons into a complete tailspin.




“My God, those dreadful men are coming this way!”


“Who are they waving at?”


“I don’t know them! My goodness!”


“Darcy, you get in that church or I’ll beat you right here!”

The conversation cut out completely as the Jacksons drew within earshot, and the older women ruffled up, like a pile of angry hens.


Coming closer, Vylette noticed, that though the men had been keenly advised to be modest, their suits sang with luxurious extras.


On the lapel of Michael’s jacket, he wore a large, glittering, feather-like cluster, sparkling with tiny diamonds, smooth moonstones and the teeniest of red rubies.


In the center of Marlon’s tie, was a diamond “M” brooch and cufflinks peeked from beneath the hem of his jacket sleeves.


Both wore patent lace up shoes.


Smiling, looking handsomer than they had the day before, both men did something, in any other context would have been perceived as only cordial, polite and gentlemanly.


Hats came off in hands, and eyes, one set amber-gold and the other dark brown, peeking from between stray curls, the Jacksons spoke,




“Good morning, Vylette. Good morning, Lorraine.”

A stark, piercing and startled gasp went to the Heavens, and both young girls could feel the eyes all whom had heard the greeting on them.


Tensely, Vylette peeked over her shoulder to gauge her parents’ reactions.


If looks could have killed…


Mouths set in tight lines, faces going scarlet and eyes bulging.


Unnoticed, but receiving no reply from the paling girls, Michael and Marlon chattered on,


“This is a nice morning isn’t it? It’s so nice to see you--”


At that moment, the most unlikely shriek was heard.


Storming forward, every visible bit of skin on his body fairly maroon in his rage, Dr. Meraux leapt in front of Vylette and Lorraine and bellowed,




“Who are you to be speaking to be speaking to my daughter and niece? I demand you tell me how you know them!”

A small crowd was starting to form and Lorraine, placed her hands on her hips defiantly. Vylette wanted to disappear completely.


The Jacksons, clearly taken aback, visibly gulped, both staring up at the oversized, towering Doctor.


Marlon Jackson, a fire of abject insolence flaming in his eyes, started to open his mouth.


And Vylette knew that if that man spoke, her father would knock him clear across the lawn.


Marlon Jackson was the male incarnate of Lorraine, with a fiery, back talking disposition.


“Please pardon us, Dr. Meraux. We meant no disrespect.” Michael’s voice, timid, pure and sweet was heard instead, as he placed a hand on his brother’s arm to silence him.


Whispers ran through the crowd and it was clear everyone was talking about them.




“My name is Michael Jackson. And this is my brother Marlon. We became acquainted with Vylette and Lorraine last Sunday, when we bumped into them whilst they were having a soda in Mumfree’s restaurant. Please, Sir, we meant no harm, other than being friendly--”

Kathleen Meraux, so frigid, she could have sank the RMS Titanic all over again, instructed,




“Vylette, Lorraine, take Vinnie into the sanctuary.”


“Yes, Ma’am!”

Unwillingly, and reluctantly, the two elder girls, turned stiffly, and taking the hands of Vinnie in their, Hildegard, running off inside, they began to lead her away.


The last thing Vylette saw, as she entered the church, was the look of complete overwhelming sadness and hopelessness on Michael Jackson’s handsome face, as he conversed with the matrons.


Marlon Jackson wore one of utter contempt, his broad mouth twisted in anguish.


Vylette wanted to die.


* * *




A Few Hours Later





“Ow! No! No! NO! PLEASE! NO! I’M SORRY! PLEASE! DON’T! STOP! PLEASE! AH! AH! AH! HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP ME!”


WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

Vylette Meraux wished she were indeed dead.


She certainly felt like it.


Holding her head in her hands, her hair unkempt, tangled and sticking every which way, she laid across her bed, weeping to the point her entire body was quaking.


Her body…


Lying there in her undergarments, every inch of her back, was sore, raw and covered in wide, glaring scarlet welts.


Rubbing at wet and salty eyes, she stared across the room.


Huddling in the far corner, breathing shallowly, knees drawn to her chest, her sister had been a tiny ball of fear since they had returned home from church.


Because the minute Vylette and Lorraine darkened the door of their home, Kathleen Meraux went to the closet of her bedroom, brought out the dreaded and much-maligned thick strap made of black cowhide and had been swinging it fiercely ever since.


The beatings were always the same. Without word, without warning. Just the girls being told to strip out of their church dresses, and being called into her bedroom.


And no matter how the girls pleaded, cried, shrieked or tried to run, they could not escape the lashings.


No matter how delicate white skin swelled, bruised or even bled, the beatings continued until Kathleen grew tired, or deemed they had had enough.


Dr. Meraux, sensing the beatings, had escaped, over at his office to escape the punishment. He always did.


In a house overrun with females, the beatings were his wife’s work, and he took no part in it.




“AUNT KATHLEEN! STOP! STOP! WHAT DID I DO WRONG! PLEASE! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME!”


WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

Lorraine’s cries of protest and wails of pain fell on deaf ears as the leather strap continued swinging and each lick was audible, though Vylette and her sister were two rooms away.


And then all was quiet.


Crying, though she hadn’t been whipped at all, Vinnie hid her face.


A moment later, the door to the room opened, and Vylette held her breath, as with a yelp, Lorraine, her slip half off, her bosom nearly exposed, her hair matted and clinging to her sweat and tear-stained face, was shoved forward.


Kathleen, her entire forming seeming to fill up the doorway, the only means of escape, aside from throwing oneself out the window, shook the strap in her hand as Lorraine collapsed on her bed, her back raw, red and one gash oozing blood.


“I am beside myself with shame at you girls! The way you behaved this morning! With those two strange men coming up and being so familiar with you--and in front of the entire Ladies Christian League, nonetheless!” She boomed, and hit the wall with the strap.


All three girls jumped in terror.


Her mother was ashamed. If she didn’t have threat of being struck again, Vylette would have laughed aloud.




“The very idea! The two of you actually talking to those kind of men! Who knows where they come from? Well, we do know--that modern day Sodom and Gomorrah--New York City! Men like that are only after one thing, and believe you me, once they get it from naïve little girls like you, they’re gone and they’ve ruined you for life! No decent boy would want you after that! How could the two of you behave so loosely, like common tramps, when I’ve spent your entire lives teaching you! Warning you! Brought you up in church! How could you insult all of my friends! Like indecent whores! When the two of you are practically engaged two tow of the best boys the Parish has to offer--”

The wall was struck again, as it seemed Kathleen was doing her best to control herself and prevent herself from lighting into the girls again.




“The two of you…how I’ve worked my fingers to the bone to turn you into good and proper young ladies. And you’ve had your heads turned by these city slickers who have no business around folks like us. And are most likely just looking for girls fool enough like yourselves to prey upon!


The two of you have nothing to do with them. My God, you’re descendants of the founder of this very Parish. Don’t you know who you are? Who you come from? What that all means? You can’t fool around at a time like this! You’re almost set for life. Your marriages into the Wilkes’ and Povah families--”

At the mention of engagement, Lorraine was on her feet and shrieked,




“I don’t want Ulrich! I don’t want to marry him! I don’t love him!”

Instantly, she knew this was a mistake, and Vylette could only look on through her hands as her mother fell silent.


The heels of her shoes clacked on the floor as she took her time to walk over to her fiery niece.




Clap!

Sharply and directly, Lorraine was slapped in the face so hard she spun.


Eyes cold and hardened with hatred the matriarch hissed lethally,




“Don’t you sass me, you child! Why my poor, dead sister and her husband must be spinning in their graves with the way you’ve turned out! I can only imagine how you and Vylette acted! You are only seventeen years old, and you need to be guided. Any interest either you or Vylette have in those men, forget it! They are not the sort of people you want to associate with, and you won’t. You will NOT see them again. From now on until I change my mind, the two of you will be working every afternoon at the soup kitchen. Being around good, decent God-fearing folks will do you good.”

At the thought of never, ever seeing Michael Jackson, being in his company, or feeling his kisses, Vylette pushed herself up painfully.


She was willing to have every tooth knocked clean out her mouth, but she was going to make herself heard.




“Michael and Marlon Jackson are half Dauphine, Mama!”

Kathleen Meraux could not have appeared more shocked if she had French-kissed a light socket.


Her greenish eyes narrowed at her elder daughter.


“What did you say, Vylette Evangeline?” She stammered unable to conceal her surprise.


“Michael and his brother half Dauphine.” Vylette repeated hoarsely. “Their mother was Katherine Dauphine.”


“Katherine Dauphine?” Her mother echoed, tan face going milky.


With the revelation that the Jacksons were descendants of a family as old and fabled as her own, Kathleen returned to the door, and admonished,




“You girls stay away from those men!”

With that the door slammed.


Curling in her bed, Lorraine buried her face in her pillow and howled the howl of a broken heart.


Vylette collapsed to the floor, as every hope, dream and desire for Michael Jackson died in that moment.


She wanted to die.


She wanted to be dead.


She didn’t want to live if she had to be away from Michael Jackson.


There was no life with Michael.


* * *




The Following Friday Afternoon


Saint Ignatius Cathedral



The last five days of their lives, had been some of the most difficult and soul-crushing, that Vylette Meraux and Lorraine Devereaux had endured in their seventeen years.


When the two weren’t under the constant and watchful glare of Kathleen Meraux, they were in the care of a fleet of nuns, banished to the bowels of the kitchen, slaving over hot stoves in order to produce gallons and gallons of hot soup, freshly baked bread and chicory-coffee to feed the destitute of the Parish.


All the girls had known those last five days was de-boning chicken carcasses, using the meat for soup and bones for stock, the constant, incessant chopping of vegetables. The mixing, kneading and proofing of bread dough. The brewing, sweetening and pouring out of coffee.


They were up early in the mornings, walked to school personally by Kathleen herself--to ensure the Jacksons didn’t just appear along the way--and stayed in the church until well after dinner time, washing pots and pans and used bowls and spoons.


School itself, had been completely unbearable and torturous thanks to the presence of Steven Wilkes.


There was no way of knowing just who had told him of the gaff at Second Mass involving the Jacksons, but the boy had been harassing her day in and day out about it.


(If Ulrich Povah had witnessed the downfall, he said nothing of it to Lorraine and only gazed on her in his stupid way all week, with her paying him no mind and only appearing miserable at every glance.)


Every time Vylette had looked Steven’s way, he’d worn a smug and self-righteous smile on his face. Secure in his knowledge that he was approved of over the Jacksons.


Only once had he mentioned them to Vylette, as she continued to make of point of keeping her distance from him.


On Wednesday during lunch, he’d hung around the steps as she and Lorraine tried to ignore him and eat.


Making a nuisance of himself.


Rubbing salt into a gaping wound.


Looming eye-level with where she sat he’d sneered,


“I don’t see those rich, monkey-looking N(bad word)s hanging around now. Or can they buy invisibility now? They must be tired of y’all! I hope if they‘re bootleggers, they‘re in prison somewhere getting their assholes stretched wide-open!”


It had taken all the willpower she possessed to not leap over the railing and claw his eyes out.


Lorraine lacked the finesse and hit him in the back of the head with a half-eaten apple as he had started away.


Bootleggers?


If that damned, arrogant, self-loving ignoramus only knew HOW the Jacksons truly secured their vast income he’d have bayed like a werewolf.


If he knew what they were really worth…far more than anything his father’s paltry five-and-dime could bring in.


Vylette had wanted to kill Steven on the spot. The idea that this man thought he was her sweetheart, that he was going to marry her--talking to her like that! Like she was nothing more than common gutter trash. Why, he didn’t even speak to his own cousin, that slut, Wallis Pelant, the way he spoke to her.


And he expected her to love him, want him, obey him in matrimony?


She’d go into the convent and become a nun before she stooped so low as to be his wife!


Oh, how she wanted to die.


And poor Lorraine was worse off than she.


She didn’t know for sure if Lorraine was on the verge of a nervous breakdown or had quietly had one when no one was looking, but all Lorraine Devereaux seemed to want to think about or talk about was Marlon Jackson.


In spite of her aunt’s warning, and being slapped no less than a dozen times for uttering his name, Lorraine was defiant and rebellious.


And before the flung apple on Wednesday, there had been the incident Tuesday night.


Vylette had awoke with a start in the middle of the night, and had found her cousin’s bed mussed, but empty.


Her first worry was that Lorraine had finally broken, and run off in the dark for Jackson Manor, to be with Marlon.


(A scandal and a half alone!)


Slipping from bed, Vylette had taken to peeking in every room of the small cottage, hunting Lorraine.


She had found her.


Standing in her parents’ bedroom.


Staring at her Aunt Kathleen, with wide, soulless eyes.


A knife in her trembling, unsteady hand.


It had taken a fair amount of tugging, whispering and pleading with the shattered girl to get her out of that room, and pry that weapon from her.


And how Lorraine had cried nonstop until dawn.


Vylette had laid with her in bed, and held her, both being exhausted the next day.


The whole thing was draining, and Vylette didn’t know how much more she could take.


Lorraine was already halfway goofy, a broken shell of the girl she had been before.


All this…all this over a pair of men who only wanted to be accepted, date a pair of nice girls and live happily.


It wasn’t fair.


Damn it, it just wasn’t fair.


The work that went into the soup kitchen run by the Sisters and the Ladies Christian League was something that ran continuously without end.


School had only been out for an hour and already, Vylette wanted to fall to floor and sleep until Christmas.


The kitchen was hot, so very, very hot, and filled with the scents of dead chickens and the soup that was made from them.


Her school dress clung to her body, as she was already covered in a sheen of perspiration, her hair sticking to her. She wore a small blister on her left thumb where hot soup had splashed as she ladled it into a bowl.


Huddled outside the back door of the church was a never-ending stream of the poor and destitute. They were of all colors and ages. All with that griping pang of hunger in their guts, glassy-eyed with sadness and the ever-present fear that the food would run out before they had gotten their share.


People barefoot, dirty, some smelling foully as a bath hadn’t been an option for days at times.


Dishing up another bowl--she had to have personally dished up over a hundred just that day--Vylette turned and looked across the room.


At a table, Lorraine, looking quite ragged and annoyed was wielding a small knife and under Sister Roberta’s stern guidance was de-boning another chicken. She had easily yanked the skeletons from about fifteen of those hens since school had let out.


Another girl, Darcy Pringle, of the intermarrying Pringles, stood, her oblong, sallow, popeyed face streaked with flour, as she mixed her twentieth loaf.


Darcy wasn’t being punished, just she was one of the girls, on deck for admittance into the Christian League after graduation, and was being put through the motions of what it took to be a member.


Going over to the door, where a malnourished looking Colored woman stood with a small baby shrieking in her arms, awaiting her portion, Vylette picked up a thick slice of bread and began handing it to her.




“Thank you, Child. I’s sho’ ‘preciate this! My young’un ain’t had a nibble since day ‘fo yesterday! Y’all’s doing God’s work!”

(Author’s Note: You don’t know that line makes my blood curdle. I hate using anything but proper grammar!)

Down the line, of haggard, smelly, dejected folks, Vylette spied something she wouldn’t have expected.


Coming through the back gate of the church, a bright spot of color in a dress of green and white polka dots, was Vinnie.


As the child bypassed the procession of poverty-afflicted, Vylette straightened like a rod.


Clutched in her sister’s hands, being nibbled at in front of so many hungry children, was a Gigantic chocolate bar.


A Gigantic!


Vylette’s heart stopped; if that child was eating that brand of candy bar, there was only one person she could have gotten it from!


Seeing her sister in the doorway, Vinnie made a beeline over to her and started to speak.


Vylette clapped a hand over her sticky mouth and turning, called, trying to remain calm.


“Darcy, will you cover the door for me a few minutes? My sister needs to talk to me.”


“Sure thing, Vylette.” Darcy agreed with no trouble, and was crossing the room to the door where another weak person appeared.


Lorraine still up to her elbows in chicken parts paid no mind.


“Come on!” Vylette was pulling her sister along so hard, her little feet were barely hitting the floor.


Once out in the hallway behind the kitchen, away from all prying eyes and ears, she grabbed the little girl by the shoulders and demanded breathlessly.


“Lavinia, have…have you seen Michael Jackson?”


Chocolate-stained lips parted,


“Yeah, Vy! Just a minute ago! I was in Pelant’s, buying some onions for Mama when he came running in there. He said he’d been sitting in Mumfree’s every day this week looking for you--”


“You didn’t tell him we were being punished, did you?” Vylette gasped, not wanting to harm Michael or his brother in anyway with the notion it was them, that had caused so much woe.


“No, I just said you’d been busy with the soup kitchen--”


“I love you! Thank you, Dear!” Vylette was hugging and kissing the little girl. “He was hunting me--for what?”


Grey eyes sparkled,


“He wanted to invite you and Lorraine back to his house. He said he just got a new wireless, and wanted y’all to listen to it. Eleven in the morning, he said. He‘s still at Mumfree‘s, eating a sandwich and waiting for an answer. He told me to run back after I‘d told you, Sis. He bought me the candy…”


(Author’s Note: A “wireless” is a radio. This was the same type of event as getting a big-screen plasma TV is now.)


Heart dropping to her toes and seeping onto the floor, Vylette could only stare at her sister.


An invitation back to Jackson Manor?


Michael and Marlon wanted to spend the day with them again! They wanted to see them again!


Vylette put a quaking hand to her head, suddenly pounding like elephants were tap-dancing in it.


How on Earth would they manage it? How could they get away?


Her mother had been watching them like a hawk, and there was no way they’d be able to weasel out of work in the soup kitchen. Especially on a Saturday morning when soup was doled out as early as five a.m.!


What was she to do? What could she do?


The Depression would probably end before she set eyes on those men again.




“Oh no!”


“Sweet Jesus!”


“Saints preserve us!”


“A travesty! A sheer travesty!”


“At a time like this!”


“This is horrible!”

At the commotion, Vylette’s head popped up and her sister shared an inquisitive glance, before both turned, and burst back through the door of the kitchen.


In the center of the room, Sister Roberta and the five other nuns who had been overseeing the work, stood, hands linked, all of them praying heatedly in Latin.


Off to the side, Lorraine and Darcy watched from the fringes.


Seeing her cousins, Lorraine, looking the most exuberant since her whipping, came rushing over, eyes emerald with amusement.


“Vylette! Oh my Dear! The most sensational thing has just happened!” She cried, mouth curling with a huge, brilliant smile. “We’ve just run out of food! The soup kitchen will be closed until further notice! Isn’t that the best thing you ever heard in your life, Dear?”


Mouth opening, Vylette stared as her cousin jumped back and began dancing the Charleston.


Looking to Vinnie, Vylette gave a deep nod of consent. She didn’t know how, but she knew her answer was yes.


With a smile, Vinnie was blur.


Lorraine was still dancing, as Vylette grabbed her by damp her hair and was whispering violently into her ear.


“We’re going to see the fellows tomorrow. I don’t care if we get skinned down to the bare bones--we’re going!”


As her cousin hugged her and kissed her a bit too hard for kinfolks, Vylette’s mind was made up.


The last thing on her mind was the poor, wretched and hungry outside the door. She had done enough for them in the last few days.


She didn’t’ care if she got beaten to death as a result of it, she was going to die with a last memory of Michael Jackson in her mind and the feel of his lips on her cheeks.


She wanted to be with him that terribly and had worked the last few days like a slave because of her friendship to him.


She deserved a day to herself and By Golly, Sweet Jesus, she was going to get it!


* * *


All outside the small, whitewashed cottage that was the Meraux residence appeared sedate and normal.


The close-clipped front lawn shined green and the only movement coming from it, was that of a squirrel on the front walk, chewing on an acorn.


Inside though, was a different story.


Pacing back and forth in the living room, only barely reading that article in Film Stars Monthly, detailing how silent actress Theda Bara was supposedly going to stage a comeback in talking pictures, was Vylette.


Vylette, wearing a lemon yellow boat-necked tunic, set off by whimsical mauve stitching, tucked into a matching skirt. Normally she wouldn’t have dressed so well--this outfit was her “second” best and usually reserved for less formal church outings--but it was the only lighter ensemble she owned that would have securely hidden the bruising on her back.


She didn’t want to leave anything to chance, and had even worn her hair braided the night before to encourage deeper waving of her loose ponytail to cover any flesh of her back that happened to be exposed.




“Vylette…”

A stricken Lorraine was coming towards her, her curvy body clad in a white, long-sleeved blouse with navy blue, southwestern type beading on the collar and front placket.


A navy skirt hugged her hips.


Green eyes huge, she asked,


“Darling, can you see anything?”


Turning, she was showing her back to her cousin.


Her red tresses, slicked back, were bound not by a ribbon, as Vylette’s hair was, but a flat clip that blended with her hair, and made her ponytail appear wider, covering her back.


“No…all I see is your hair.” Vylette replied and the girl sighed deeply.


“Thank Jesus--I spent my Photoplay money on this hair thing!”


“Now where is everyone again?” Vylette wondered tossing the magazine aside and the twp proceeded onto the porch locking the door behind them.


“Uncle Almanzo went out to the Dufarge farm, because Monsieur Dufarge got kicked in the chest by one of his horses…”


The two girls started down the steps.


“Vinnie went with Hildegard, Harriet, Helga and Hannah Povah to the movie house to watch the new cartoons. I think Mae Pringle went with them, too. You know, that homely, little bucktoothed thing…”


They were off and down the walk.


“And Aunt Kathleen is over at the Church, having an emergency meeting of the League about fundraisers. Why she didn’t rope us into that I’ll never know!”


The girls had lived in fear half the night, worrying that would be dragged off the meeting, but somehow, by some Grace of God himself, Kathleen Meraux had left after breakfast alone.


Grinning and tossing her ponytail in the first outright disobedient endeavor of her life, Vylette quipped sassily,


“I don’t care!”


“Vy!” Lorraine hugged her arm, teasing. “I shall have to watch you…running off to meet a forbidden man! You’re turning into a regular vamp, my Dear!”


(Author’s Note: A vamp is a seductive woman.)


Laughing the two linked arms and scurried on their way.


It was quite a journey out to Jackson Manor, as to avoid being seen and tongues wagging as result of it, the cousins had to completely navigate around the Main Street of town, which, on the weekend, it bustled with far more people than during the work week.


That meant going at least a mile out of the way and picking through virgin forest.


It was work, but matters of the heart were neither logical nor practical.


Ninety minutes later, just shy of the aforementioned eleven o‘clock, two, slightly winded young girls stepped from the wilderness onto the path leading up to the wide open gates of the plantation.


Coming to the gates, the girls paused in wonder. Parked just inside the gates, on either side of the tree-lined avenue, were Michael’s and Marlon’s Caddies.


Pointing, Lorraine questioned, with a sly snort.


“Well, that seems rather silly, doesn’t it? Having to walk so far to get to their cars!”


Vylette started to laugh at such a silly gesture when a voice declared,


“Maybe we like the exercise, Cherry!”


Slipping from the two brick posts, which they had been hiding behind, were Marlon and Michael Jackson.




“Darling!”

Lorraine wasted no time; running into Marlon’s arms, hugging him around his thick neck and pressing her mouth to his, gripping his face.


She ran into him so hard, the man staggered.


Vylette couldn’t ignore the thrill she had, the tingling on the surface of her skin, as Michael made a slower advance.


Michael was so dapper in his relaxed white cardigan, with a gold “J” crest on the front, over a red and white checked shirt--no tie--and deep blue trousers. Marlon wore a similar outfit, with a dark plum sweater and black slacks.


He looked so beautiful, his hair seeming more waved than curled, three locks in his eyes.


Eyes only on her.




“Let me get a breath, Lorraine! Goddamn!”


“Kiss me some more, Big Lips!”


“Are you going to the electric chair tonight? Woo!”

Marlon and Lorraine shuffled around, openly making out as Michael reached Vylette and stood over her, that sweet boyish smile on his lips.


“Hello.” He was at a whisper level again.


“Hello.” Vylette gazed up at him, heart skipping and praying the light caught her eyes.


He was leaning over her and as his tender mouth touched her cheek, as a reflex, Vylette kissed his soft, perfumed cheek back.


Michael’s head ducked and tittered,


“Hee-hee! Gosh!”


“We…we’re gonna go inside, Baby! Stop! Stop! You really like my lips!”


Marlon Jackson was physically holding Lorraine back from him, the poor girl struggling, her lips poked out, poised and puckered.


Lorraine was all wound up and had lost her head.


She swiftly regained it, when she caught her cousin’s stern face.


Yes, they were excited, but not that excited!


Finally settling down, Marlon took his doe-eyed girl by the hand.


“I know you noticed our cars parked here on the way up--I heard you.” Marlon pointed out and scarlet-faced, Lorraine looked from him.


“Mike and I were talking…” He pointed out his sibling. “…and can you believe this skinny, knock-kneed rascal has the nerve to think his little tin-can can outrun my coupe--”


“Mine is a sports car, more suited for speed than that clunky blue nightmare you’re sliding around in!”


Head wagging and eyes flashing Michael boasted, putting an arm around Vylette and pulling her close.


Before her whipping she would have rebuffed him as being to familiar to hold her like that, but in the wake of it, she welcomed his closeness.


“Oh, you think so, huh?” Marlon, with his redhead in tow came over, mouth twisting.


“Care to wager that, little brother?”


“Name the amount…big brother with the Big Lips.” Michael squeezed Vylette tighter.


Eyes pure gold, Marlon betted,


“Fifty dollars says my coupe can outrun your sardine can!”


“Ooooh!” Both girls hooted, dazzled by the amount carelessly thrown into the ring.


“Fifty it is!” Michael stuck out his hand to shake.


Marlon’s hand was extended.


At the last moment, Michael Jackson withdrew his hand and ran it through his hair, eliciting laughs.


“You Black bastard!” Marlon cried, as Michael tugged Vylette towards to his black and red vehicle, opening the driver’s side door open for her to scoot along to the passenger side.


It took a moment for Vylette to realize that she was taking her very first ride, not only in a car, but in Michael Jackson’s velvet seated stunner.


As he slid in behind the large steering wheel and slammed the door, Marlon and Lorraine were putting the top down on his sky blue coupe.


Keys turned in ignitions and both cars purred to life and in unison, the men yelled,


“One for the money! Two for the show! Three to get ready! And four…to…GO!”


The cousins were thrown backwards as the brothers mashed the gas pedals, hurling the vehicles forward at top speed.


“Oh my God!” Vylette, the rush of warm air on her, going so quickly, cars back then only topped around forty mph, really.


“Get him Marlon! Get him!” She could hear Lorraine screaming, as the sped along across from them.


“Go Michael! Go! Go! Go! Speed demon!” Vylette encouraged, hugging his arm.


“Awww put that piece of shit back in your ass! A-HAAAAA!” Marlon taunted as incredibly, he began inching ahead of Michael’s smaller sports car.


“Shut up! It ain’t over till it’s over, you goon!!” Michael, his voice deeper that Vylette expected shouted.


The rustic sound gave her chills.


Looking at him, he was even more handsome, the wind whipping his hair back from his sculpted face, his eyes trained ahead of him.


With the house in clearer view, Vylette saw wide Adelaide placing a dish in front of Baron, the large canine resting at her feet and starting to gobble the contents of the dish.


Seeing her bosses making a hasty encroachment, Adelaide waved.


Marlon, taking the lead, waved back, screeched, and tooted his horn.




Eee-honk! Eee-honk!

And up, off the porch, Baron suddenly bounded.


Directly into the path of Marlon’s coupe.


“Goddamned, son of a bitch--Baron!--nooooooo!”


Marlon cried slamming on the brakes, Lorraine covering her face screaming, narrowly missing the hound.


“Oh my God--your dog!” Vylette wailed into Michael’s arm.


Baron unharmed, trotted on off out of sight.


Michael cool as a cucumber sailed on, coasting easily to a halt at the walk leading to the house.


“Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! YES!” Michael leapt to his feet cheering and pulling Vylette up, hugged her to him.


“We won! We won! I won, you fatheaded freak!” Michael crowed, as dejected and grimacing Marlon stomped over, Lorraine running to keep up.


“You damn cheat!” Marlon, snatched Michael out his car, and Vylette stepped out after him, alarmed.


Marlon rattled his brother about the collar.


“Baron is your dog, Michael! I bet you signaled him to run out like that!”


Laughing and tossed his head,


“Sour grapes…I didn’t. With the way you drive crazy, you think I’d endanger the life of that poor dumb animal?”


A hand was jutted out.




“Pay me.”

Begrudgingly, Marlon’s hand went to his pocket and a wad of bills wee produced--more money than the girls had ever seen. He was easily holding a few hundred dollars’ worth, if not more in his hands.


He counted off five, ten-dollar bills.


“Thank you, kindly, Sir!” Michael feigned a comical British accent. “Pip-pip, cheerio and all that rot!”


“I fucking hate you!” Marlon shook his fist.


“I love you too, Baby.” Michael tucked the cash away in his pocket.


His arm was offered to Vylette.


“The winner will escort you inside, Miss Meraux.” He winked and lightheaded, Vylette allowed herself to be escorted forward, Lorraine patting after a stewing Marlon.


Michael may have won that silly wager, but being with him, right then as Adelaide scampered to open the door for them, she felt she was the winner…the true winner.


And as before, all the troubles of her daily life stood outside the gates and were all but forgotten.




An Hour Later


Jackson Manor


Rainelle Parish, Louisiana


“…my big baby….sure does love to eat…five hundred pounds if she’s an ounce…and every ounce loves me…”

Vylette could scarcely remember the last time she had had such an enticing and enjoyable time. It was as if every joy she had felt had completely left her mind and were replaced only by ones that centered around Michael Jackson.


Following the ill-fated race in the front yard, Vylette and her cousin had been ushered into the royal blue, formal sitting room, where set up near the low, quilted, humpback couch was the new wireless.


A sizeable, wooden, cabinet radio/record playing combo, Marlon had bragged that it had just been delivered from Macy’s Department Store, in New York. A rare English brand called Bensimmon.


The flip top that concealed the record player had been decorated a three foot tall, blue marble, seated nude woman.


Already the girls had been impressed with the idea of a radio--they didn’t own one at home--and were doubly bowled over by the fact it had come from one of the greatest stores in the country.


On the carved oak coffee table in front of the couch, platters of hors d’oeuvres had been set out with the cherry pitcher and tumblers of iced lemonade.


The radio, playing a blues station from New Orleans, had provided background music, for the two young couples--Michael and Vylette side by side on the couch, Michael’s arm draped around her; Marlon and Lorraine, much more chummy, in an armless chair, with Lorraine held in his lap.


Marlon and Lorraine had been sneaking pecks back and forth between each bite.


Picking up a big cracker, spread thick with some kind of pureed meat, and topped with a sliver of red radish, Michael offered it to Vylette.


“Try a bite of this, Honey, I think you’ll like it.” He grinned and politely, Vylette took a dainty bite.


Chewing and savoring the faintly mineral-y tasting meat, she asked as Michael poked the radish in his own mouth,


“What kind of meat is this?”


Through a mouthful, Michael snickered and replied,


“Pate de foie gras--goose liver.”


Vylette’s black brows went up in wonder. Usually she hated any kind of liver--her mother was fond of cooking beef livers with onions--but this goose liver was milder and more pleasant to her palate.


“I want some more of the shrimp salad…” Lorraine whined, reaching and picking up another rounded cracker topped with the salad and chives, popping it in her mouth.


“You like that, don’t you Baby?” Marlon helped himself to a hollowed out cucumber slice filled with pink deviled ham.


“I love shrimp…all seafood really…” Lorraine’s response was muffled as Marlon pulled her to him, kissing deeply.


“Marlon’s eating all the ham--here…” Michael pressed the cucumber with deviled ham on it past Vylette’s lips, allowing her a taste.


As she chewed half of it, Michael kissed at her warm cheek.


Watching her cousin and Marlon going at it, so engrossed in each other, they were mussing one another’s hair, Vylette looked down, twisting her hands in her lap and contemplated a moment.


Thinking of what she was doing and whom with.


“Penny for your thoughts…” Michael hissed into her ear, clutching at her hand.


Resting her head against his shoulder, his sweater was so soft, it had to have been made of mohair or cashmere, she whispered,


“Thank you…for not rushing me on like your brother does with my cousin. He’s still a gentleman, but he moves so quickly…”


Michael’s cheeks tinged pinkish, and his long lashes fluttered as he peered down at her, a curl falling between his eyes.




“I…I want to take as much time with you as I can, Vylette. I treasure every second…”

Feeling warm with affection, Vylette mumbled nonsense, as Michael kissed at her again, a bit closer to her mouth.


Swept up in him, she grabbed after him as he rose and stood over her, his shadow on her.


Smiling up at him, she seemed to feel a deeper connection to him.


“The garden?” She asked breathless, fairly certain, his lips would collide with her aching ones, once they were under the rose archway.


“The garden.” Michael nodded pulling her to jellified knees.


“…I gotta keep feeding you…keep up this shape…” Marlon Jackson was barely audible as he buried his face into Lorraine’s throat, holding her tighter, her skirt hiked up.


His large brown had was rubbing after her flecked thigh.


“Yes Marlon…Daddy…” Lorraine was holding him, face darker than her hair she was so clearly aroused.


Vylette hoped she didn’t compromise herself…not that quickly.


The less involved couple watched them a moment, and Michael sucked his teeth.


“Shamone.” A long finger wagged the brunette on, and hands clasped, the two started for the door, trying to put space between the others before the scene became obscene.


Vylette wondered if it were too soon to try to place herself in Michael’s lap that way. It would have made her swoon to feel his large meat hooks on her thighs.




“What the hell?”

Marlon’s voice, once lusty, went shrill.


Vylette thinking her cousin had bitten Marlon or something she read in those fool books of hers, started to help Michael to slide the closed pocket doors open.


They were almost through the doors and into the hallway, when Lorraine whimpered weakly, sounding as though she were in tears.




“Oh Marlon--no! Please! Don’t look! Don’t look!”

Automatically, Vylette went into a state of calm panic.


Her outside remained calm, cool, though she was turning grey in fear, and her insides began twisting and turning with an internal cyclone.


Before she had even turned around, she knew what was happening.


Marlon stood, holding onto Lorraine, who for the first time since knowing him, was trying to get away from him, holding her face in her hands.


Michael, clueless, started over, warning,


“Marlon, I told you not to molest that woman! You can’t push a woman too fast--”


“I ain’t pushing a damn thing! It…it’s…” Marlon reached out and clutched Lorraine by her shoulders, pulling her back to him.


“Be still!” He ordered.


“Marlon please! Vylette--help!” Lorraine whimpered shakily and as Vylette stepped to intervene, she stopped cold in her tracks.


Marlon, Lorraine’s entire ponytail in his hand, shoved it over her shoulder and was holding the back of her blouse away from her, staring down her back.


“Marlon!” Michael aghast at his brother peering under a woman’s clothing reached for him.


And Marlon, knees weakened, eyes dilating, dropped without warning back into the chair.


“Lori…what…what the hell is that?” He stammered, in a state of bewilderment, as Lorraine ran with arms open to Vylette and collapsed against her, weeping.


“Marlon? What? What?” Michael looked between his brother and his girlfriend, then up at Vylette, eyes begging.


Marlon, one hand on his knee, stared up at Michael, and spoke up.




“Bruises…her back is covered in bruises Mike. She…she’s been beaten!”

“Oh no! Oh, Vy!” Lorraine cried harder and all she could do was pat at her.


“Beaten?” Michael repeated and his eyes fell on Vylette.


“No…” Letting go of her cousin, Vylette tried to back away. “No--Michael!”


His hand, clammy, gripped her wrist and yanked her forward.


She was helpless as he spun her around, moved her carefully arranged ponytail, and stared down the back of her tunic.


“Oh my God…Go no…no. Vylette!” Michael sounded like he was crying, his voice so small and strained.


Coming around he held her face in his large hands, eyes moist with tears as he stared at her.


Beside them, Marlon was embracing Lorraine; not to seduce her, but to comfort her.


“Who’s done this to you? Who’s beat you? Who’s hurt you?” He demanded, cradling Vylette tightly to his bosom and saying to his brother,


“They’ve been beaten like animals! Who would do this to women? WHY?”


Sniffling loudly, Lorraine began.


“It was--”


“Lorraine, no!” Vylette frightened of how the men would react to the truth.


“No! No!” Marlon, a tear streaming down his cheek stated through gritted teeth and poked himself in the chest.




“You tell me. Tell me! I want to know! You tell me!”

Chin jerking, Lorraine sighed and trembled.


Vylette’s head lowered as her cousin explained.


“My…my aunt beat us. Because of what happened at Mass…because you came up to us.”


“Why? Jesus Christ! We only said ‘hello’ to you? How is that wrong? How is that bad? We were polite!” Michael had his hands in his curls, pulling at it.


“It’s bullshit! I know I’m in delicate company, I can’t help it.! This is bullshit!” Marlon was shaking his head, mouth in a straight line.


“But that’s how it is. You don’t just go up to girls and start talking!” Vylette chimed in. “You have to go through the parents, the elders…you have to be properly introduced.”


“Aunt Kathleen said things to us…accused of atrocities like you won’t believe. She even said my dead parents would be ashamed of me-e-e-e-e!” Sobbing, Lorraine buried her face in Marlon’s chest.


“We haven’t done anything. You haven’t done anything! You’re ladies! Good ladies--goddamn!” Michael stared down at Vylette and her heart broke at the woe in his face.


“Vylette, you and Lorraine are the two more respectable women we know. We revere you like you wouldn’t understand…oh my goodness!”


Pulling out a handkerchief, he dabbed Vylette’s wet, red face.


“Is this why I haven’t seen you all week? Your sister said you were at the soup kitchen. Were you sent there to keep away from us?” He inquired and Vylette nodded as he wiped at her nose.


“We wouldn’t be here now, if the kitchen hadn’t run out of food yesterday. We did everything, cooked food from scratch, served folks, washed the pots… ”


“This isn’t fair. It isn’t right…” Letting go of Vylette, Michael stormed to the open door and shouted,




“ADELAIDE! COME HERE!”

The round woman came as fast as her stubby legs could carry her.


“Child, what’s the matter? Why all the hooting and hollering?” She begged, huffing for air.


Standing straight and bold, Michael’s lips barely moved, he was struggling so to control his temper.


“Miss Vylette and Miss Lorraine are exhausted. Please go and turn down my bed and Marlon’s for them. They’ll be having naps.”


“Yes, Sir, Mr. Michael!” Adelaide was gone and mounting the stairs.


Large eyes sweeping the girls, Michael announced,


“All these days of hard work are gonna stop, now. This may be a plantation; but NO ONE is a slave here.”


Arms wrapped Vylette.


“You won’t be beat again. I’ll protect you. They can beat ME, but not you.”


“Same for me. This is ridiculous!” Marlon kissed Lorraine.


“You’re safe here.”


Safe…the girls were safe.


* * *


As stunning and foreign as the first floor of the Jackson mansion was, Vylette had, in no way, been prepared for what lay up the staircase over her head.


The second floor, housing what was originally six bedrooms and three bathrooms, now only held four, the last two bedrooms being converted into offices for each of the Jacksons and the connecting bathroom between the two becoming a library.


The Jacksons bedrooms set on either side of the split in the stairs, Michael’s to the left, Marlon’s to the right,, each of the connected bedrooms, via personal bathrooms, left vacant as, according to Michael, he and his brother hadn’t decided what to do with them, just yet.


The hallway upstairs was open at one end, by way of a French door, out onto the balcony that wrapped the entire second floor and allowed Baron to run as he pleased through the house.


Everything was dark wood and elaborate, hand stitched tapestries on the walls with a chair here and there, and decorative urns.


Just off the stairs, was Michael’s bedroom.


And that was where Vylette stood now, hands pressed to her chest, her blue-violet eyes opened wide.


Being among the Jacksons and their lavish lifestyle seemed to constantly throw firsts at the feet of Vylette Meraux.


For a girl from little Rainelle Parish, the room where Michael Jackson laid and dreamed his dreams at night was unlike anything Vylette could have imagined.


For a man who lived like a young emperor, his room was indeed fit for a king. It seemed to have been plucked right out of Russian palace.


The room itself was papered in a deep burgundy brocade, which complemented the dark mahogany furniture.


One side of the room, facing the balcony, was all French windows, draped with elaborate velvet in burgundy and gold, each open, and allowing sunshine in.


The floor was hardwood, polished, and in several places covered by Persian rugs with fringed edges.


There was comfortable seating everywhere; a chaise lounge near a small desk, displaying several bronze animal sculptures.


Nearer the bed, was a red marble fireplace, over which, a painting of a nude woman, lying asleep on a grassy plain was borne in a thick gilded frame.


On the mantelpiece was a small, golden clock in the shape of a peacock, flanked by two crystal dangling nudes.


In front of the unlit hearth, was a small, round wooden table, where a bench and two chairs were placed, and where several movie magazines had been stacked with a book.


Going closer, Vylette saw the book was a classic, The Wizard of Oz, by L. Frank Baum.


Vylette stared at the tome and nodded.


Yes…perhaps she WAS over the rainbow, and Michael Jackson was The Wizard.


In the far corner of the room, almost as an afterthought, was Michael’s bed.


A large dazzling, high-set structure it was, covered in burgundy silks, with decorative gold pillows crowding it.


A half canopy of more wood rose above the bed, the underside--facing the sleeper--made of pin tucked and pleated velvet.


On each side of the bed, were a table, holding up what appeared to be Tiffany table lamps. Beautiful things with bronze bases in the shape of panthers, glass shades a variety of reds and greens and purples.


A few feet from the bed, a lighted vanity shimmered, with a low ottoman for sitting and peeking at oneself, the table top loaded with magnified mirrors and a variety of hair dressing and skin creams.


Off to the side, a door was cracked, offering a peek into Michael’s massive walk-in closet, nearly bursting with suits.


Further down, another door stood closed; the bathroom.


Vylette hadn’t seen that, but according to Michael, it connected the other vacant room.


He’d excused himself to the bathroom as soon as they got upstairs, and he had told Vylette to sit and wait.


She wandered instead.


Vylette’s eyes sought out the bed again. It did look so comfortable and inviting.


Any other time, Vylette never would have mounted the stairs, much less, stood alone, unchaperoned in a man’s bedroom. It was unheard of…you didn’t go into a man’s room unless he was your husband.


But Vylette lacked the care.


She felt she was in a place where no harm could come to her. All she had ever been shown in that house, under that roof was affection, hugs, kisses, and coddling. Michael never even raised his voice at her. Her nerves were settled.


She was settled.


There was a small click and a squeak, as the door to the bathroom opened, and Michael emerged.


A cloud of sweet scented smoke came out with him, and it was obvious he’d taken the time to himself to have a cigarette or two.


In his hands were a blue glass jar and a washcloth.


“…seeing as you were beaten a full six days ago…” He sighed sadly, face twisting as he approached her slowly.


“…but this here is an ointment that should at least help it a bit…I…need you to take your blouse and skirt off, so I can put it on your back.”


Vylette hesitated a moment. He wanted her to disrobe in front of him?


Vylette, take off her clothes in front of a man? Whom she hadn’t kissed on the lips? Whom she wasn’t married to?


Michael seeing the panic in those pretty eyes that enchanted him so much, said soothingly,


“I’m not trying to be vulgar. I just want to help you, Baby. Marlon’s doing the same for Lorraine. Trust me.”


His eyes were so kind, so tender, so loving.


So loving…


Knowing innately that Michael only meant good, Vylette nodded and tentatively, removed her top and bottom, revealing her simple white slip.


Instantly, she felt ashamed wishing she owned something fancier.


“Over here…” Michael pointed out the carved, cushioned bench and sat her on it sideways, so that her back faced one of the arms. “…move your hair out the way … and… and push the straps down. I need to get as much of your back as I can.”


Obeying Vylette slipped the straps away, being cautious to hold the fabric against her chest to keep her breasts from sight. (She only hoped Lorraine wasn’t flashing Marlon.)


Michael gave a soft intake of breath, it was obvious he was in a state of guilt over the bruises caused by his casual greeting.


Gingerly, he was applying the ointment to her back. It didn’t sting or anything, only felt cool to her skin.


“Jesus…you’re purple!” Michael whispered and sniffled, before questioning,


“Your father is a doctor, Vylette. Didn’t he do anything for this?”


Staring ahead at the pink nude over the mantle, Vylette stroked at her hair.


“No…Papa’s never done anything for this before. It usually clears up on its own, over time--”


There was a loud clack at the jar fell to the floor.


“Before!” Michael gasped and ran around the bench. “This has happened BEFORE?”


Ashamed, Vylette looked away. Shrugging she made light of it.


“Not so much now. When I was little, Lorraine and I always got in trouble…”


“God…this doesn’t make sense. Is…is this common? Do…do other girls get hit like this?” Michael scratched at his head, completely confused.


“If they’re bad--”


“You were NOT bad, Vylette!” Michael nearly yelled, clapping his hands together.


“Gosh…come on. Let’s get you in bed…you need rest. Come on.”


Getting up, the two proceeded over to the bed, and Michael started peeling the covers back, before helping Vylette in.


She sank into the softness of the down mattress, and the sheet was tucked around her, the comforter left at her feet to avoid making her too warm.


His touch was delicate and light as he removed the ribbon from her hair and placed it on his bedside table, extinguishing the lights, so only sunlight lit the room.


A large hand patted her cheek.


The two gazed at one another for a long moment.


Vylette’s heart swelled to near bursting and reaching up, she pinched at his cheek.




“Thank you, Michael…for everything.”

“Don’t think of it.” Michael’s eyes widened dramatically. “It’s what I’m supposed to do. Women should be looked after. Not treated like livestock. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. No woman, no matter what she‘s done, deserves that.”


The bed was so comfortable, the plush, plump, pillows beneath her head smelling of Michael’s rich amber scent, Vylette was already becoming drowsy.


Michael bent and pecked her forehead.


“Why don’t you kiss me…how Marlon kisses Lorraine?” Vylette wondered, without realizing it.


Hand patting her head, Michael’s voice came to her as her eyes closed.


“You only get your first kiss like that, once. It should be something special, Baby. When I feel its right…I’ll kiss you like that. I promise.”


Eyes fluttered and Vylette saw Michael biting his bottom lip sheepishly.


“You rest…” Michael’s hand was on her shoulder. “I’m going to go get some pints of chocolate ice cream from Mumfree’s and you can eat it when you wake up. Everyone likes chocolate ice cream.”


He tucked the covers around her dimpled, sweet body some more.


Again Michael kissed her forehead, before slowly easing out of the room.


Asleep, Vylette turned over and murmured dreamily,




“I love you, Michael…”



It had been years since Vylette had been able to lie down for a nap, and as such, sleep soundly and undisturbed for a full three hours.


She was awakened, feeling refreshed, by what sounded like glass tinkling.


To her surprise, Michael was sitting in a chair at her side, a dish of chocolate ice cream in his hand.


“Feel better?” Michael wondered, getting some ice cream on a spoon and holding it out to her.


Taking the sweet, cold offering, Vylette nodded emphatically.


“Yes. The best I’ve slept in ages.”


Allowing Michael to feed her, Vylette listened keenly as he began speaking seriously.


“You know, Vy…when I was down with pneumonia, my eyes were opened to how brief and precious life really is. I’ve learned to live my life as fully as I can.”


More ice cream was pressed into her mouth.


“…when I want something, Vy…I waste no time. Time isn’t for wasting, it’s for living…”

Vylette eyed Michael strangely as he continued feeding her like a child. Where was all this leading up to? Where was it going?


Michael’s voice dropped into a deeper register, and he sounded a different man.


“I want you Vylette. I want you to be my lady. I want us to belong to each other.”


The spoon collided with Vylette’s lips as her eyes widened and her bosom tightened. He was saying it! He was saying it!


Jesus Christ, dreams did come true!


“I don’t know if there’s any other man in your life, but I want you to replace him…with me.”


Thin brows flexed as he set the dish of ice cream on the side table.


“You should be happy. You’re young, healthy, pretty. You should be happy. Not out being beaten like a beast because two men said good morning to you. Of course we said good morning. You and Lorraine are still the only friends we have in the town. It’d be poor manners to not speak. And then you got beat…”


Michael choked and looked away briefly. From the side, a tear streamed down his cheek.




“Michael--”

“You don’t know how I die inside, when I think of that. How someone as sweet and dear as you were somewhere cowering, scared, aching with no help. So frightened, so small and alone…Vylette..”


Michael turned back to her and took her little hands in his.


“I don’t care about anyone else in this backwoods town but you. And I want you to know, if you EVER need someplace to go. Someplace to stay--Lorraine too--you’re welcome here. This is a big place. And I want you to want for nothing. Anything you need…you tell me. Oh Vylette!”


Michael’s face was coming closer to hers and Vylette went to turn her cheek to his mouth.


Michael leaned with her and his delicious, moist lips touched hers.


Vylette was limp in his arms. Fireworks blazed before her.


Michael was kissing her. He was really kissing her.


His lips worked against her with a gentle, crushing power and seemed to be sucking her soul directly from her.


The kiss seemed to linger on for eternity and in it with each passing second, Vylette was more and more devoted, connected and intoxicated with Michael Jackson.


When he finally let go of her. Vylette’s mind was made up.


She wanted to be with Michael Jackson, to love him and nurture their blossoming romance.


And to hell with anyone that said nay.


She loved Michael and that’s was all that mattered to her at that sheer, watershed moment.