Chapter Four

　

The Meraux Residence

Three Hours Later



“…oh my Dear, I simply can’t believe it…”
Lorraine Devereaux declared dreamily, leaning against the small table in the center of the kitchen, that had been overloaded with just about every cup and glass to be found in the small cottage.

“I simply can‘t believe it…” She repeated and turned green eyes of wonder to Vylette, who stood across the room, at the sink, wooden spoon in hand, mixing a rather large pitcher of sweet iced tea.

“Are you absolutely certain you heard him correctly? He said The Dauphine Place?”

Spoon in hand, Vylette turned and waved it at her cousin.

“Yes! I was as close to Michael as I am to you right now! He looked me right in my face and said he and his brother had bought and were fixing up The Dauphine Place.”

So overcome was she with zeal, Lorraine began to merrily tremble and had to clutch the side of the rickety table to remain on her unsteady feet.

“Vylette, do you realize how rich these men must be? To afford that old mansion! My God! It’s only the biggest and best property in all of Rainelle Parish. Possibly all of Louisiana--”

“I’m quite aware of that…” Vylette sighed, bringing the pitcher over and starting to fill the glasses.

No one had to tell her about the Dauphine estate, that grand and sprawling property that had belonged to the Parish’s wealthiest family for generations, until the Crash made them lose everything and reduced them to paupers.

A sneaking worry was slowly creeping back under Vylette’s naturally waved tresses and into her mind.

“Lorraine?” She glanced at sideways at her cousin, now moving and arranging cheese biscuits onto a china platter.

“Are you sure you don’t think Michael and Marlon are bootleggers?”

Slapping the wooden counter next to the stove, Loraine shook her head, auburn braid swaying down her back.

“NO!” She insisted. “Get that idea out of your head! Quit trying to make criminals of them! The Jacksons are nice…”

Basket of bread in hand she returned to the table.

“…besides, from what I can see, Marlon and Michael like to live very well--expensive clothes, fancy cars. Better than anyone else around these parts, that’s for sure. Nothing about them says ‘low-key’. And from all the stories I’ve read, bootleggers want to be inconspicuous and not draw attention…Hard to do that in a Cadillac.”

She took the pitcher from Vylette and helped to fill glasses.

“Anyone taking up The Dauphine Place will draw attention like they’re under a ding-dang spotlight, Vy!”

Vylette knew she couldn’t argue; that home was heavily-fabled, but barely seen as no one she new had personally been inside the gates. Most all she heard was speculation and myth.

And in just three days, she was going to be a person guest within those restricted gates!

Blowing a loose black strand out of her eyes, Vylette lit into a new worry,

“May-maybe we should tell Mama about this. You know being invited out by these men--”

“Hell no.” Her cousin refused flatly. “Will you use your head for more than a holding post for your hair? Huh?”

Hands were pressed to a plump waist.

“These men are older than us and come from New York City! They’re Yankees! Aunt Kathleen would have a natural-born fit if we jumped up and asked to go to the house of some men no one ever heard of a week ago! She’d skin us alive for even knowing them, I’d say!”

Grimly, Vylette nodded. In the Parish, she knew unless a person’s lineage could be traced back to Adam and Eve, and their family could be traced back to Louisiana blood for at least three generations, they failed to exist to her mother.

And it wasn’t just her mother--it was a sentiment shared by many, this mindset to mingle with one’s own kind. That people who understood one another and thought alike made for better pairings. (One family, the Pringles had been marrying their own cousins and inbreeding for over a hundred years--producing some of the ugliest, popeyed and bucktoothed offspring you ever did see!)

“But what if Mama should hear about it--” Vylette rung her hands, terrified. “We’d be beaten black and blue for that kind of sneaking around!”

“What sneaking around?” Lorraine challenged coming around the table to her. “It’s in the middle of Saturday afternoon--broad daylight!”

“But we’ll be alone, in a house with two men we hardly know--”

Who knew what intentions the Jacksons had once doors closed on them?

She didn’t want to be ruined.

The Jacksons weren’t that big, but it was widely know that if he tried, any man could overpower a woman…for…for his needs…

Tiny white hands gripped her shoulders and her cousin hardened her face.

“Vylette, it’s 1931...not the Gay 90s! Nineteen thirty-one! People go out unsupervised all the time! Do you think girls in other towns--in New York--have their mothers strapped to them when out with gentlemen? NO! We spent the afternoon in Mumfree’s with the Jacksons. We weren’t harmed! Marlon touched my hair, sure, but other than that, they were gentlemen!”

Vylette reflected on how Michael had run his hand along her own ponytail earlier in the five-and-dime, and was taken with goosebumps.

The Jacksons had been extremely cordial over their brief lunch. She had felt no danger…oh, but girls had to be so careful.

“You know you had a good time with Michael…” Lorraine teased poking her in the gut causing her to snicker. “And I cherish every moment I had with Marlon. You don’t know how I play it over and over in my mind. I want that again--as much as I can get…”

Hands slipped down her smooth arms and clasped Vylette’s.

Eyes misted up and Vylette’s heart softened; perhaps that greedy little female did care for more than just dollar signs.

“Marlon is so handsome, Darling. He’s so dashing, it should be a sin!” Lorraine tittered, lowering her head.

“Oh my heart--”

“--no Vinnie! When the ladies arrive, you put their hats and things in my room! And don’t you dare wrinkle anything!”

Somewhere out in the hall, Kathleen Meraux was scolding her youngest.

“Yes Ma’am…”

Hearing that booming voice, Vylette was filled with doubt.

“But what about Mama?”

“Old stuck-up--” Lorraine’s sassy mouth flew shut like a steel trap when the door cracked and her aunt stuck her head in.

“Girls, quit standing and idling about! Members of the Christian League are arriving! Get out here with those biscuits and tea! On the double!” She barked and that quickly, was gone.

Sniffing loudly and grabbing the basket of biscuits, Lorraine quipped,

“Yeah, the League and our future mothers-in law!”

It was an offhand remark that slapped Vylette with reality.

If she didn’t do something…and something soon, she would be calling Steven Wilkes ‘Husband’.

And have the bruises to show for it.

* * *

An hour later, Vylette and Lorraine were practically dozing on their feet. (Poor little Vinnie, sitting on the floor in the far corner of the living room, was asleep, head resting against her sister’s legs.)

These meetings of the Ladies’ Christian League were never anything too exciting, just about two dozen of the higher ranking members--all from the best families in the Parish--sitting together and figuring ways to raise funds for the soup kitchen, and now, in late April, starting preparations for the graduation of the Class of 1931.

Putting a hand to her mouth, Vylette stifled what had to be her fiftieth yawn, and saw Lorraine was looking rather drowsy herself.

If only she could sneak away and lie down. There was nothing to the minutes of the previous meeting:

A bunch of aging matrons clustered together wasting time and eating up meager appetizers.

“Well, that recalls all of the ‘old’ business.” Kathleen was shining as hostess, standing before the others, like a Queen among her pawns.

“Any ‘new’ business?”

“Ahem…Kathleen?” Immediately, a thin, bright yellow hand was waving.

“Yes, Mary?” For the first time all night, Mrs. Meraux yielded the floor allowing a tall, haggard and too-slim woman to rise.

A woman Vylette knew too well--Mary Povah, the mother of timid Ulrich.

Rising and patting after her lifeless, sandy blonde hair arranged in a severe bun, that highlighted her gaunt features, she paused a moment before speaking. High of nerves from ruling her large family, even more strictly than Mrs. Meraux, she hardly ever smiled and was a sallow, intensely angry looking woman.

Ulrich, a man of eighteen, still feared this slip of a woman.

Lorraine loathed her.

And when that small, cracked mouth parted, the two drowsy cousins were thrown back to the Land of the Alert.



“Are any of you ladies aware that someone has finally bought The Old Dauphine Place?”
Cold, clammy hands clasped and breathing increased.

She…she was talking about the Jacksons!

“I managed to see them the other day, as I passed by Mumfree‘s on the way to the Post Office to mail invites for my Jimmie-Ray‘s graduation.” Eileen Pringle, a red-skinned porker chimed in, leaning forward on the couch packed tightly with others. “Sitting there in the middle of the day, doing absolutely nothing but smoking cigarettes and looking out the window! Young men who should be working!”

There was a gasp--idleness was a sin on the level of murder--and at once, tongues wagged vibrantly, as it seemed everyone thought she knew something about the Jacksons. And each struggled to be heard over the next.



“They’re cousins!”

“No, Evelyn, they’re brothers!”

“A couple of fast twenty-somethings from what I can tell!”

“I’ll beat my Darcy with a hickory rod if she dares goes near them!”

“Where are they from? Are they Southern?”

“I hear tell they come from New York!”

“NEW YORK???”
At the mention of that Northern Metropolis, Michael and Marlon Jackson were rejected like they carried a mix of The Bubonic Plague, Cholera and Tuberculosis.


“The way they come around in their fancy suits and fancy cars, flashing their money in front of decent hardworking folks is the work of the Devil!” Mary Povah was nodding emphatically.


“I hate them…I hate them all. Jesus Christ!” Lorraine whispered through grit and grinding teeth. “How is being wealthy a sin? It’s a blessing! Old sow-cows! Peahens! And they call themselves Christians!”

Wanting to cry, by how swiftly the Jacksons were being cast off, with out anyone even trying to know them first, learn how sweet they truly were, salt was rubbed into Vylette’s wounds as her mother stood again, trying to restore order.

Long-haired heads sagged; the Jacksons were out before they could properly get in.

“I have yet to see them at a Mass service!” Mary added, stirring that pot of emotions again.

“Are they even Christians? Do they even have Christians left in New York? Probably a bunch of bootleggers on the lam!”

“Are there any Christians left in this room?” Angry, hurt tears were starting to fall from Lorraine’s minty eyes. “Marlon is nice. Michael too. Nicer than any of those old heifers in here!”

Tensely, Vylette bit her bottom lip and tasted blood. She didn’t know how, but she was going to get the Jacksons in with Parish society--in on the right side of it. Even if she had to coach them personally, herself.

This wasn’t fair; this wasn’t fair at all, all this gossip and speculation and outright hatred.

Leaning over to her softly weeping cousin she informed her mutedly, squeezing her hand to comfort her. “Saturday…we’re going to the Jackson’s Place.”

Lorraine gazed up at her, green eyes shining, tears glistening on her cheeks, and forgetting herself, threw herself on her cousin, hugging her tightly.

A few matrons stared, but say nothing to them..

If only they knew what plot that hug concealed.

If only they knew.

* * *



Three Days Later

The Master Bedroom of the Meraux residence was a complete study in modesty and all that was prim and proper.

As with the rest of the home, the bedroom was painted beige and dressed with clean, gleaming furniture made of solid, polished blonde pine wood, the centerpiece being a large, brass bed, covered with a hand-sewn floral scrap quilt that had been in Meraux family, as it seemed, since the dawn of time.

In nearly every corner of the room , there was some sort of a religious icon, from small, framed portraits of Christ, Pope Pius XI and several Saints, to two sets of beaded rosaries hanging from pegs above the bed.

Usually, any sort of entrance into this room was highly forbidden, except for Dr. Meraux and his wife, as the three girls in their care had been banned from it long ago.

The bedroom, quiet and still, filled with early morning sunlight, should have been empty, as the good Doctor had left home shortly after dawn to open his medical office, and his wife had gone down to the church to help prepare soup from scratch for the kitchen.

The room should have been empty--but it wasn’t.

After having been booted from the one and only bathroom by a frantic, obscenity-flinging, fragile-nerved Lorraine, Vylette had retreated to the calmness and sanctity of her parent’s bedchamber in which to dress and appropriately coif herself for the day.

Although she hadn’t risen from her bed until well after nine a.m.--ensuring that both of her parents had gone and that little Vinnie had trotted off to the Povahs to spend the day with Hildegard--she had laid awake long before then.

Her mind a steel machine, working and twirling and calculating and spinning.

Never before, in her short seventeen years of life, had she ever gone to visit a man at his house, alone, with no one else but her cousin at her side. She still worried to the point her hands shook, wondering what was to happen to her and Lorraine the moment they crossed the threshold of The Dauphine Place.

While she told herself that the Jacksons would be as cordial and sweet, as they had been that afternoon in Mumfree’s, a part of her overwrought mind transformed them into preying villains like in Lorraine’s novels, who would grab them and tear their clothing off and ravage them as soon as the lock clicked.



Older men loved preying on young innocents.
And yet, in spite of all the sordid scenarios the young girl could cook up, Vylette continued to smile to the point her cheeks were beginning to ache.

She couldn’t help but feel special and flattered that she, the daughter of a country doctor in the boonies, could have somehow caught the fancy of an experienced, lively man like Michael Jackson.

She couldn’t understand it, nor fathom how he had come to like her…

To a girl who had been taught time and again that paying close attention to one’s own appearance was a sin of vanity, Vylette was lost to her own beauty and charm.

The reflection in the large mirror above the dresser was that of the rounded-slim body, clad in a sleeveless white blouse, tucked into an ankle-length, multi-colored gingham skirt, with a large, matching bow at the collar, all of which hugged her curvaceous body wonderfully.

Her heart-shaped face, glowing even whiter in her excitement, was framed by her jet hair, parted down the middle and held back by a lock of it’s own hair, held in place by a hidden bobby pin, so it needed no other ribbon to conceal it. The preparation and styling of the hair had taken an hour alone, as Vylette had taken the pains to wash it, drying and it sparkled with a coconut oil pomade.

Her blue-violet eyes sparkled and dazzled hunting more for inconsistencies in her appearance, than the actual wonder that she missed, and that had claimed Michael Jackson by his skinny throat.

She was stunning, and never noticed it.

Turning back and forth, she only saw that her shirt was a bit rumpled from being tucked.

“Oh, Vylette!”

At the shrill cry, Vylette spun to see her cousin, wearing her own sleeveless blouse with a brown vented skirt, rushing towards her.

Her fiery locks, carefully woven against her head in two French braids that intertwined down her back, was held securely by more hidden pins.

Her green eyes, were distressed and wide as she ran to her.

“Oh…Vylette!” She repeated, hands wringing.

“Please tell me I look alright! This was the only skirt I had that looked right on my figure. But I hate wearing brown--you know that! I always look like a blasted field mouse in it! Do you think Marlon will care? You know, about the color? Oh, I want to look perfect for him!”

Before Vylette could speak a reply, Lorraine had brushed past her, and was in the mirror, pinching at her cheeks, encouraging color to spring to them.

“Goodness, what I wouldn’t give to have some kind of make-up right now!” She gasped, squeezing her cheeks and biting at her lips. “Powder, and rouge and lipstick!”

Vylette hugged her cousin around the shoulders from behind.

“Now do you really need all that?” She teased, grinning at the forlorn face staring back at her. “You met Marlon looking just as you are, right now, and he seemed so happy. Why must you change now?”

It did bother her to see Lorraine, usually so full of herself she needed to be slapped, so unsure and fluttery.

The auburn head drooped,

“It’s just…well the Marlon’s from New York, Vy. He’s rich. He’s used to being around debutantes who wear furs in the middle of summer just to show they have it. I…I want to make sure I’m good enough, Vy. I…I like him a great deal.”

“Of course you’re good enough Dear…” Vylette patted at her shoulders lovingly. “He invited you out, didn’t he? He wants your company. Same as Michael wants mine. And I’m not going loony fretting about myself.”

She wasn’t doing it vocally, but everything her cousin had said out loud, she had been stewing about internally.

A wry chuckle left Lorraine.

“You’re right Vy, I love you--” She started and suddenly reached into her bosom, coming up with a small glass bottle, filled with a champagne colored liquid.

“Vylette, put some of this on!” She ordered, holding the bottle out.

Vylette glanced at the bottle before questioning,

“Perfume? You got a bottle of perfume?”

“Yes!” With a tiny pop, the cork came out and faintly, Vylette could smell the floral eau de toilette.

“It was the only one I could afford at the five-and-dime--it was six cents! It’s called Joie de Vivre. I liked it.”

Vylette was hesitant; good girls didn’t usually wear perfumes like that, when the fresh scent of Lifebuoy soap was usually more than enough.

There was no time for arguing as Lorraine put her hand over the opening and tilted the bottle, getting the scent on her hands.

And she was swiping at Vylette.

Behind the ears, at the top of her cleavage in her bosom, on her wrists and all over hand hands.

Starting to apply the scent to herself, Lorraine commented,

“I read, in both Photoplay and Silver Screen Digest, that Jean Harlow wears her perfume this way, so that if a gentleman kisses her hand or hugs her, they can smell her perfume.” Rubbing the excess on her hands over her braided locks, a cool grin came to her face.

“If I’m lucky, Marlon will get close enough to me to get that big nose of his full of my perfume!”

“Lorraine!” Vylette gasped. Her cousin could be so scandalous at times.

“Vylette!” She was mocked and her hand grasped.

“Come on, let’s go! The Dauphine Place is all the way across town, and I want to go now! No sense in rushing and arriving hot and sweaty and unpleasant! How unladylike! Besides, we can‘t keep the fellows waiting!”

Being tugged like an stubborn mule behind her cousin, Vylette shrieked and laughed at the same time,

“It’s only ten-thirty! We’ve got two hours to get there!!!”

Stumbling after Lorraine onto the front porch, the front door of the house slamming and locking behind her, right before she was yanked off it, Vylette turned and looked at it.

Looked at that plain, clapboard cottage with its bright green front lawn, the wildflowers sprouting around the walk…

She was leaving this house a young girl, off to see a man she scantly knew.

And it was anyone’s guess how she would return to this house.

Would she be a different girl?

A different woman?

* * *

Vylette wasn’t quite sure how long she and her cousin had been standing there, at one of the many, soaring, wrought-iron gates that circled The Dauphine Place, but enough time had passed where her feet, once fatigued and pinched in her too-small shoes, had ceased hurting.

The two girls stood, motionless and silent, white faces pressed between the blackened bars, staring at the beast that laid just beyond it.

Resting in a shaft of sunshine, was a large dog. Sleeping peacefully, the dog, looking something like a domesticated wolf, was a beautiful creature, its coat of pristine white and deep reddish brown fur, shimmering in the sunlight.

Vylette gazed on the dog in incredulity; she had never seen such a well-tended animal before.

Dogs in the Parish were scrawny, unsightly animals used more for hunting than anything else. They often were fed mere scraps--if anything at all--and beaten when unruly.

This dog appeared to have lived a sedentary life, where all he had to do was look pleasing.

Yes…was everything in the Jackson’s world only for beauty and to be looked at in admiration?

Around the beast’s neck was a wide, pebbled black leather collar, filled with silver studs.

For a moment, Vylette’s eyes fell to her battered oxfords, and over to her cousin’s scuffed black ones.

Shoes they had been forced to wear the last two years, to keep the family afloat in hard times.

(Times weren’t that damn hard; her mother just wanted to set an example and show they could sacrifice like everyone else, rather than spend the income her husband made doctoring.)

She was quite certain the dog’s collar had been more expensive than their footwear--combined.

The Jacksons were rich. Perhaps even richer than the Dauphines themselves…

The Dauphine Place, known to all, but only seen by a very select few, was as old as Rainelle Parish itself.

First built in the early eighteen-hundreds as a tobacco plantation, the property was comprised of nearly three thousand, fertile, rolling green acres. The Dauphines had always been a quiet, cloistered family, rarely seen in town, and known for being quite eccentric, living in ostentatious grandeur behind the fifteen foot high wrought iron gates, marked every few feet by an elaborate swirling, grey brick pillar.

They were millionaires--tobacco magnates--and no less than a dozen relatives had lived within these sheltered walls, never marrying Parish folk, rather, outsourcing to the far corners of Louisiana and other portions of the Deep South for matches to continue the family and keep the flow of money unending.

Once Freedom arrived, following the War Between the States--commonly known as the Civil War--and slaves were set loose, the plantation continued to thrive by paid hands until that bleak day in late October, 1929.

The Stock Market crashed, and Olivier Dauphine, one of the direct descendants of the original family, leapt to his death from the roof, his entire fortune reportedly wiped out.

(Vylette knew Olivier had jumped, as it was her father whom had collected the busted remains.)

From there, the impoverished family left town under the cover of night in disgrace and a state of mourning.

At least, that was the story Vylette had heard so long as she had ears. The story was always coupled with her mother’s booming warning of the pitfalls and perils of greed and the evils of idle time that “too much” money afforded the wealthy.

The story, in the recesses of her young mind played, but Vylette hardly noticed it.

Her attention was on the dog and its collar and how the pet probably ate better than she on a daily basis.

“Vy…” Her bare arm was touched by a cool hand.

Green eyes searched her face as she turned to her cousin.

“Where do we get in at? I have no idea where the front gate is.” Lorraine commented, her free hand running up and down her braid.

“I don’t know…” She admitted slowly. “It has to be somewhere. I reckon if we walk around the perimeter, we’ll run into it eventually…”

Brushing past the teen and moving along the worn path running parallel to the fence, she called over her shoulder,



“Come along!”
Walking the fence, there was no true way to gauge if they were nearer the Main House or not, as many grand oaks dotted the land within the gates and it was completely obscured from view.

“As confusing as this is…” Lorraine began, a few yards in,

“You’d think the fellas would have picked us up. They have two cars--”

“Yes, that would have looked right marvelous Lorraine,” Vylette snipped, not trying to conceal her sharpness. “A big shining Caddy, driving through the center of town for all to see. Mama and Papa would have snatched us clean out of it. We had to walk. Quit griping--we’re here!”

Pouting, as it was true a scene of epic disaster would have resulted from being seen so publicly, with the opposition of the Jacksons so fresh in her mind, Lorraine folded her arms and let her red mouth stick out as far as she could poke it.

The cousins walked for five solid minutes, before a welcomed sight revealed itself.

A set of curling gates, adorned with an oversized “J” in a gleaming, polished bronze, let all who saw it know this was no longer The Dauphine Place.

It was the Jackson Place.

Tinny squeals of excitement were concealed as the two, forgetting themselves embraced, jumping a bit before turning and starting to run like children.

Getting to the gate and turning they screeched to a halt.

“ZOWIE!” Came the unified exclamation.

Unfolding before them was a wide, grand paved lane that stretched on for about a mile, the Main House a speck of white in the distance.

The entire lane was shaded, as, overhead, dozens upon dozens of overlapping and interconnected oaks formed a canopy of thick foliage and wispy Spanish moss shaking in the mild breeze.

“My Lord…” Lorraine had a hand pressed to her bosom.

Eyes swelled and took in everything.

Was this real? Did this place truly exist? Was is all some shared, magnificent hallucination?

It was like something out of a fairy story--

“Look Vylette!” Lorraine was moving away, and stooping, picking up something.

Jogging over, Vylette saw what it was.

Clasped in trembling hands, a box, wrapped in silver paper, and fastened with a large red bow, bounced.

A gift.

Set on top, was a note in Michael’s handwriting.

Straightaway, Vylette was reading it.

“Welcome to Jackson Manor…it’s…it’s quite a walk on to the house…so my brother and I wanted to give you something to enjoy to lessen the journey. You can leave the box on the lane, but please carry its contents with you. Michael Jackson.”

“These men do know how to make a girl feel better!” Lorraine cackled as she tore the wrapping from the box and pulled the lid off, revealing a puff of tissue paper.

“I’ve got it!” Vylette announced, digging in, her hand touching something cold and metal.

The gift box fell to the ground as Vylette lifted it out.

“Oh my goodness!”



“Why, Vy…!”
There in her hands, was an ornate box.

Made into a hexagonal shape, it was made of gold basket weave, its top embellished with rods of slick red enamel, radiating out from a round disc of more gilded basket weave.

“Is it a music box?” Lorraine inquired, reaching in and fiddling with the lid.

“Careful!”

Rather than being hinged, as with a traditional music box, the lid came off completely, and what was inside was better than any sort of tinkling melody.

“Chocolates!”

The box was filled to brim, with small bonbons of chocolate.

The men had bestowed them with more candy!

Each took one and popped them in their mouths.

“Mine has coconut! I love coconut!” Lorraine tittered, as they started for the white speck.

“Mine has peppermint…its absolutely delicious!” Vylette was almost in tears. This chocolate, was the best tasting to ever cross her lips. It melted easily and wasn’t too sweet, just enough to leave the eater wanting more.

“I bet Marlon and Michael eat these everyday.” Lorraine was helping herself to a second and third treat.

“And the box…I bet that’s real gold, too. Probably French or Austrian.”

“The box can’t be real gold. That’s kind of silly. And, I’m sure they eat real food…” Vylette snickered, amused by the display of greed. Normally it worried her.

But now…it just didn’t.

All the troubles and cares and the Depression had been left outside the gate and all Vylette cared about was seeing Michael and enjoying herself.

Seeing Michael and enjoying herself…it was a dream.

The dream deepened as they came closer to the house and were greeted by another display of careless wealth.

Parked on the lane were two cars; Michael’s sleek red and black roadster, and a second, larger coupe.

A Cadillac, it shared the same chrome flying angel ornament on the hood. It was a four-door behemoth, painted a light, slate blue and trimmed in navy along the fenders and running board.

Its convertible top, of navy canvas, had been left down, revealing light blue quilted leather seats.

Lorraine was fondling the car.

Jumping up onto the running board, her hands were all over the seating, glossy headlights and one of the decorative spoked spare whitewall tires.

“This is Marlon’s car!” Lorraine’s chest heaved. “Vy, my Dear, isn’t it amazing! Why, I like it even more than Michael’s! Just imagine me riding around in something so grand. I’d look like a Queen! I’d feel like Jean Harlow-- Oh, I feel faint--”

Her eyes crossed.

“Don’t you dare!” Vylette tugged her relative back onto solid ground. Lorraine wasn’t known for fainting--some girls dropped if you stared too hard at them--but when she did it was a chore to revive her.

Was she that amazed?

By the way her eyes were rolling in her head, it was safe to assume so.

“We’re going to walk in. Not have your lifeless corpse carried in!”

Vylette did smile as she pushed her cousin forward on up the lane.

She was certainly in a different world.

This became shockingly evident when they saw the Main House in its entirety.

Jaws dragged the ground, loud gasps released to the Heavens and free hands squeezed to almost being bloody.

Eyes growing and blinking rapidly…delicate flesh sprouting goose pimples all over, and pale cheeks, white and freckled, flushed hotly, violently and brightly.

The Jackson Manor, may have fallen into disrepair in 1929, but by 1931, it had been restored to where no one would have ever believed the tragedies that befell its previous owners.

Those hidden and perhaps erased by the stately mansion rising above the gawking cousins.

Contrasting sharply with it’s vibrant green and brown surroundings, the house was painted a glistening, crisp white.

The home, vast and sweeping, bearing hallmarks inspired both by Georgian and Greco architecture, marked all the way around by soaring columns.

The home stretched on for what appeared to be four stories, the first two bearing wrap around porches, marked with many windows--noticeably with all the curtains drawn.

At the very top of the house above a set of windows, a glass encased square, with a steeple atop it seemed to offer a panoramic view of the entire property.

Around the grey brick foundation of the porch, several large bushes, containing brightly colored flowers bloomed.

Mystified, Vylette and Lorraine, their candy-chomping halted, were advancing towards the steps, constructed of more brick, bug-eyed and awed.

Feet mounted the seven masonry steps up onto the wide veranda, made of polished, dark wood, and littered with cushioned, wicker furniture. All painted white, as the house, with blue and white windowpane plaid upholstery.

Upon closer inspection, every one of the windows, running from floor to ceiling, was framed by deep blue shutters.

A set of wide, oak double doors stood closed, flanked on both sides by a pair of urns, standing about four feet tall, shining with a bronzy cast, both featuring lovely, curling peacocks, their plumage flayed down to the floor.

Stepping up to the door, it was noticed that above them, an octagonal electric porch light--unlit--hung.

Peacocks were a popular theme, the cousins discovered, as they approached the door, and saw the door knockers, in bright brass, were also fashioned after the fabulous birds.

“I…I can’t believe this is real…” Vylette started and exclaimed,

“Ouch!” as her cousin pinched her.

“Now do you believe it’s real, Dear?” Red lashes fluttered as Lorraine smiled coyly at her.

Pinching at the speckled skin of her cousin’s forearm, Vylette squinched her little nose at her.

“There’s only one way to get into this…this palace!” Lorraine, eager, went to put her hand on one of the fowl shaped knockers.

“Lorraine…” Vylette grabbed the hand in midair. She had to say something to her before they got into this.

“Lorraine…please…please, watch your manners, Honey.” She cautioned, her violet-tinged eyes peering deeply into the green ones of her relative. “You were a bit forward with Marlon last time…showing him your legs and all--”

Offended, the redhead pulled back.

“I didn’t hear him complaining, Vy…” She went for the knocker again.

“Men like legs--I just don’t want him or Michael to have the wrong idea about us, that’s all…”

It would have been the worst thing in the world to Vylette having been trained and taught since she could sit up to be a “good” girl, and have a sore first impression put her on a level with Wallis Pelant!

“They don’t.” Lorraine insisted, placing a hand on the golden peacock and paused. “It’s just, Vylette, we can’t move at a snail’s pace like we usually do. These men are different, from a different place. They’re not like the boys we’ve grown up with. We can’t expect them to slow down…”

“We’re respectable Lorraine…” Vylette put her hand on the other knocker and raised it. “Let’s not be forgetting that, and make sure the Jacksons realize it.”

“Yes, Aunt Kathleen!” Lorraine sighed, rolling her eyes.

The two snickered, and touching the cool knockers, lifted them and let them fall a couple of times, their weighted tails clanging on the wood and resounding inside the massive home.

Vylette stared up at the door, while her cousin felt after one of the golden urns.

She was nervous, so very nervous. Not only to see Michael Jackson again, but by what he thought of her. Did he consider her fast? Had her cousin given the wrong impression not for only herself but for Vylette too? She liked Michael so much, and wanted him to hold her in the utmost esteem, just as she did him.

Oh, a girl just had to be so careful.

“This vase is so pretty…” Lorraine speaking more to herself than her cousin, continuing to run her fingers along the curves of the urn.

A smile touched Vylette’s lips.

They had arrived. They were at the splendiferous building the Jacksons called home.

Judging by the outside--what on earth laid past those door?

It wouldn’t take long to find out.

Vylette’s heart skipped a beat, as there was a loud clank, the sound of a lock disengaging.

“Ooooh shit!” Lorraine’s huff came through her nose and she was patting at her hair wildly, and slapping her cheeks for more color. (Despite the fact a hard blush made her match her mane.)

Both young girls straightened and smiled bigger, hoping they looked sweet and pretty for whichever Jackson--perhaps both--who opened the door.

One of the scalloped door handles jangled, with the door to the right cracking and swinging open.

Standing in the open doorway, though, was not an impeccably dressed, pair of young Colored men.

Standing in the doorway wasn’t the Jacksons at all!

Instead, was an average height, darker skinned Colored woman.

She was very large and quite fat, with a round, smooth face and small brown eyes under sparse brows.

She appeared to be the same age as Vylette’s mother, or maybe a bit older.

Her round, swollen body was clad in a sharply starched black dress that fell to the mid-calf, over stubby legs with dimpled ankles.

Over the dress she wore a glowing white, apron tied around her wide midsection.

On her head, over grey streaked black hair, gathered in a low bun, she wore a white ruffled cap.

From her ears, bold gold hoops swung to and fro.

Broad lips, painted a very deep, dark shade of plum parted in a friendly grin.

A maid. She was a maid.

The Jacksons could afford a maid!

Vylette had never known anyone with hired help; anything that needed to be done, most folks did themselves or did without it.

“Good afternoon!” She had a happy somewhat, boisterous voice. “You must be the ladies the gentlemen are expecting! Please, come right on in! I’m Adelaide, the Jackson’s housekeeper! Come in!”

Adelaide continued chattering on as she waddled back, and held the door, allowing Lorraine and Vylette to enter.

“…all I’ve heard about this week, from dawn till dark, was about the two ladies coming in on Saturday. Seeing you know, I understand what all the hubbub was about!”

Stepping into that front foyer, Vylette’s hearing faded.

Oh, that fat, jolly woman was still speaking, her mouth was moving sure enough, but Vylette was deaf to it.

Her surroundings…by golly sweet Jesus, her surroundings.

“Zowie…” Unable to completely make a sound, she merely mouthed the word, her mind struggling to comprehend and make sense of the splendor and grandeur into which she had stepped.

The world of Rainelle Parish ceased to exist, for she had entered a new dimension.

The temperature outside was quite warm--somewhere in the mid-eighties--but inside the front hall of The Jackson Manor, it was considerably cooler. Deliciously cool.

Beneath her feet, the floor was done in a lighter, glossy pine wood, contrasting with the darker wood panels--mahogany?--on the walls and ceiling and coordinating with the pale yellow, between a mustard and butter crème, wallpaper.

On either side of the grand staircase, two sets of pocket doors, in dark wood, both stood closed.

Turning slowly, Vylette thought her eyes would burst, as they took in so many sights at once.

Beside her, Lorraine, unable to mask her emotions, mouth hanging in a wide “O” was also doing a slow spin.

Just inside the door, were a pair of statues, this time, in the shape of elephants made of veined dark green marble.

Above them, lighting the hallway and casting faint rainbows all around was a wide, sparkling crystal chandelier, dangling with what had to be hundreds of prisms and spheres, around a curling bronze base.

Over the spotless flooring, lay a rich plush Persian carpet of dark reds, greens, yellows and golds. It was repeated in the carpet going up to the landing on the staircase.

The staircase was grand, both banisters lit by smaller crystal-laden sconces, echoing the chandelier. Past the landing, the stairs split, and went up in either direction.

At the landing, as Vylette inched closer tentatively, was a larger than life-sized portrait in an ornate gilded frame of a Colored woman.

The woman was breathtaking, with fine, delicate features, and wearing a distinctly Victorian outfit.

A frothy, lacy white dress with a high collar, her thick black hair piled high upon her head, giving her the look of something akin to royalty.

In her hands was a single blood red rose.

Vylette wondered whom the woman was; she couldn’t have been a Dauphine; as far as she knew, the Dauphines had been White. Some relation to the Jacksons, obviously.

More artwork littered the walls in frames; to the left was a landscape scene, depicting several deep drinking from a stream, on the other, a much more controversial painting.

A nude woman, her back turned, her pink body reclined on a tufted yellow chaise lounge, her little rounded buttocks in full view.

While Vylette wrinkled her nose at the sight, Lorraine was smiling smugly.

“Y’all have a seat please…” Adelaide was motioning to a low wooden bench, fitted with a dark floral cushion.

“Yes, thank you.” Lorraine’s nails were digging into Vylette’s arm before they sat properly.

“My Dear…if I’m dreaming, I shall kill you if you pinch me to wake me!” Lorraine gasped falling against her and Vylette nodded.

“Same for me!”

Who lived like this? How did they manage it? What did they do to afford this type of luxury?

Waddling over to one of the banisters, Adelaide called loudly,

“Mr. Marlon! Mr. Michael! Your company is here!”

The cousins held hands and their breath as the sounds of running footsteps came plainly to their ears from somewhere overhead.

There was a bit of rustling, a light thud, and a moment of silence, before someone was heard whispering,

“One, two, three!”

As the Jacksons finally…finally…made their entrance, Vylette and Lorraine rose, still clinging to one another, eyes going buggy and awe-stricken.

The candy box was left on the seat.

In an orchestrated move, both brothers came from either side of the split in the stairs, each carrying a beautiful cut crystal vase, packed with a menagerie of light and hot pink roses.

“Oh…” Vylette whimpered, overcome, as the blooms were brought closer, their fragrance strong and lovely to her nose.

“Roses…for us.” Lorraine, was swooning as both men stooped placing the vases on the floor and stood, smiling in their casual, non-fussy way.

They were so handsome. How did men get to be so handsome? Were they born to it, or cultivated it every moment? Vylette knew not.

She only knew how heart tied up and beat erratically when Michael Jackson was near.

And despite the flowers at her feet, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the man who had placed them there.

Michael and Marlon were both dressed far more casually than usual; neither wore a suit.

Instead, Michael wore a white oxford and white linen trousers, over which he had put a pastel yellow sweater vest and matching bow tie.

On the right side of the vest, four diamond and pearl brooches, one in the shape of a crown, had been pinned and were sparkling in the artificial light.

Next to him, Marlon wore a navy shirt and slacks, over which a red, white and blue argyle vest had been placed and a plaid tie. He wore no other embellishment besides his broad grin.

The men hovered, wordlessly, over the girls.

Marlon smiled at Lorraine, who was smiling boldly back.

Michael, his face plain and serious, thin brows raised stared down at Vylette, who returned the stare, her pink mouth slightly parted, she was so enveloped in his appearance.

His hair, fluffed and teased a bit, a few stray curls in those deep, smoldering eyes.

Lorraine was giggling at something Marlon said to her, but Vylette didn’t notice.

Michael came closer, and for the first time, she could smell his cologne.

A strong, clean, amber and cinnamon scent that prickled Vylette’s nose and forced her head to spin.

“Good…good afternoon Vylette…” His lips barely moved as he spoke, eyes seemed to glance into her soul.

“Welcome to Jackson Manor.”

Vylette lost the power of speech, as Michael took her white hand in his brown one, and raised it to his mouth.

Tender, warm, and faintly moist lips brushed her knuckles.

Out of her side vision, she could see Marlon doing the same to Lorraine.

“Did you have a hard time finding place, Cherry?” Marlon asked of Lorraine, and for a moment, Vylette thought he had mispronounced Cherie, the French term for “Dear”.

Later she realized he meant Cherry, because of Lorraine’s red mane.

“No…” Lorraine was all teeth, gazing up at him with an intensity never used on poor Ulrich Povah.

“It was certainly a walk to reach your home though.”

Amber colored eyes were narrowed and darted at Michael.

Rubbing after Lorraine’s hand, Marlon declared in a grumble,

“I would have gladly driven out and picked you and your cousin up from your home, but Mike claimed we couldn’t just show up unannounced--”

“You can’t!” Vylette and Lorraine cried with such conviction, Marlon jumped.

If only that man knew the kind of beating he’d have inspired with that breach of etiquette.

Kathleen Meraux might have even laid a few lashes on his hide!

Full of himself for having made the right decision, Michael wagged his head at his sibling, before holding his arm out to Vylette.

“Would you care to tour the house…before we have our lunch?” Michael spoke in a high falsetto that gave Vylette the fidgets as she looped her arm through his.

Lorraine, looser, was gripping Marlon’s hand instead.

“Adelaide…” Marlon glanced over his shoulder at the chubby servant. “Will you put the roses away, please?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Marlon! And I’ll give y’all a holler when the food is ready!”

“Thank you.” Both Jacksons called, as Michael, leading the way, started for the closed doors to the left of the hall.

“This…” Vylette had to burn her head from Michael Jackson his eyes were burning her so.

“…is the living room.”

The doors were pushed open and the girls were hard pressed to conceal their gasps of astonishment.

The Jacksons’ living room was the first and last word in opulence. Dressed in deep, rich, cobalt blue with gold accents. The floor was covered by a large, floral carpet and the many floor to ceiling windows were adorned with velvet studded valances and curtains. Tufted couches and armchairs with tonal striped upholstery were tucked into corners and around a gold marble tiled fireplace. The mantle bore a gold-framed mirror and was flanked by two blue vases, each painted with small nude cherubs in a forest scene.

Everywhere were more finely painted and carved tables and vases and arrangements of pink roses. Everything was older and seemed to harkens back to a bygone era, forever lost to the modern world.

Without thinking, Vylette commented,

“I can’t believe the Dauphines left all of this behind!”

(No wonder Olivier hopped off the roof!)

“Hoo-hoo!” Marlon snorted into his fist.

“No Vylette…” Michael’s hand was warm on her arm. “All the Dauphines left behind for us, was an empty house. Everything you see now, I purchased specially from antique dealers and arranged myself.”

He decorated the entire house, himself? What man had the vision and foresight for an undertaking like that? The idea was something unheard of toVylette.

Men didn’t decorate homes; that was a woman’s job!

But of course, the Jacksons weren’t married and had to fend for themselves.

Michael may have bought the sumptuous items, but perhaps Adelaide had set up the rooms, and he was simply taking credit for her work.

Yes, that made sense.

“Frankly, I’d have liked a more current style…” Marlon dismissed the formal surroundings with a toss of his curled head. “But Michael has always been into this Victorian style--”

“It’s a mix of Victorian and Art Nouveau!” Michael squawked stubbornly, prompting Marlon to tease.



“Excuse the Hell out of me, Prince Albert!”
The words meant nothing to Vylette nor Lorraine, who knew very little of decorating styles, other than Louisiana Country as their home was done --whatever old bits were retained from previous generations.

“Marlon…” Michael heaved a groan of despair. “We’re in delicate company…the foul language….”

Vylette didn’t know why, but it always provided her with a thrill to have Michael refer to her and Lorraine as “delicate”.

“Please pardon me.” Marlon was kissing her cousin’s hand again in apology, her knuckles disappearing under his big lips.

Much to Vylette’s chagrin, her cousin touched his cheek.

Touching a man…

“Don’t fret…” Lorraine began, eyes doing that searchlight run over him. “I find that a real man says what’s on his mind.”

A real man indeed. Like Ulrich? Vylette’s eyes rolled. Marlon was consumed with a wide, silly grin.

“This way…” Marlon was tugging Lorraine along.

Vylette though, paused with Michael. She felt she had something to tell him.

“I don’t care what your brother says…I think your home is positively beautiful.” She confided softly, her head down.

Michael’s hand, warm and tender, cupped her chin and she was made to gaze up into that slim, alluring face.

“Not like you, Vylette-- nothing is beautiful like you.”

He whispered and Vylette was struck speechless.

Beautiful! Michael Jackson thought she was beautiful!

Vylette, with the pale, colorless skin, queer shade of eyes, and round dimpled body?

He found beauty in that?

Intoxicated with flattery, she floated along behind Michael, through another pair of pocket doors.

Another sitting room, less formal, but just as ornate as the previous, was observed. It was papered in a lighter blue, the walls bearing a fleur-de-lis pattern.

The centerpiece of the room was a carved radio, off at the moment, that was backed by a huge painting.

A rather large family was represented, a husband and wife--the woman bearing a strong resemblance to the woman in the painting on the landing--and ten children.

A handsome, well dressed red-skinned man a black suit, and a top hat with piercing blue eyes; the beautiful woman, this time in pale blue, a wide-brimmed, flower covered hat, coordinating with the room, seven boys in blue and white sailor suits and three girls in white dresses with blue bows in their long, sausage-curled black hair. All seeming from the earliest years of the century and screamed of wealth.

“And this is the Jackson family.” Marlon chuckled, a slim finger going up and began pointing out the members.

Father, Joseph, mother Katherine. Three sisters: Maureen, Latoya and Janet. Seven brothers: Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, Randy, Brandon, himself (Marlon) and Michael.

Vylette was pleased to see that the child versions of Michael and Marlon looked exactly as they did as adults. Michael was the only child in the painting looking downward shyly, his little kinky puff of hair more prominent than the rest, and Marlon’s face was a huge, sly grin, him staring directly at the artist.

They must have been a handful in their youth.

“Such a brood, I love it…” Lorraine tittered and was poking a finger at one of the boys, smiling, but not as openly as young Marlon.

“That’s Brandon, Honey.” Marlon clasped her hand and moved her fingertip over to himself.

“Oh, well you’re all so adorable!” Lorraine laughed off her mistake.

“So are you!” Marlon tickled at her arm and chuckling, eyes full of mischief, Lorraine slapped at his hand.

“Excuse me, Mr. Marlon, Mr. Michael?”

The doors leading to the hallway had been opened, and occupying the space, was Adelaide.

“Your lunch is ready Sirs.” She informed them.

In a brash move, Marlon had his arm around Lorraine’s waist, pulling her closer.

“Chow time! Come on Cherry! You can see the rest of the house after we eat! ” He crowed and Vylette would have slapped him, for his forwardness and impertinence herself, if she hadn’t noticed Michael.

Michael Jackson stood, eyes planted on the painting of his family.

His fingertips brushing after the image of his father.

That, stern, proud face, with a handlebar mustache.

There was a strange, and tight expression on Michael’s face.

It struck Vylette as odd. Just a moment before, he had seemed to happy.

“Are you alright?” Vylette wondered and Michael’s eyes bulged, his chest expanding, as it seemed he was just remembering she was still there.

“You’re with me…” Michael was grasping her hand in his and leading her to the door. “I’ll always be alright when I can look to my side and see you, Vylette.”

“Oh Michael…” Vylette ducked her head, all other sort of speech failing her momentarily.

As the two proceeded into the hall, the sound of Marlon Jackson’s cackling laughter mingled with Lorraine’s gentler, chiming one was wafting from somewhere up ahead of them.

It was then, something caught Vylette’s eye and managed to tear her attention from her esteemed host.

A small sideboard, tucked in an alcove immediately across from the informal sitting room, was packed with figures and statuettes.

Hand still in Michael’s she approached it, curiously and tentatively.

All of the statues, every last one of them, were of nude women. Comprised of bronze, marble, enamel and polished wood, each of the women, in a variety of poses--all artistic, none vulgar--were unclothed and on display. Full bust lines, thicker, dimpled bellies and wider, childbearing hips were featured on each figure.

A larger figure, about two feet in height and made of a fine, amethyst colored glass had a woman holding a naked infant to her bosom.

A bit captivated, Vylette couldn’t hide the fact she was staring, as the closest she had come to a nude figure, was the infant Jesus in the stained glass of the sanctuary at church.

She became aware of Michael standing closely behind her. So closely in fact, she could feel him breathing on the back of her neck.

“Do you like the figurines, Vylette?” Michael’s voice was like cotton, in falsetto.

Just the sound of his voice was doing strange, happy and unknown things to her. He had a unique power about him and was exhibiting it over her.

Hands wringing in front of her, Vylette feeling quite shy, tried to maintain herself,

“They are different…” She admitted, as Michael reached in and picked up a woman, her hands on her hips, of white marble, heavy with black veins and stared down at it.

Turning to him, she added, trying to smile.

“Your brother really likes those little ladies, doesn’t he?”

She had been greeted by a woman mooning her in the front hall, and now this.

Every hair on her body stood up, root to tip, when Michael, still holding the statue informed her seriously, without any hint of a joke,

“All of the nude artwork belongs to me.” The figure was set down, and hands clutched slim shoulders. “I’m quite fond of the female form. It’s a splendid image and I like to admire it, whenever I can.”

For a second, his gaze had the edge Steven Wilkes’ took on when he looked at Vylette--that gaze that seemed to peer through her clothing, imagining bare flesh.

Yet, Vylette wasn’t offended at all by Michael Jackson’s stare.

His eyes seemed to drain her, and weakly, Vylette was barely aware she was speaking,

“But they are naked….naked bodies should be clothed.”

Leaning in towards her, his cologne pungent and mouth near her ear, Michael spoke and was nearly inaudible over the thudding of her heart.

“Before Eve bit that apple, all were naked, Vylette. And if she hadn’t, perhaps we still would be…”

Vylette stiffened as though stricken with rigor mortis.

The things this man said! The incredibly flippant and blasphemous things! She wanted to slap him; she should have. But she couldn’t bring herself to it.

She couldn’t slap that face, bring any harm to it.

Kiss it, perhaps…

At the realization she wanted to kiss Michael Jackson, a trembling hand clapped over her mouth, and she started to back away.

Seeming to know, Michael took hold of her arm.

“HEY!”

At the sharp cry, both man and woman’s feet left the ground.

Standing at the end of the hall by the start of the staircase, was Marlon, fists shoved into the pockets of his trousers.

“What’s the hold up? Adelaide is bringing out the first course, and I’m starving like a slave! Come on, before I eat it all!”

Turning on his heel Marlon was gone.

A friendly grin came to Michael’s face and his hand was offered.

Taking it, Vylette felt a sense of calmness and allowed herself to be led to the dining room.

* * *

“…and so the Italian lady said, ‘That’s a-no potato, that’s my a-husband!’ HA!!!” Marlon Jackson exclaimed and around him, the entire table erupted in a fit of laughter.

Michael seated beside his sibling, glass of sweet tea tilted to his mouth, coughed, throwing his head back and guffawing.

The dining room of Jackson Manor far exceeded any ideas or preconceived notions that Vylette Meraux may have been formulating about it.

Prior to passing through the pocket doors of the room where Michael and Marlon Jackson took their daily meals, Vylette had a simple, rather childish idea of what a dining room was.

And it was much like the room where Vylette ate with her family. A small, worn table, with a few chairs, lackluster flatware and dishes, in the center of the kitchen.

The Jackson’s dining room, was nothing akin to what Vylette was accustomed to and really, had only seen in flickering celluloid on the screen of the local movie house.

It was a full-fledged Hollywood dream brought to Rainelle Parish.

The dining room was a lovely, wide, open room, with more of that dark stained wood from the hall and living room carried off into it and set off by the olive green, brocade wall coverings.

A massive oak dining table, setting on club feet on a green and beige area rug, was covered with an ecru lace table cloth and decorated with low, round crystal vases, filled with white roses and sweet peas.

The table, made to seat a dozen, was set for only four that afternoon.

The taller vases the girls had been presented with earlier were off to the side, with their candy box, on a big sideboard, adding more color and prestige to the room.

The table itself was set with the prettiest china, glassware and flatware Lorraine and Vylette could remember seeing.

The china was white, rimmed in gold and all of the bowls, plates and chargers had a fine, hand painted set of red cherries on gold leaves in the center.

The motif also appeared on the crystal pitcher--filled with sweet tea--and the glass tumblers.

All of the flatware was gold with red cherries on the handles.

Vylette and Lorraine sat on one side of the table, (Vylette had seen to that, with the way her cousin and Marlon had so quickly become so feely-grabby with each other) and the Jackson brothers were situated across from them.

In the center of the table, in a large bowl, was the first course, a salad of sliced cucumbers, marinated in sour cream, dill and red onions.

It was a delightful, refreshing dish, and a great starter. Lunch in the Parish didn’t generally come in courses, and Vylette felt so cosmopolitan eating this way. Did the Jacksons eat like this every day? Was it normal to them?

“Ahem…” Marlon, still halfway laughing, leaned his cheek to his fist, looking at each girl in turn. “Have you ladies had enough salad, or would you like to eat a bit more before I call for the main course?”

“I’m done, thank you…” Vylette was a polite little belle, but Lorraine, greedy little vixen, was shoving another slice into her mouth, asking,

“What’s the main course?”

Winking, Marlon snorted,

“Not sandwiches!”

“Jesus Christ…” Michael was spooning a bit more of the slices into his bowl. “Did it really bother you that terribly to eat a sandwich for lunch?”

He didn’t say it aloud, but Michael mouthed the word “Snob.”

Taking another sip, Marlon shrugged. “Sandwiches are what you eat while the meal is being prepared, you know, to tide you over. It’s not the main event to me.”

Across the table Lorraine was grinning at Marlon, surely picturing all the fineness his airs were affording him.

Finishing up the last of his salad, Michael picked up a tiny, crystal bell and rang it.

No sooner had it chimed than Adelaide came waddling out.

“Y’all ready for the next bit?” She grinned as she gathered the used dishes up.

“Yes…” Michael nodded, his eyes on Vylette.

Adelaide waddled away and when she returned, Lorraine was crushing her hand beneath the table.

Piled on the platter was a beef roast, sliced and steaming, the insides just the perfect shade of pink.

Roast beef? She was eating a real, roast beef on a Saturday? She didn’t even get that kind of food for Sunday dinner!

“That’s perfect…” Michael nodded and in front of the girls, two thick, tender slices appeared.

Adelaide made three more trips, returning with a bowl of roasted red potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and croissants gleaming with melted butter.

Around Vylette, everyone was merrily digging in, eating and enjoying.

Staring across the table, as Michael, sprinkling his meat with pepper, Vylette had to ask. She had to know.

“Erm…what sort of business are you gentlemen in?”

Neither Vylette nor her cousin were prepared for the response.

Marlon, dabbing after his bouncing mouth with a cloth napkin answered,

“When we were kids, we were in vaudeville, all ten of us. Michael, Brandon and I were hoofers--”

“Tap dancers…” Michael corrected him sharply and Marlon cut him a glare that should have injured him.

“That was our name, you skinny punk--The Hot-Foot Hoofers!” Marlon sniffed loudly and Michael looked away from him.

Why, Vylette was aghast. Absolutely aghast. The Jacksons were SHOW PEOPLE! Just what on Earth would her mother say or think? (While swinging that strap!)

Looking from her to Lorraine and his features softening, he added “…then vaudeville died. So now, we’re in the movie business.”

Out loud, Vylette declared “Sweet Jesus!” knowing anything to do with films would catch her cousin on fire like kerosene with a match.

Lorraine, nearly turning over her plate in her excitement, blurted,

“You make films--like Oscar Micheaux?”

(Author’s Note: Oscar Micheaux is a famous Colored film maker from the early part of the twentieth century. I‘ve seen several of his films.)

“Lord no!” Marlon slapped the tabletop. “I can’t handle temperamental movie stars. Forget it!”

“We don’t make movies…” Michael’s falsetto begged to be heard. “We play them. Our family owns about twenty theatres, and we are building two in New Orleans at the moment.”

The girls were wholly gob smacked…they…they owned theatres? With ten siblings to twenty theaters, each had two apiece!

Why. everyone watched films, especially in a city like New Orleans where the nightlife was the heartbeat of it! The Jacksons had to multi-millionaires!!!!

But for once, it wasn’t money that was impressing Lorraine.

Twisting her napkin in her hand so hard she threatened to tear it, she spoke hoarsely.

“Do you play Jean Harlow pictures?”

Marlon, smacking on spuds, patted after his hair arrogantly,

“Sure Honey. Once the Jackson’s Paragon and Palace theatres are complete, you can go see all the pictures you like. You can see all your favorites!”

Unable to control themselves, the cousins yowled like dying cats and embraced each other, unable to believe their good luck.

It had been months since either could afford to see a film, and now with Michael and Marlon seeing to it, they’d likely never have to pay an admittance fee again in life!

“Vylette…” Michael was bashfully twiddling his fingers, eyes on his digits. “Once the theatres are open, would you like to go into New Orleans to see a movie? Maybe Vinnie too?”

Beaming at him, her chest aching, Vylette oozed,

“I’d love it!” and Michael’s cheeks darkened.

Marlon, cheek on his fist, stared unabashedly at Lorraine.

“You know…” He chomped on an asparagus spear. “I’ve never seen a beautiful redhead before. Usually, they’re pale, sickly looking things.”

Vain Lorraine, basking in the glow of male admiration, replied, tossing her braid,

“Oh, I’ve never been sickly!”

(Aside from her bout of Spanish Flu.)

“You’re just a healthy little thing, aren’t you?” Marlon winked a hazel eye.

Across the table, Michael eyed Vylette silently, his food abandoned.

He did not really have to speak; his attention was more than enough for her.

Both girls were living and reveling in the ardent attention they had…something they’d never felt before.

Not really hungry any longer, Vylette reached for the basket of croissants.

Taking one, Michael broke it in half and handed it to her.

“This is too, too devastating…” Marlon sighed, leaning back and crossing his legs. “You ladies are seventeen. Its safe to assume you’re seniors in high school? Hmm?”

“Yes, we graduate at the end of next month!” Lorraine tittered, Vylette treasuring her bread. “The town makes a big to-do of it, a real party!”

At the sound of a party both men smiled, with Marlon wondering,

“What do you plan to do after graduation? Go to a women’s college?”

Vylette and Lorraine fell quiet, and turned to each other eyes huge.

For the first time, a sad, lone storm cloud came along and was dimming their bright, good time.

Vylette had completely forgotten Steven, and Lorraine barely gave Ulrich her thoughts.

The room was suddenly dark and far away. Their eminent unions, how girls in the Parish didn’t go to college unless it was to find a husband.

That life ended with that roll of paper in her hand and was replaced with a red-faced, screaming baby.

And what could life be with the Jacksons?

Without thinking, for no reason, not even known to herself, Vylette declared curtly,



“I would like to write.”
Michael’s entire face lit and he shifted,

“What kind of stories?”

“I don’t know…” Vylette wasn’t usually indecisive. “Short stories, like Adela--”

“--Rogers St. John?” Michael finished for her.

“Yes.”

“I read Photoplay too.” Michael winked and Vylette wanted to pass out. “Helps us select new films to screen.”

“Photoplay is one of my favorite magazines!” Lorraine piped up. “I could just read it all day!”

On the lace tablecloth, Marlon touched her hand.

“As cute as you are, you should be in pictures, instead of just reading about them.”

“Nah…” Lorraine sputtered, going crimson.

“Michael…” Marlon’s voice was cool. “Why don’t you show Vylette your garden, Man?”

There was no audible answer, as Michael peered through his lashes at her.

“Michael Jackson!” He rattled as his brother shoved him, bringing him back down to Earth.

“What, you fat-head rascal?” Michael grimaced and his sibling repeated.

“Go show Vylette your garden! I have something I’d like to say to Lorraine, without it turning into a spectator sport!”

“Oh!” Michael was up and pulling Vylette’s seat back.

“Would you like…”

“Yes.” Vylette took his warm smooth hand in hers, as Marlon came around the table and plopped down beside Lorraine, his arm around her.

At the door, Michael looked back and warned,



“Don’t molest her.”
“I’m gonna come molest YOU if you don’t stop with the wisecracks! Goddamn!”

Snickering, Michael hissed to his guest,

“Shamone!”

A short while later, Vylette found herself outside, on the large veranda, strolling along easily with Michael, around to the east side of the house.

There was a break in the railing of the porch, revealing an opening and a small set of side stairs, leading to dirt path.

Quietly, the only sound was a few birds singing and calling in the treetops, Michael led her off the porch and onto the path, dotted with trees.

It was an easy, peaceful walk for a few minutes, before Michael spoke up shyly,

“Never in my life, did I ever imagine I’d be living down here in Louisiana.” He commented with a chuckle.

“Me, a little nappy headed kid from Indiana.”

“Indiana?” Vylette touched his arm in curiosity. “I thought you were from New York!”

“No--” Michael paused, as bounding up to him from across the field, was the red and white dog Vylette had stared at earlier.

The dog went to jump on him, and would have spoiled his light-colored clothing, causing him to cry,



“Down, Baron!”
Obediently, the dog sat, tongue hanging out as he panted, light blue eyes on his master.

“Good boy…Good Baron.” Michael patted the animal’s head, before telling Vylette,

“I’m from a little town called Gary, Indiana. From the time I was five until I was twenty, I danced all over the country and in parts of Europe. I settled in New York with Marlon at twenty. I thought I’d stay in New York until I was old and wrinkled…”

He slapped at the dog’s behind, and Baron barked, then ran off towards the house.

A hand was placed on Vylette’s back and the two continued.

“…then the Market crashed. I was on Fifth Avenue with Marlon when it happened; we were sending a late gift to our brother Tito for his birthday…” Michael squinted up the lane which started to incline up a hill.

“…folks went mad. People screaming and yelling and more than a few leaping out of the windows of high-rises. One would have flattened Marlon if I hadn’t shoved him out the way…”

Michael stopped and looked down at Vylette with remorse.

“Forgive me, that’s not the sort of thing I should be mentioning to a lady.”

“It’s alright…” Vylette shrugged. “My Papa’s a doctor.”

She kept it to herself that it had been her father who scraped up what had been left of the previous owner.

Hands on hips, Michael questioned,

“Meraux--Dr. Almanzo Meraux is your father? With the office in town?”

With a nod, Vylette concurred,

“That’s my Papa.”

“Medicine and that sort of thing has always fascinated me, how thrilling.” Michael grinned as they advanced up the hill.

On top of the hill, Vylette’s breath caught in her throat.

Stretching in front of them was an archway, constructed completely of the same pink roses she had been presented with that morning.

The air was heavy and fragrant with the scent of thousands of roses.

The roses rustled as she and Michael started down the lane and she whispered, eyes huge on her host,

“This is so lovely, Michael. It doesn’t even seem as though I’m in Louisiana anymore…”

“This is one of the few things the Dauphines were kind enough to leave behind.” Michael pointed out a small, curling iron bench, painted white and looking like lace, and the two sat, space between them as each took to one side.

“I have many plans for the property. I can do all I want, so long as I leave space for Marlon to have at least nine holes to practice his golf. But I want to plant lots more flowers, and knock down the old slave quarters--I don’t need that hideous reminder on MY property--and build a place for animals. I want a zoo of sorts and have exotic pets. I love animals and plants.”

It must have been so wonderful to be able to afford to build and do what one wanted with their own land. Vylette couldn’t even decorate her own bedroom as she liked and here Michael was transforming an entire plantation.

“It…” Vylette picked at a bloom by her hand. “It’s such a shame what happened to the Dauphines though. Losing everything and having to move. Although I am happy it’s allowed me to meet you…”

She peeked up at Michael through her lashes.

He was reclining, his hands in his lap, one slim leg over the other.

“I had to get the old homestead back. It meant so much to my mother.”

In wonder, Vylette sat up, staring at Michael Jackson strangely.

“I’m half Dauphine, Vylette.” He announced and you could have knocked her over with a feather.

“My mother was a Dauphine, before she married my father. This is her childhood home.” A sly smile curled his lips.

“You…thought they were White, didn’t you?”

“Yes…” Vylette couldn’t fathom it. They were Colored.

“Well, it’s obvious they weren’t. You’ve seen the paintings of my mother; you’ve seen me and my brother. We’re dark. But parts of the family farther down kind of look like you--look White but are Colored. I’m sure you know how that sort of thing happened…” Michael looked away and fiddled with his long fingers. “Master, slaves….ugh.”

Vylette nodded, it was a terrible practice, White masters mating with their Colored slaves to produce larger numbers of slaves and leaving, biracial children in their wake.

Not wanting to relive that part of history, only a few decades back, she inquired,

“Where is your mother now?”

“Albany, living with my sister Maureen, and her family.” Michael smiled.

The pair fell silent and Vylette vainly tried to think of something clever to say. She wanted to continue speaking to him, hear his mild voice and have his attention.

“…wish I had a cigarette…” Michael mumbled to himself, knuckles cracking.

“Ah--what flowers do you want to plant?” Vylette finally asked, and Michael seemed to liven up.

“Oh lots, but there’s one particular breed I’m eager to cultivate.” He admitted, pulling a rose down and stripping its thorns, before handing it to Vylette.

“Oh thanks--what breed?” Vylette sniffed at the flower.

Michael Jackson hesitated, and pulled at his bowtie a moment,

“Um…a special breed of violets. White violets.”

Vylette, clearly missing his clever point, twirled her rose and said,

“White violets, how queer. I’ve never heard of those. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a white violet before.”

All the bare color in her drained away when Michael asked softly eyes consuming his face,

“Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”

Her spare hand was grasped in both of his and kneaded.

“I…I want something around to remind me of you…Vylette…”

Her hand turned red it was so violently kneaded.

“I know we’re just getting acquainted…but I’m…I think you’re lovely and want to know you. I…I want to…to court you properly…”

Vylette was breathless as her lung collapsed. Had she heard correctly?

He wanted to court her! He wanted her!

“This is all so strange and quick. But…ever since I pulled you from that truck…Vylette…”

Michael rose and stepped a few paces away, Vylette, captivated, stared after him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I want to know everything I have to do…I know there’s customs and things I’m unaccustomed to…The South is so different from the North. Even though Mother IS Southern. The people the way they act…”

He returned and took her cold hand again.

“Vylette, you’re so pretty and delicate and…I just want to do what’s right. I get so happy every time I see you. I sit out in Mumfree’s everyday, hoping to see you. Having you here, sitting right now with me…”

He mashed her hand to his mouth.

Vylette was close to fainting, her vision going blurry at this declaration.



“Michael…”
“Tell me--”

“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”

A sharp shriek pierced the stillness of the afternoon and Michael laughed bashfully,

“My brother is very fond of your cousin, and just told her so.”

Marlon…he liked Lorraine too? He wanted to court Lorraine?

“Tell me…what does it take to get in here. Get in with the right folks.”

Vylette was dizzy, but managed,



“Are…are you Catholic?”
That curly head shook in the negative, but Michael assured her,

“As long as I can worship God, I guarantee you, I’ll be at Mass tomorrow and I’ll drag Marlon along with me!”

“My…my family always attends the second Mass, at eleven…”

Michael was kissing her hand harder.

“I’ll be there, Darling. I promise!”

Ahh…Darling.

“Just to be closer to you. I’ll be there. You can make me an Altar Boy if you like!”

Michael vowed, smooching at her wrist.

Setting her rose down, Vylette patted at his smooth cheek.

And cleverness came from her mouth.

“Your mother must have dunked you in sugar as a baby to make you so very sweet.”

“Hee-hee!” Michael snorted and inched closer to her on the bench.

Slowly, the grin on his face disappeared, and he leaned towards her.

Vylette’s heart threatened to give out as his lips pursed and pressed her right cheek.

“Ah…” She sighed, her eyes closing, as his long hands held her head, and he pecked at her cheek four more times.

He kissed her! Michael kissed her! Her first kiss!

“If that’s forward of me…” He confided hotly, “You can slap me. But I just had to kiss you, in some way Vylette. I know you’re a respectable woman, but I couldn’t help it--”

Leaning forward and putting her head again his chest, Vylette assured him,

“You can do that all you like…I won’t slap you. Ever.”

His arms wrapped her and Michael was embracing her tightly.

“I’m so happy. So lucky…” He moaned joyously. “You’re so wonderful, so sweet and so pretty Vylette. When I first saw you, I was convinced you already had a beau.”

Into Michael Jackson’s chest, Vylette Meraux began to cry.

Michael, mistaking the tears for one of joy, only patted at her back and stroked her hair.

He didn’t know. Vylette did have a beau--Steven Wilkes.

And soon, very soon, she was going to have to break things off with him, if she wanted to be with Michael Jackson.

The very thought of which, terrified her.