Chapter Nine--PART ONE

Very Early Saturday Morning
Meraux Residence
Rainelle Parish, Louisiana 

“…stand up straight, you’re slouching. I keep doing them up in the wrong holes.”


“How the devil can I stand up straight? It’s three-thirty in the blasted morning! The cocks won’t crow for another two hours, yet!”


Placing her hands on Lorraine’s shoulder, Vylette gave a firm tug, bringing her cousin, who had been drowsily slumping before her, into an erect position.


“We’re expected at the Manor for four--and we will be there for four.” Vylette explained curtly, hooking the many buttons that ran down the back of her Lorraine’s pink, Sunday-best dress.


“I’m so sick of this relic from 1928 and all its cursed buttons...” Lorraine lamented, stifling a yawn. “I wonder if Marlon would buy me something in the city…no one wears drop-waists anymore! And hemlines are longer! To think, six years ago, I almost bought a robe de style dress…”


Staring at her best friend’s reflection in the mirror of the small bathroom, as she fastened the last of the buttons, all Vylette could see was tiredness on Lorraine’s pretty freckled face. And even so sleepy, her eye for fashion was wide-open.


Perhaps they would go shopping, Vylette thought and her hands shook with excitement.


Michael and Marlon always wore the very best clothing, and maybe she’d see the best shops the Crescent City had to offer. It was almost too much to bear.


Lorraine stifled another yawn and slumped some more. “Pardon me, damn it.”


Vylette had joked about dragging Lorraine out to the Jackson Estate; she now wondered if she would actually have to do it.


Picking up Lorraine’s gauzy hat and handing it to her, Vylette tried to find a reason to get some hurry out of her cohort.


“Now, come on…the sooner we get there, the sooner I bet we can have nice big cups of coffee…”


As she had hoped, the dull green eyes livened up.


“Coffee? Real coffee--not chicory?” Lorraine questioned as it had been years since they’d been able to drink the costly commodity. And bitter chicory was no good substitute.


“Of course…” Vylette smiled, adjusting her own hat on her head. “Michael once told me, that Marlon was practically a corpse every morning, unless he had this special Columbian bean in his system.”


Yes, the Jacksons should have coffee at breakfast. They ate heartily and like kings, daily, especially with Michael constantly battling his anemia and keeping it at bay.


If for no other reason, Michael Jackson ate for energy and pep.


Giggling, the girls looped arms and started out of the bathroom.


“I wonder why…” Lorraine fretted as they got into the hall,


“…why neither of the fellas came to pick us up.”


Vylette wisely kept it to herself that she’d suggested they make the trek out on foot to Jackson Manor. Lazy Lorraine would have clawed her eyes out.


Instead, she encouraged,


“A nice, brisk walk in the fresh air will wake you up--”


“So would a nice, leisurely ride up in a big Caddy!” Lorraine scoffed, as both girls turned in to the living room.


And came to a halt, as a figure sitting on the couch rose.


Wearing a floral terrycloth robe and slippers, was Kathleen.


“Mama?” Vylette couldn’t hide her surprise at seeing her mother up so early--even earlier than her usual five am wake up call.


Kathleen, her white-streaked, wavy black mane spilling down to her waist, approached the girls, and took each by the hand.


Her delicate, tan face was solemn as she looked each girl over in turn.


“I wanted to speak to the two of you, before you left this morning…” She stated haltingly.


“Yes, Ma’am?” Both girls chorused, and briefly, Vylette feared they’d be forbidden their trip to New Orleans!


Was she a turncoat, had she changed her mind about the Jacksons?


Greenish-hazel eyes fluttered a moment,


“Vylette, Lorraine…I want the two of you to be careful today. You’ll be off in the big city with two men--two older men. Don’t let them take liberties. Remember, you’re ladies and I expect you to act as such, wherever you are. You not only represent yourselves but the family and this Parish in public. Is that understood?”


“Yes, Ma’am!” The cousins grinned as Kathleen leaned in and kissed their cheeks.


“You enjoy yourselves.”


And then, still holding on to them, Kathleen turned towards the front door, standing open, with the screen shut.


“Young man?”


‘Young man’? Both Vylette and Lorraine perked up, wonder which of their beaus had arrived for them.


The screen opened, but instead of one of the Jacksons in a well-appointed suit, a different man entered.


A very tall, massive White man, incredibly blonde with beady brown eyes stepped in, and as he encountered three women, quickly removed his hat.


He wore a dark blue uniform, with a silver, star-shaped badge glistening on his chest.


A policeman.


Awed and confused, the young women merely stared. Why on Earth was a policeman in their home? Rainelle Parish, a self-governing town, didn’t even have a police department!


“A good mornin’ to ya.” He greeted then brightly, his voice deep and lilting with an Irish brogue.


“I’m Officer Terrence Clancy of the New Orleans Police Department. I…I was hired by a Mr. Michael Jackson to escort ya lasses up to his house…” The man grinned, adding,


“He and his brother didn’ think ya’d be safe walkin’ ‘round in the darkness, as ‘tis still so early.”


The girls exchanged looks of shock.


Michael and Marlon had gone through all of this? Hiring a cop who was fifty miles from his own jurisdiction, simply to walk them over to their house?


Now, they were being spoiled!


“We’ll just have to thank those big worrywarts!”


Lorraine cackled and for the first time, was the one pulling Vylette along.


“Bye Mama--Bye Aunt Kathleen!”


“Have a good day--and remember what I said!”


Once outside, Officer Clancy turned on a flashlight for them to move safely, and only steps from the house, both girls stopped.


The light was on a large object in the street: Michael Jackson’s red and black sports car.


“Mr. Jackson didn’ want you ridin’ in my squad car. Said its not a place for ladies.” Officer Clancy informed them holding the door open and allowing them to slip into the velvet lined interior.


“He said you two hadn’ broken any laws, other than exceedin’ the maximum limit of beauty.”


At the clever compliment, both Vylette and Lorraine tittered merrily.


Michael had such a way with words, the sly devil.


Climbing behind the wheel and starting the car, flicking on the headlights, its engine purring, the policeman commented as they rolled,


“To be honest, I was a bit nervous being told to drive a Cadillac. I’ve never drove one…I drive a Ford--a Model-A Roadster.”


At the mention that a hired hand for the Jacksons, drove the very same vehicle that louse Steven Wilkes had been so quick to brag about, Vylette did what came naturally.


“Ha-ha! A-ha-ha-ha!”


Throwing her head back as the cool morning air whipped at her face ,Vylette rather loudly, began laughing.




“Ha-ha! A-ha-ha-ha!”

Lorraine suddenly seeing the irony joined in.


“Ha-ha! A-ha-ha-ha!”


A Ford…when they had two Cadillacs at their disposal and men more than happy to drive them around!


Why right then, Steven Wilkes was sticking to his pillow with a crust of drool, while Vylette was going on one of the biggest adventures of her life!


A life in which she was blotting his existence from.


The ride from the Meraux homestead out to Jackson Manor was very pleasant, and quite speedy.


What was normally an hour-long walk, was reduced down to a ten-minute drive.


Passing through the gates of the property, Vylette and Lorraine gasped as a stunning sight revealed itself to them.




“Oh my! Zowie! Goodness! How pretty!”

Eyes widened, jaws dropped and small hands clasped at each other.


From every tree lining the lane, glowing, red and white Chinese lanterns hung, lighting the way up to the house.


The house it self shined out of the darkness as it seemed every light within had been put on, and streamed through many open windows.


Officer Clancy pulled the car to a halt beside his black, non-descript, squad car, parked a few feet from Marlon’s blue coupe.


Once the car was put in park, the trio slipped from it and sauntered up to the front door, where the man mashed the bell, with it resounding inside the manse.


Almost instantly, one of the doors opened and all were greeted by the fat, jolly Adelaide.


“Well, good morning, y’all!” She exclaimed and looked to the officer. “Thank you! Mr. Michael and Mr. Marlon sho’ appreciates you getting their ladies for them!”


“No problem at all! I enjoyed it, they made for right pleasant company.” Officer Clancy tipped his hat.




“And a happy birthday to you both.”

Watching the hulking policeman trod off the porch, it dawned on Vylette for the first time that morning since she‘d opened her eyes: Today was her birthday!


She was eighteen years old today!


A woman!


“Y’all come on in…” Adelaide was ushering them into the front hall, and closing the door. “There’s plenty of food. You help yourselves--”


Above the aroma of fried meats and baked bread, one scent stood out and dominated all others…


“Coffee!” Lorraine gasped as they entered the formal dining room, making a beeline for the silver pot percolating on the table, completely ignoring the platters loaded with still-steaming sausage links, scrambled eggs, sliced fruit and croissants.


Picking up a golden-beige and white painted cup, featuring a pair of cherubs, Lorraine was tossing in sugar cubes and a big dash of sweet cream, stirring with a gold-plated spoon.


“Pour me some of that, please.” Vylette said, taking two plates and piling food on them. She was more thankful for a full meal. This beat raisins and oatmeal any day!


Vylette hated raisins!


As the two sat and began eagerly digging in, Adelaide went out into the kitchen, and returned with a tall glass of tomato juice and a smaller bottle of a red liquid, setting it down at the place beside Vylette’s.


It was for Michael.


As she opened it, Vylette saw it was a bottle of Tabasco pepper sauce, and poured two shakes into it.


Vylette grinned; Michael was starting his day off right, drinking in vital vitamins.


Passing by the small, wooden radio set up on the sideboard, Adelaide flicked on.


“…my baby done left me…spread his wings and flown away….it’s my fault….I done gone astray….”


A high, female soprano sang woefully.


“I must going crazy!” Lorraine was pouring herself a second cup. “Imagining all this good food and coffee--the best coffee I’ve ever tasted! And these cups are beautiful!”


“I was about to say the very same thing!” Vylette chuckled, feeling the happiest she could recall, and suddenly both girls pointed across the table at each other.




“I’ll kill you, if you dare pinch and wake me!”

If this were some fantastical dream, Vylette didn’t want awaken--ever again.


Not intending to be so greedy, Vylette consumed a full three cups of coffee as the sausages, eggs and a croissant disappeared from her plate.


The coffee was doing its trick, she could feel her eyes opening up and the general feeling of energy, by way of a bit too much caffeine, seeping through her body.


Sleep? Who needed sleep? Sleep was for quitters!


“Good morning, Birthday Belles!”


A pair of sweet, pitch-perfect tenor voices declared harmoniously, and spinning, both girls looked to the door, teeth showing in happy smiles.


Michael and Marlon Jackson were advancing towards them, meeting the girls‘ smiles with their own.


“Oh goodness!” Vylette heard Lorraine exclaim softly, and if she hadn’t lost all manner of speech at that moment, would have said something to that effect, herself.


The Jackson Brothers were so fetching in Asian-inspired, silk brocade lounging pajamas, embroidered with flowers and dragons, with contrasting hook-and-eye closures in embroidered black braid. Michael’s jammies were a crisp, pale silver and Marlon’s a rich dark gold, reflecting the latter’s eyes.


They were a pair of attractive, Afro-Oriental bookends.


Both seemed to have just risen from bed; their hair, typically slicked back immaculately, danced freely all over their heads in wild curled puffs, seeming to move when the bodies they were attached to were perfectly still.


“Happy birthday, Sweetness.” Michael stood behind Vylette and with a warm hand tilted her head back, kissing at her mouth.


His mouth was minty-fresh, as he must have brushed only moments before and it was a sweetish taste Vylette adored as he released her and she was compelled to admire what belonged to her.


Michael’s hair, thick, curled, framed his head like an ebony halo and bounced as he slid into the seat beside her, the scent of his cologne especially strong that morning.


Across the table, Lorraine and Marlon were still kissing heatedly, arms wrapped around one another, Lorraine‘s hat hitting the floor.


Picking up the glass of spiced tomato juice, he tilted it to his mouth.


“Woo-that has a kick!” Michael snickered elbowing Vylette gently, and started to scoop eggs and halved apricots onto his plate.


“Adelaide put hot sauce in it.” Vylette pointed out, taking more eggs onto her plate and sprinkling black pepper on them.


“I know, I like it that way, Baby.” Michael winked. “Spicy!”


Seeing Marlon was still assaulting Lorraine with his mouth, Michael advised,


“Hey! Hot Lips--eat something before you use up all your strength giving her an oral exam!”


Leaning over her plate, Vylette tried to mask her giggles.


Those two always did get so carried away with each other.


Eyes, amber slits, gave Michael a look of discontent, but Marlon did let go of Lorraine, who, clearly weakened stared at him longingly for a moment, mouth parted in a daze.


Stubbornly, he began putting sausages and croissants on a plate.


Finishing his juice Michael poured some coffee, overloading it with cream.


Soon the table was silent, with the only sounds filling the room being another mournful jazz tune and cutlery sliding across the plates.


“Hmmm…” Michael hummed, dark eyes first on Vylette then hopping across to Marlon, who was dipping Lorraine’s pinky in his coffee cup, saying that was all he needed to sweeten it.




“Vy…?”

“Yes?” Vylette poked a piece of sausage into her mouth, enjoying its rich, fatty flavor.


“Are you and Lorraine ready for the trip today?”


“Why, yes--!” Both girls were interrupted by Marlon, who balked,


“Nah, y’all ain’t!”


Green and lavender eyes, showing befuddlement, focused on the handsome man swathed in gold, with the thick lips pursed, stained with butter and with a few stray curls falling into his face.


His cup was poised in mid-air.


Finishing his coffee in one gulp, Marlon set the cup down with a clack.


“That’s the Windsor tea set you’re throwing around.” Michael nagged and Marlon mouthed a swear word at his sibling.


(“Fuck you.”)


“In…your….ass.” Michael mumbled through his eggs, and Vylette chortled.


Wide nostrils flared, but Marlon continued,


“As I was saying, before a little knobby-kneed, ashy-elbowed worm interrupted me--”


A croissant whizzed past Marlon’s head and both men cackled.


“Stop making me laugh, Mike, I’m trying to be serious!”


Marlon insisted, and Michael, eating fruit snorted,


“That’ll be a first!”


Once it was seen that Michael was going to remain quiet long enough for him to complete his thought in peace, Marlon’s mouth flapped,


“Now…you ladies are sitting here and claiming that you’re ready to go to New Orleans with us--”


“But we are, Darling!” Lorraine whimpered and a long brown finger was mashed to her mouth to silence her, with her tossing her napkin to the table in dismay.


Taking his napkin, Michael busied himself, gingerly dabbing at Vylette’s mouth.


“And I say you’re not, Lori!” Marlon argued, large hand slapping the tabletop and both girls jumped.


Turning from her, Marlon stood and slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers.


Starting to pace back and forth, he stated, with none of the usual joking to his tone, they had grown accustomed,


“We’re going to New Orleans this morning. New Orleans, one of the most fashionable cities in the Deep South…people come there to see and be seen.”


His eyes darted between the two females in the room.


“You’re sitting here, in little country church dresses that have been recycled since before The Crash! Michael and I cannot possibly let the two of you, make your debut in the city, fresh from graduation, still looking like a pair out-of-step schoolgirls…”


While Lorraine went white in abject shame, as all she ever wanted to do was have Marlon pleased and satisfied with her looks, Vylette squinted up at Marlon, as he swiped a sausage link from the platter on the table and bit into it, juices running down his hand.


She wasn’t so quickly crushed, not like her vainglorious relative, a creeping thought began waving at her.


“…you’re both young as it is…Vylette made eighteen today, and Lori, you make it in a little over a week, and you both still look like kids…”


“Oh…” Lorraine was slumping in her chair, eyeing a butter knife to use to slash her wrists and possibly plunge into Marlon‘s chest.


But Vylette was gleaning a different meaning from this misplaced rant.


Was…was Marlon saying what she thought he was saying.


Her field of focused dropped to Michael.


He was no longer eating. A sly smile curled his lips and his brows were raised in cool knowing.


“…and I’ll be damned…”


Vylette shot up and grabbed Michael Jackson by his slim shoulders, knocking her chair completely over.


“You got us something?” She cried, breathless with her chest tightening.


“What--?” Lorraine stammered. “Daddy--?”


Michael large eyes fixed on the ceiling overhead began to whistle Dixie.


“Michael! Michael! Did you get us something?” Vylette half-laughed, half-cried, and whistling slowing, his gaze returned to her.


Blinking innocently, Michael responded,


“Well, you know, the strangest thing happened last night. This delivery man arrived with all these parcels from some place in New York…filled with women’s things. Marlon and I told the guy to just leave them in the living room until we found a couple of girls who would like them--”


Michael Jackson was left talking to air, as the cousins let out an unholy yawp, so loud--that Adelaide came waddling from the kitchen to see what the commotion was about--and went tearing out of the dining room, across the front foyer and to where the pocket doors of the living room stood shut.


Each grabbing onto one of the indented door knobs, the cousins flung the doors open.


“Oh my God!”


The scream pierced the pre-dawn hours, and Lorraine threw her arms around Vylette to steady herself, and keep from hitting the floor.


Setting in two neat, separate piles were about a dozen boxes, of varying sizes and shapes and on top of each one was a small card.


Rushing into the rooms, the girls found that each card simply had their names inscribed on them, indicating for whom each pile belonged to.


“Don’t go to tearing the boxes apart in here…Adelaide works so hard to keep this room neat.” Marlon cautioned as he and Michael hung just within the doorway.


“What is it? What is all this?” Vylette, on her knees, was lifting boxes, and rattling them, noticing that many bore the insignia, “Randolph’s Department Store, NYC” on it in gilt-script.


Coming over and dropping to one knee, Michael rubbed at her back.


“It’s a full outfit: dress, stockings, unmentionables, everything you need and deserve to walk around New Orleans…looking like the gorgeous woman you are.”


Overcome with thankfulness, Vylette pressed herself against Michael, holding him to her and never wanting to let go.


“Did all this really come from New York City, Daddy?” Lorraine was pecking at Marlon’s face as he was helping her to gather them up.


“Yes, Lori.” Marlon grinned at the affection being lavished on him. “We ordered it all especially for you.”


“But how did you know…” Vylette began as Michael loaded the boxes into his arms.


“I told you, we come from a family with four women. We learned what sizes you wore from Dr. Meraux, and as far as selecting what dresses to wear, we called on our sister Latoya. She’s one of the most fashionable women we know, and she helped us select the ensembles. Her boyfriend has stock in Randolph’s and its one of the most exclusive clothing stores in New York--”


“Is it better than Macy’s?” Lorraine, mildly ignorant, compared everything up against the big name in the Big Apple.


“Randolph’s is what Macy’s hopes to be when it grows up.” Marlon snorted as the gleeful foursome paraded back out into the foyer and headed for the staircase.


“You can each dress in the bathrooms upstairs…if we’re lucky, we can be on the road by six and in town by about seven-thirty or eight.” Michael informed them as they started up.


Vylette didn’t recall the feeling of her feet on the plush, carpeted steps and wondered if she had suddenly sprouted wings and merely flown up to the second floor.


Why…if she continued to think of the blessings that had just turned up in her lap, she would begin crying until her eyes shown red and her nose ran like a faucet.


A new outfit! A whole, brand-new, never worn outfit, bought especially for her.


And not something simple ordered from the Sears and Roebuck catalogue, but from a real, flagship store, hand-picked for her!


Head swimming, Vylette helped open the door for the box-laden Michael and both passed off into his bedroom.


Everything in his room seemed newer and brighter to her. Everything in life was newer and brighter.


It became apparent to her, as she stood in the doorway, with Michael dropping the boxes down onto the bench near his fireplace, that as Vylette changed in the bathroom, he would dress out in the bedroom.


On the far end of the room, a tri-fold screen had been erected. Made of panels of frosted red shades of glass in a fanciful Art Deco motif, and dark wood, it meshed with the interior furnishings.


From several hangers, Michael’s outfit for the day hung: a rich, slightly-lighter-than-navy-blue, single-breasted suit, with a blue, white, and tan diagonal striped tie and pocket square, a crisp white oxford. On the floor, a pair of polished dark brown shoes with white socks tucked into them gleamed.


Hanging onto the back of the bench, Michael held up a hand.


“Hold on a second, Vy…let me catch my wind and I’ll put this stuff into the bathroom, for you.”


“Oh…” Vylette removed her hat and tossed it onto the end of his bed. “I can carry the few feet into the bathroom, your bringing it up the stairs was more than enough.”


She reached for the round hatbox and her hand was promptly slapped away.


“No.” Michael insisted picking up the boxes. “Today is your birthday, and I’ll do for you. My birthday is at the end of August, you can make it up to me then!”


Men were so high-minded and when set on something, Vylette knew to defer and allow him. She didn’t want him to tucker himself out though.


She did worry so for his health.


“Alright.”


Carrying the boxes, Michael crossed the room and with his hip nudged the door open, advancing inside.


He exited a moment later.


“Vylette…” He paused and kissed at her pert mouth. “Everything you need is in there. There’s a second vanity near the sink. There’s things on it…it’s all for you, and you can take it home with you tonight, if you like…”


More? There were more gifts for her?


Vylette was going to faint if he didn’t stop!




“What?”

“Some bobby pins for your hair, if you’d like to style it a different way, some pomade--your father said you used the Stay-Put brand--a comb, brush and mirror set and some perfume…”


Her hand was picked up and kissed.


“It’s called Exotique. I think it’ll be a very becoming fragrance on you. You don’t know how many samples I sniffed before I selected it. I’m still partially high…” He laughed into her palm.


This was almost too much. Too, too much!


“I…I can’t even begin to thank you enough Michael…” Vylette was humble as she slipped her arms around his thin waist and embraced him. His sweet, warm form pressed her own.


“There is one thing I want to ask of you…”


Michael’s voice, quiet and stern reached her ears as one hand cupped her cheek, pressing her face into her brocade-clad chest, rising and falling with his breaths.


“Yes, Michael?”


He sighed hesitantly,


“Before you’ve finished dressing… please… let me see you … in just your undergarments and stockings.”


With a start, Vylette’s head came up and her eyes, going pure blue, searched the angular brown face searching her own right back.


“My undergarments?” She was breathless, her heart beginning to pound.


He…he wanted to see her in a state of undress?


What on Earth would her mother say?


Dark eyes widened at her,


“Yes…you’re my woman, I want to see you in the lingerie I bought for you. Leave your hair down--you can pin it up once you‘re fully dressed. Nothing would make me happier, Violette Blanche.”


Viollete Blanche.


French, he’d spoken French! And called her White Violet.


Speechless, Vylette nodded, having a bit of an out-of-body experience.


“Go ahead on in…I’ll be behind the screen if you need me.”


Stiffly, a bit like a robot with ungreased gears, Vylette found her way into the bathroom and closed the door, locking it and leaning against it.


Putting a hand to her quivering bosom, she wondered how.


How she was going to show herself to Michael Jackson in such a revealed manner.


She was frightened!




A Short While Later


Jackson Manor


Rainelle Parish, Louisiana



It had taken a lot of praying, a wee bit of crying, some cursing and a tad of soul-searching, but Vylette Meraux had reached a decision.


She did want this relationship she was building with Michael Jackson to advance and continue on, hitting milestones along the way.


And while she was new and inexperienced in such an arena, she wanted to do her very best to comply and not cause a row.


If that meant being seen in nothing more than her underwear, well, she was going to buck up and do it.


Plus, she could not stay so distressed in such charming surroundings. And the interior of Michael Jackson’s private bath was just so damned charming.


While his bedroom was extremely opulent and fussy, in a strictly Victorian design his bathroom was designed in a cleaner, more Deco style.


The bathroom did coordinate, by being schemed in red black and off-white, the floors tiled with black and off-white, in a double-diamond pattern, the walls painted red. On either side of a off-white, inset medicine cabinet boasting Michael‘s toothpaste, toothbrush, and a large bottle of iron supplements, were a pair of rectangular mirrors, framed in black.


Off to the far end of the room, was an off white bathtub, of porcelain, a step up from the rest of the room, with the glassed in, frosted shower. Above both a curtain of off white velvet could be drawn closed for privacy.


Just beyond the tub, was the door to the second, unused bedroom connecting to it.


Behind a privacy panel, the commode stood.


Below the mirrors, to the left was a porcelain sink and to the right, the aforementioned vanity.


And atop it, Vylette had found, dainty, feminine gifts.


Her hair dressing set, made of porcelain and etched silver-plate, the porcelain all hand-painted with small purple and white violets--Violette Blanche.


Two coordinating round boxes contained about a hundred black bobby pins and a the dark blue, cinnamon-scented Stay-Put pomade.


Next to the set, a sculptural perfume bottle stood.


It was a dancing, nude woman, made of chrome, holding onto a red and silver striped enamel bottle, hooked to a black atomizer.


Exotique, already sprayed into all the pressure points on Vylette’s body, was an intensely heavy, vanilla-laced musk, with an undertone of jasmine.


Used to cheaper, overly floral scents, it was a deeper, more sensuous and sophisticated smell for the teen.


Vylette Meraux was starting to feel more like a woman and less like a girl.


Taking a seat on the cushioned, backless vanity chair, Vylette wore the precious lingerie she had uncovered from one of the Randolph’s boxes: a short slip and step-ins made of the softest, blush pink silk and fine, cream floral lace, covered her body and were incredibly sheer.


If she wasn’t looking directly at it, she’d have sworn she was still in the nude, it was so light on her flesh.


But the longer she gazed at her reflection, the more obvious her body became.


She could very easily see the darker pink of her nipples pressing and making points beneath the scant fabric.


Crossing one plump leg over the other, she straightened the top of her pale pink, real silk, not nylon, stockings, held in place by lilac satin garters, adorned with small pink and white rosettes.


And vainly ignored the sight of the blackened triangle where her pubic hair was plain through the silk.


Instead she tried to focus on how light and cool the garments felt, nothing like the plain cotton garments now a discarded, rumpled pile on the floor.


Smiling, she looked up at the brand-new dress suspended from a hanger on a peg on the wall.


The delight in palest blue silk jersey, tripped along the v-neckline, and capped sleeves, in baby pink with blue dots, and small, dainty ruffles.


Beneath the dress, a pair of patent leather, pink shoes with blue cap-toes and high heels sat waiting to be stepped into.


(Author’s Note: ‘High’-heels of 1931 were only about three inches at the most. Women didn’t get to ruining the cartilage in their knees with sky high heels until about the 1950s.)


Opened boxes revealed blue silk gloves and a halo-brimmed blue hat, fastened with a dotted sash and bow.


Everything was so fashion-forward and in step with the rest of the world, finally. She could have screamed for joy.


Vylette’s black locks, set free, down to her waist, had been fluffed around her shoulders, in the attempt to look sultry for Michael Jackson.


Silently, she reached and removed twenty pins from the porcelain box, to pin her hair up into a bun and mock-bob in a short while. She had always wanted to wear her hair up like that, but never had enough pins to do so, before.


Knees clapping together, Vylette stood, near-nudity, and picked up the bottle of Exotique again.


Carefully, she misted herself behind the ears, at the base of her throat, the bends of her elbows and wrists and behind her knees.


(Author’s Note: These are the pressure points which help make perfumes their most fragrant!)


A cloud of sweet fragrance surrounded her.


Ghostly white with anticipation, Vylette had to force herself, will one foot before the other, to go the door before she lost her nerve completely.


The poor girl was so nervous, and suddenly self-conscious of her figure.


Years of being content with herself, and what she was, flown out the window and run away, pending this intimate viewing by Michael Jackson.


Desperately, she wanted him to like her figure.


Was she too plump? Too slim? Was her bust too large? Not large enough?


Marlon had praised Lorraine on her full bust, would Michael do the same for her?


It was one thing to be looked at in her ill-fitting frocks of youth, but so exposed was an entirely different matter.


Michael Jackson had spent many years abroad, and seemed most fond of Vienna. How did she compare to the Viennese women?


How many other girls had modeled lingerie for him, really? He had stated he’d only had one other girlfriend, but it was hard to believe, as Michael seemed the type to draw women in droves with his quiet sexuality and sensibilities.


It was only natural Michael wanted to see the lingerie; he’d paid for it with how own hard-earned money.


She should have expected that.


Vylette only prayed that he wouldn’t lose control of himself as he had in his office.


Would she be able to stop him? Did she want to stop him?


There was so little between her and being naked.
She practically was naked, already!


Getting to the door, Vylette’s hands shook so hard, it took four tries before she could grip the knob properly and turn it.


The door cracked silently.


Faintly, she could hear a classical piano piece being played from the radio on the bedside table.


Starting into the room, she stopped so swiftly, her hair flew back, before standing on end.


Eyes rolled and cheeks colored, passionately.


Michael Jackson was no longer concealed behind his screen.


He stood closer to the foot of his bed, trying to button plaid suspenders to his trousers.


(Author’s Note: Men wore suspenders in the 30s, even lean, young ones like Michael. Don’t believe me? Pay very close attention to his costume in “Smooth Criminal”. As he spins and does the lean, you can see his suspenders buttoned to his pants!)


But that wasn’t what was taking her breath away by the truckloads.


It was the fact, that Michael Jackson was still only half-dressed--his entire upper body bared!


Head lowered, as he fumbled with the suspenders, adjusting them so his trousers would hang perfectly from his frame, he didn’t notice his girlfriend, close to having a stroke.


He had never been seen in anything less than a full outfit and this bit of undress was packing a dutiful wallop for the teen.


Michael Jackson was more wondrous than Vylette had allowed herself to fantasize--as young women did like to fantasize about their men’s bodies, when alone with their thoughts, and unbridled hormones.


Though he was quite wiry, Michael Jackson possessed a toned, well-proportioned frame.


He was a bit muscular, a trait that had been honed through years and years dedicated to dance.


His complexion, unspoiled, the color of warm cocoa all over, was enhanced by his trim, broad shoulders, smooth, slick chest, and teeny, far-set, chocolaty nipples.


Down a slick abdomen, showing only the merest indentations of a six-pack definition, and an “outie” bellybutton, he had something of a boyish appearance to him, which only endeared him more to Vylette.


Was it possible to love him even more than she already did? Was that humanly attainable?


She could hear every pulse, every heartbeat in her ears, and parts of her she didn’t know t exist throbbed with wanton.


He was beautiful, so sculpted…as one of his statues.


“…that took me an eon!”


Satisfied with his suspenders, Michael reached for the white undershirt laying on his bed.


And caught sight of Vylette for the first time, hovering just inside the room.


The undershirt tumbled from his hand.


“Ah!”


His mouth parted, and those dark eyes, starting at the small feet, covered by the glossy, patent shoes, slowly rambled up, over her rounded, dimpled legs, past that black furred triangle, sweeping the dark pink nips and up into the haunted, drained face gazing for his approval.


Taking in every dip and curve he could see, or believed he was seeing through flesh-pink silk.


“Vylette…” He whispered, eyes like twinkling saucers in his head.


Seeming stricken, slowly, he advanced to her.


His cologne tingled in her nose and mingled with her own perfume, leaving her spinning.


Eyes, dark and light gazed deeply within each other.


“Vylette...” He repeated, a bit dazed, voice hot, looming over her and staring at her, clearly able to see deeper color of her nipples through the diaphanous fabric upon closer inspection.


Reaching out fingertips brushed at her soft, firm right breast, a full, teardrop shaped outline.


“Stop!” Vylette slapped his hand away, goose pimples springing up at his touch.


The heat…the heat sparking between them, was nearly too much for the young girl to bear. A girl so young, and unknowing of that type of emotion.


Was it love? Was it lust? Would it ruin her that afternoon?


A part of her wanted to be ruined…by Michael Jackson.


Very gently, to the point it almost went unfelt, Michael‘s hand was gripping something.


“Oh!” Vylette wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap his jaw, punch him in the nose or kiss his mouth.


Around the fabric concealing her left breast, he was holding onto her.


He was cradling her breast in his hand!


She couldn’t bring herself to look at Michael, for fear she’d do something unladylike.


She could feel his eyes, burning into that rounded, proud mass of flesh, white as the rest of her, save for a rosy, areola, the size of a quarter, slowly going erect in the chilled room and from her nerves failing her.


Michael Jackson was fondling her breast!


He was touching her breast!




“I…I never thought….when I bought these pieces for you…it…it would look like this. You’re an angel in need of wings, Violette Blanche. My God…such a splendid, healthy body…”

Small, smooth chest starting to heave, Michael instructed, poking at the silk covered dermis of the teat, electrifying Vylette.


He was pleased; he was happy with her and how she looked.


“Show me the panties.”


Reluctant, Vylette kept her eyes steadied on the chandelier up over the center of the room. It was alright…so long as she didn’t look at Michael.


Everything he did was alright, she told herself, if she didn’t look into his face.


If she looked at Michael--they might not have made it to New Orleans that afternoon.


And she was fretting…


The darkness of her private area was already visible through the panties and slip.


Vylette worried that she was letting him see too much of her too soon. Would he still respect her?


“Michael--”


Large hands pressed lightly into her hips, and Michael slipped the bare fabric up just far enough to show her lace-trimmed step-ins.


He took in the blackened triangle for a few seconds, as it would have called anyone’s attention, it contrasted so with the white of the skin and pink of the silk, before letting the slip fall back where it belonged.


Neither dared look directly at the other.


Vylette began counting the prisms hanging in the chandelier--there were forty-eight--and Michael’s eyes remained on the hairy little slit.


Vylette began to tremble.


The room was like a powder keg; the slightest spark would have caused a blaze to burn hotter than Hell.


A sliver of pink tongue flashed as Michael licked his lips stealthily and gulped.


Eyes still downcast, he spoke luridly,


“I don’t care much for superfluous hair. You look like a marble statue in every other way… Could you please, sometime soon, eradicate that from your lovely body for me? When you are nude, I want to be able to see you, all of you.”


The hair…he wanted the hair gone.


Cold and prickly all over, Vylette managed, lips quivering,


“Yes…Michael.”


Had she just agreed to shave her nether regions for him?


She had no idea how to even go about such a task, but she would find out. She would do anything for Michael.


“Don’t worry about it now…just finish dressing, so we can get on the road soon. I want us to have plenty of time to have fun without rushing the day.”


Reaching over her, he pushed the door to the bathroom open wider.


“Go on back …Darling…you look so, so tempting to me right now. You remind me of a Turkish Delight, dressed that way. My God… Go, please!”


Abruptly Michael turned from Vylette and opened the door to shout.




“Adelaide! Bring me a drink! Something--anything cold! Hurry!”


“Yes, Sir, Mr. Michael!”

He started across the room, hand mashed to his forehead.


His chest heaved harder and his breathing was louder, drowning out the music on the radio.


Stopping at the bathroom, he indicated it again, with a flip of his hand, to speed her along.


Weakened, Vylette had remained rooted to the spot.


“Yes, Michael.” She went to return and was tugged as Michael’s hand wrapped her bicep.


Pulling her back to him, Michael, softly, begged,




“Please, don’t be offended Vylette, that’s not my intent… see…”

Before she could stop him, Michael had undone the button fly of his trousers, exposing his pristine white briefs.


With his fingertip, he dipped the waistband, to where the creamy brown flesh, just above his genitals could be seen.


He was careful not to expose his private area.


There was a very, very sparse, carefully trimmed thatch of black hair to be seen.


“I do it myself…Go on ahead…” The bathroom was indicated with a toss of his head, lustrous hair flying.


In a fog, Vylette obeyed heading back in.




THWACK!

Vylette leapt a foot off the ground as her backside was smacked to hurry her along.


As she closed the door, she peeked at her lover one more time.


He was doing up his trousers, bottom lip bitten mischievously. His shoulders bounced, as he was clearly and silently laughing.


And a startling realization took Vylette.


He had done that on purpose!


Everything in the last few minutes had been carefully planned and done on purpose!


That damned clever, handsome, intoxicating man!


Quickly the door was shut, with Vylette collapsing against it, fanning herself wildly.


* * *
An Hour Later

Shortly before six o’clock, the sun, a ball of violent blood-orange red, began to slowly start it ascent into the sky to light and warm all that fell beneath its rays.


And as the sun crept up over the horizon, bringing with it a new day, a large, blue on blue, Cadillac coupe was creeping along down the main thoroughfare of Rainelle Parish.


A fashionable car it was , filled with four fashionable young people.


Slowly and stealthily, the mammoth vehicle turned, and came to a rest, outside of the Five and Dime store.


There was a mild thump, as Marlon Jackson shifted his car into to park, and flipped the key in the ignition turning the it off.


“What’s the big idea?” Michael Jackson inquired from the backseat, where he had his arm around Vylette, holding her close to him and had been whispering sweet nothings at her since leaving the house.


“This doesn’t look very much like New Orleans to me!”


Hand over her mouth, Vylette tried to stifle her laughs.


Twisting in his seat, Marlon, decked out expertly in a sharp, sand-colored wool suit, with a white shirt and green, diamond-print tie cut his eyes at his younger sibling.


“Well, Nosy, if you must know, I’m going in to buy some matches. I ran out of them this morning, and I can’t just snap my fingers to light up a cigarette--”


“With those gnarled, ashy things, you just might!” Michael teased and both Vylette and Lorraine busted up.


Eyes rolling--and a hint of a smile of amusement on his face--Marlon leaned over, smooching the cheek of Lorraine, riding shotgun, and slipped from the car, slamming the door.


Michael remained a moment, as the car fell into silence, rubbing at Vylette’s shoulder, questioning,


“Would you ladies like some magazines to read, for the drive up? It is about an hour or so depending on traffic, once we get into the city limits. Maybe a Vogue or a Fashion Plate?”


At the mention of fashion rags, Lorraine spun.


“Yes, Michael! Thank you!”


Pinching his cheek, Vylette nodded and thrilled as he pressed his lips to hers for a moment.


“I’ll be back quickly.” He assured her, smiling in that captivatingly sexy way.


Vylette stared after him as he slid out the seat and began ambling towards the store, with old Mr. Goebbels still turning on the lights inside.


Sinking into the blue leather around her, Vylette sighed and gazed at Lorraine, still in profile and grinning around the halo-brim of her hunter green hat.


Marlon and Michael Jackson had been so enchanted with how Lorraine and Vylette had appeared, in matching graduation dresses, they had purchased similar garments for the cousins for the New Orleans jaunt.


While Vylette was dressed in pale pinks and blues, Lorraine had been draped in a bolder, hunter green and cream.


Made on the same order, as Vylette’s, Lorraine’s dress was a slinky shift of off-white, accented with green and beige polka dots in a frothy array of ruffles around the bodice.


Lounging comfortably in the front seat, her legs crossed, with the skirt up, the greater part of green stockings, patent shoes and just a hint of a cream satin garter were visible.


If one looked hard enough, they’d see that Lorraine’s garters had been embroidered with the letters “MDJ”, Marlon’s initials.


“Vy…” Lorraine was reaching over the seat and clutching her gloved hand in her own. “…I don’t know about you, My Dear, but I could definitely get used to this! I‘m so happy, I could just burst!” She gushed cheerfully.


“I got to eat a nice big breakfast, with as much food as I wanted--coffee too! And then…then, I got a whole new outfit of clothes, from a department store in New York City! Not a hand-me-down, not some reused, but new!”


Lorraine leaned closer and the brim of her hat collided with Vylette’s.


“Do you know…right now, I’m wearing lingerie made of real Chinese silk? Marlon said so! He said the silk is imported from Shanghai! Me! I’m wearing real silk panties! I never felt so beautiful in all my life!”


“Me too.” Vylette didn’t want to think too hard of it, or Michael would have returned to a pile of fainted flesh.


“And smell!” A wrist was jutted under nose, and bore a bright, clean citrus aroma.


“That’s my new perfume! It’s simply divine and called Sprightly! And its expensive too! You should see the bottle! It’s gold, in the shape of a fairy!”


Lorraine’s eyes widened and she snickered.


“My birthday’s not for nine days yet, and I swear, if I never celebrate another one, I don’t need to. I’ve got perfume, a beautiful vanity set--why, it’s silver-plated with Marie-Antoinette painted on it! You know, that dame that lost her head in France! And look…”


Lorraine removed her hat, showing off her flaming tresses, which had been gathered, and pinned up so that it mimicked bobbed hair, with little pin curls all around the nape of her neck.


“Marlon found me some red bobby pins to match my hair! Not black or gold, but red ones! That man is a marvel!”


Replacing her hat, Lorraine sat back down the correct way in her seat and ran her fingers along the open window.


“And now, I’m going to the city, and will see the zoo and eat steak! Marlon said I can have a steak at the restaurant. Anything I want!”


Grinning, Vylette added,


“This is better than Christmas!”


“It certainly is! Oh--I do hope we can go shopping! I’d love to buy new clothes. I haven’t really gone shopping in years. Not in a real store. Not like when we were kids! It does such wonders for a girl to have smart, new things in her closet!” Lorraine rambled, still picking at the window.


It had been a long time since they’d gotten new clothes just for the sake of having them. And even then, they had to pick and circle things out of a catalogue.


Vylette, still managing to be sensible by some grace of God, cautioned,


“Now, Lorraine, you mustn’t be greedy. Don’t take advantage of Marlon’s generosity--”


“Ha!” Lorraine tossed her head. “It’s hard not to , with the man giving me any and everything I could ever want! Michael too--he’s spoiling you rotten, Cousin!”


Bashfully, Vylette ducked her head at this truth. Michael Jackson was indulging her just as readily as his brother was her cousin. And it was nice, and enjoyable to be spoiled and held in such a regard that warranted the behavior.




Chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug!

The stillness of the morning was interrupted by the rough, repetitive noise of a less-than-prime engine turning over as another vehicle neared them.


In the waning twilight, a stark, black, Ford Model-T was rolling down the Main Street.


It slowed and stopped across the road, in front of Pelant’s Grocery Store, where the small shadowy figures of the younger children in the brood were beginning to open up shop for the day.


Curiously, Vylette and Lorraine were staring out the back glass, as the passenger side door on the truck opened, and from it, a familiar sight popped out.


Wallis Pelant, in a wrinkled yellow and white striped dress, a matching scarf around her head, stood, hands on her hips, conversing with an unseen man inside the truck.


Head shaking with contempt, Lorraine intoned,


“It’s barely six in the morning and she’s just now getting home! I know we’re not getting beatings anymore, but Aunt Kathleen would do something to me to take the skin off my hide if I had the nerve to pull a stunt like that! Some girls just don’t care what folks think of them!”


Vylette watched as Wallis threw her head back, cackling wildly at something that had been said, only felt pity for Wallis. She was so very fast. If only she could slow down and be a bit more proper, then perhaps she might have been able to catch a decent man and settle down. Not the dregs of the town.


Why, Wallis was almost twenty years old! Most girls that age had a husband and at least two children by then!


And here she was still playing the field!


“Well, you know how she is…she likes the boys…” Vylette offered, as Wallis slammed the door on the truck, waving as the truck started to pull away, leaving her in the street.


“Yeah, and if she keeps cutting up like she does, she’ll never find a marrying man!” Lorraine warned, voice catty.


“All that carrying on. Now if I acted like that, do you think I’d even be with Marlon? Do you think he’d give a thought to wanting me? Hell no.”


That was true. Men didn’t mind running around with fast women, but they didn’t stay with them for the long haul.


“She’ll never get married. I’m going to marry Marlon, one day. That’s my aim. Every girl I know wants to be married!”


“Maybe Wallis doesn’t want to--” Vylette started to reason and her eyes widened. “Oh no!”


“Damn it!” Lorraine swore, when they noticed that instead of retreated on to her father’s store, Wallis, seeing the blue car, was strutting over towards them.


She was coming their way!!!


A pair of sitting ducks, they could only watch as a round, heavily painted, somewhat sleepy and merry face was poked through the open window next to Lorraine; Wallis hoisted herself up on the running board of the car.


“Good morning y’all!” She snickered and it was instantly clear she was a bit tipsy, as the odor of cheap bootleg liquor wafted from her as did the scent of that cheap perfume she favored.


“Are you coming or going?”


Lorraine, disgusted, only replied with a disdainful grunt.


Normally, they weren’t even supposed to speak to Wallis and considered her below them.


Vylette, though, tried to be kind to this lost young woman.


“We’re going--to New Orleans.”


Penciled brows went up, and Wallis looked back at Vylette in surprise.


“You don’t say!” She cackled. “I just got back from there! It was dear old Arthur’s birthday … anniversary … something! I don’t remember…”


Her smooth brow furrowed as she tried to think and eventually she shrugged, giving up.


Wallis swayed and patted at her rumpled hair, before leaning against the car again.


“Well, whatever it was, I had a cherry of a time! Danced all the night in one of them juke joints. I love dancing to them jazz records. My feet are killing me now! Yup…”


She sighed and those big brown eyes of hers swept the interior of the car and over Vylette and Lorraine with keen interest.


“Hey…y’all are with them fancy Jacksons, ain’t you? This is one of their cars!” Her little painted mouth opened in a small “O”.


“Y’all look so pretty, too! Those dresses look like they’re right out of Vogue! Jeepers, you look swell!”


“Thank you.” Vylette was cordial, while Lorraine remained stony.


Dark nails flashed as Wallis indicated her poorly constructed frock.


And what she said next loosened up Lorraine Devereaux’s set jaw.


“Wish I had me a rich Sugar Daddy, like y’all…”


Gasps left the cousins, and Vylette, so shocked at the casual accusation, could only go pale in response.


Lorraine though, went as red as the locks atop her head and whipping around so hard, her hat flew off into Vylette’s lap, she sputtered angrily,


“We don’t have Sugar Daddies! Marlon and Michael are our boyfriends! STEADY boyfriends, Wallis!”


Sugar Daddies? The very idea! Only some low form of life like Wallis would ever think such a sordid, offensive thought!


Much to their aggravation, Wallis Pelant, only snickered with bemusement, in no way realizing how she had scorned them.


“Sure…” Pouted lips puckered. “I hear them Jacksons is a big family. If they ever have one of the other brothers in, I’d sho’ like to get acquainted.”


Vylette took this statement was one of the saucy remarks Wallis was known for, but Lorraine didn’t.


“I bet you would.”


Lorraine was blatant in her disrespect of Wallis now and it didn’t go without recognition.


Brown eyes met fiery, hate-filled green ones, and Wallis tried to save face.


“It…it seems like the two in town are already taken…” She spoke meekly, and like the feline she was, Lorraine pounced upon it.


Shifting, so that her head tilted upwards, Lorraine made a point of physically staring down her nose at the town tramp, before hissing, voice laden with barbs,


“I wouldn’t think you’d let that stop you, Darling.”


Aghast, blue gloved hands mashed Vylette’s cheeks.


While it was widely known through out the Parish that Wallis Pelant had dated married men, no one had so directly mentioned it to her face before.


Even under all the make up, Wallis changed colors twice.


Once, going as snowy-white as the girls seated in the coupe, then going rosy with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.


Her entire body went straight, and briefly, her eyes openly showed her pain.


Without another word, Wallis stepped off the running board and was running back across the street to her store.


Producing a lace-rimmed handkerchief from her bosom, Lorraine wiped the window where Wallis had leaned.


Feeling sorry, Vylette’s head lowered. Maybe all Wallis wanted was a friend.


“You shouldn’t have done that, Lorraine…” She remarked softly. “I think she’s crying. You’ve hurt that poor girl‘s feelings.”


“Her feelings?” Lorraine snapped and glared at her, startled. “What about our feelings? Wallis had no business opening her trap, insinuating about Marlon and Mike being Sugar Daddies. It insults all of us! That slut! When she’s the one whoring around with anybody who’s got a nickel to buy her a beer!”


Tucking the hanky away, she added, lethally,


“I wish that VD-carrying thing would try to go after my Marlon. I’d kill her as dead as she had to die!”


Vylette, fearful, stared at the back of her cousin’s red head.


She didn’t doubt that Lorraine, so crazy for Marlon she could barely see straight, wasn’t capable of doing Wallis physical, devastating harm about that man.


God, she hoped it would never come to that.


But with Wallis, you just couldn’t tell.


Trollops were unpredictable.


“Hee-hee! You’re too darn silly, man!”


Both the front and back doors on the Cadillac opened, and the jovial Jacksons were getting back into the car.


“We’re back!” Michael announced as he arranged a variety of magazines on his lap.


“Here’s the new Vogue for June!”


On top of Vylette’s knees, the magazine was laid, featuring a painting of a woman playing with a beach ball with a small child. A second copy was passed over to Lorraine.


As Marlon started his car and was backing away, Michael laid another magazine in Vylette’s lap.


“I think Vinnie will like this month’s The Shadow Stage.” Michael pointed out, a slender finger tapping the cover, from which, William Powell’s cool blue eyes stared up at her.


Vinnie Meraux’s favorite actor.


“Yes, I think so…” Vylette hardly heard herself.


As the car mounted one of the only roads that led towards New Orleans from Rainelle Parish, Vylette found herself staring, not at articles about the latest trends from around the world, but at Michael Jackson.


Michael, with a small booklet about the French Rivera spread on his lap, was reading about a new steamship cruise.


In the front of the car, Marlon was instructing Lorraine on how to place one of the books of matches he’d purchased into his cigarette case for him.


Vylette wondered how Wallis could think of them as Sugar Daddies.


They were too kind, sweet, gentlemanly and refined to be the kind of men who only ran around with women, with no sense of commitment.


No…the Jacksons were wealthy, but they were also respectable.


They were honest men and far from Sugar Daddies.


Wallis Pelant was wrong, sorely wrong.


And it was just a shame a girl like her, would never know the pleasure of men like them.


Wallis was wrong.


(At least that was what Vylette was going to continue to tell herself until she believed it.)