The Next Morning
Jackson Manor
Rainelle Parish, Louisiana
Vylette Meraux feared she was going mad.
She hadn’t slept a single wink the night before and as distressed and overwrought as the young teen felt, she was certain she’d never have another decent night’s sleep again.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt fear of this degree, burning, searing, aching to the point her entire body shook and her hands trembled as if caught in an earthquake, though the ground beneath her feet stayed perfectly still.
Sleep was something dear and precious that was hard to come by.
But then again how could a girl sleep, when the very night of the announcement of her engagement, what was supposed to be one of the most joyous occasions to any young woman had turned to utter disaster and tragedy.
Oh how Vylette’s chest ached. How her eyes misted and stung with the salt water of tears!
Again, for what was the umpteenth time, her mind turned to the thoughts that had been plaguing her since the night before.
The night before.
Everything had been so pleasant. Wearing that beautiful, new water-colored, floral frock and being in the genteel, gentlemanly company of Michael Jackson for the greater portion of the evening.
His eyes never left her, those deep, dark orbs of affection glittering and sparkling at her. The soft, knowing smile touch his lips each time their gazes crossed.
The warm, sensuous feel of his hand on her thin, cool arm.
How proud Vylette had been. How very proud she had been, knowing that this man loved her above all else.
So much so, he’d wanted to make it official, by way of a twelve-carat rock, selected and carved, especially for her.
Only for her.
How delighted she had been with the company that evening, watching her own cousin, engaged to Michael’s brother, never looking from him, as deeply in love with Marlon as she with Michael. Listening to the peals of laughter ringing from both her kid sister and her father as the conversation was politely lobbied back and forth.
Her father, who had only encouraged her relationship with Michael Jackson. Who had taken a shine to the twenty-something and got on with him like he was already his son.
The one who had always liked and doted on and shown nothing but the utmost respect to the Jackson brothers.
Not like her mother.
At the thought of her mother, those smooth, pale hands clenched at her sides in a quiet fury, the usually placid, heart-shaped face going whiter than snow at the thought of her mother.
Her mother! Her mother! Her mother!
Thinking back to the events, still very fresh and painful to her, Vylette’s mouth flattened into an angered line and her light eyes began to well.
Her perfect evening had been completely undone by her mother!
When Kathleen Meraux had fainted upon reading the banner that declared not only her daughter, but also her niece were engaged to the Jacksons, it had been the start of a situation that had rapidly spiraled out of control.
Although it took Doctor Meraux less than ten minutes to revive his startled wife, everyone present soon learned it would have been best to leave her out cold and to have resumed the festivities in her absence.
The moment the matriarch came back to consciousness, the waterworks had started.
Not delicate, feminine, slow paced, tears, but a full-on torrent, the likes of which Vylette hadn’t seen since her grandmother had died after ingesting Pork Tartare.
But there her mother had been, sobbing wildly, with the only words any one could have made any sense out of being,
“My babies! My babies! Jesus Christ--my babies!”
Vylette’s mother had been the very definition of the word ‘inconsolable’.
The evening had gone to pot from there.
Kathleen cried, with out a single break, all through dinner, so much so, any pleasant conversation was but a wish and did not occur for being drowned out by the blubbering.
(Also, all of Vylette’s, Vinnie’s and Lorraine’s slaving in the kitchen were not appreciated; Kathleen didn’t take a single bite of food, or sip of iced tea.)
And when the Doctor had proposed a toast to the couples, Kathleen had shrieked as if being knifed and raped.
The final straw had come following the meal.
Michael Jackson had gone through the trouble of setting up a projector and screen in the Solarium, for the purpose of showing a variety of Harold Lloyd comedy shorts.
And Harold Lloyd had been chosen solely because he was Kathleen’s favorite screen comedian.
But halfway through Lloyd’s most famous film, Safety Last, even before the big scene where he hangs precariously off the face of a clock, dangling within death’s reach over the busy city below, the movie had to be stopped.
Kathleen was carrying on so, no one could even enjoy it.
And the evening had come to an end right there.
Vylette would never forget the glaring, harshness of disappointment in Michael Jackson’s face as he had shown her to the door, while her father half-carried, half-dragged her mother out of the house.
The pain, his pain was evident and it hurt Vylette ten times worse.
Never had she imagined something like this could happen to her. She’d always figured that even though her mother hadn’t been too keen on certain aspects of the Jacksons or how they lived, that the news that her elder daughter was to be a bride would have overridden that with sheer happiness.
How wrong she had been. How naive, how stupid.
Why should her mother be pleased with the pairing of her daughter with the son of a Dauphine?
Her mother had been full of distaste at them ever since they set foot into town. Speculating that they had no morals and were bootleggers on the lam.
She didn’t want to believe that both were exquisite gentlemen, who made their fortune with wholesome, family-oriented theatres.
She wanted to believe that they were showy and flashy, not kind and charitable as shown in the selfless funding of the Soup Kitchen.
They were Yankees, not born of the Parish, although their mother’s people had been in the Parish as long as Vylette’s own.
The Dauphines were as old as the De la Croixs!
But no…
Somehow, some way, Vylette knew in her heart, that her mother had believed in her own heart that Vylette would still marry that stubborn goat Steven Wilkes and that Lorraine would marry that wet blanket, Ulrich Povah!
And Vylette refused it! She simply refused it!
She loved Michael Jackson.
All she wanted in the entire world was Michael Jackson.
A kind, gentle, sweet man, who’d never raise his voice or hand to harm her.
She wanted to be his bride, honeymoon in Vienna and live in that mansion and raise their children there.
Yes, Jackson Manor.
Out of the darkness, on the tree-lined lane, still hung with the glowing Chinese lanterns, Vylette emerged.
A bit wild, a bit crazed.
Her long black waves cascading down her back, as her feet, encased in the pale pink shoes, now crusted with sooty Louisiana soil carried her rapidly down the lane and towards the lit front porch.
She still wore her floral dress from the night before; in her haste to get to the Manor, it was the first thing she put her hands on.
She had to see Michael, had to apologize to him, beg his forgiveness.
In the very back of her mindm crept a sobering, terrifying thought, that Michael, seeing he went unwanted by Kathleen--even though Katherine welcomed Vylette with open arms--would demand his ring back and break their engagement
And Vylette was in such a state, she’d have likely followed Olivier Dauphine’s example and taken a flying leap from the roof of the mansion.
She’d have to, lest she spend the rest of her days listening to the gleeful, self-righteous leering of one Steven Wilkes, who still clung to the hope like a man to the edge of a mountain he’s falling off of, that her relationship with Michael Jackson was a fling at best and he was making a fool of her.
Vylette was no fool and she wasn’t about to become one now!
Getting to the stone steps of the porch, Vylette bypassed a sleeping Baron at the top of the steps, taking great care to step up and over the Red Husky and started to make her way to the door.
But as she did, something caught her eye.
Off to the side, the French doors leading into the formal living room had been left wide open.
Straightening, Vylette tucked her hair behind her ears, and began marching towards the doors.
It wasn’t really breaking and entering, if the door was left setting wide open.
Besides, this was going to be her house…if she were lucky and still had the love of her fiancé.
Stealthily, Vylette crossed through the blue room, emerging in the front foyer.
Advancing over to the staircase, she paused, clinging to the banister, ears perking for any sort of sounds to alert her that someone was coming.
After several tense moments, which allowed a pool of sweat to collect at the base of her spine, Vylette was creeping up the stairs.
Soon she emerged on the second level, swiftly moving towards the door of Michael Jackson’s bedroom, where the door stood cracked.
Judging by the shaft falling on the floor, she could tell the light was on in the room.
Hands starting to wring, registering her anxiety, Vylette slipped through the crack, which was coincidentally just large enough to accommodate her.
Inside the room, all was peaceful, a soft, harp-heavy waltz playing from the bedside radio.
But the bed was vacant, its red sheets rumpled and thrown back, a simple stuffed lion laying on its side on one of the pillows.
Michael wasn’t in bed, he wasn’t asleep!
Quickly, Vylette’s eyes darted to the bathroom.
The door stood completely open, but the bathroom, just like the bedroom was vacant of the young master.
Where was Michael? Where could he be?
Was he so defeated that he left Louisiana to return back to the North?
Vylette’s heart fluttered uncontrollably in her bosom, hand pressing it, eyes darting here and there trying to find him.
A sharp, small gasp popped from her lips when she finally discovered him.
The French doors leading onto the wraparound balcony were opened and just beyond them, was Michael Jackson.
Still in his sleep clothes, Michael stood, looking out over his darkened property, his body wrapped in a black satin robe, printed all over with interlocking white circles.
In one hand he held a half-gone cigarette, flicking ashes down onto the ground below.
For a brief moment, in essence, Michael resembled a living cover of The New Yorker magazine.
He was so delicate, so beautiful as he took another deep drag and blew a perfect smoke ring in the air.
Vylette would never know how she got across that bedroom, whether she walked, ran or flew, she didn’t know.
She only knew she had to touch him, hug him, kiss him.
Tell him how much she loved him.
And suddenly she was on him, her arms thrown around his trim waist with such force he was nearly thrown to the polished wood floor.
“Vy?” He exclaimed, stunned she was even there, staggering and trying to remain upright as she continued jostling him. “Vylette? It’s three in the morning…what the devil are you doing here? How’d you get here? Don‘t tell me you walked! It‘s the middle of the damn night!”
Vylette mashed to him, pressed her cheek against his chest, listened to his heart beating against her ear.
“I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you!” She cried, squeezing him tighter.
“You shouldn’t walk alone at night! That’s dangerous! A pretty girl, all alone--what if someone had snatched you?” Michael was stammering and struggling draw a full breath.
“I’m sorry, Michael! Truly sorry about everything!” Vylette interrupted, his scolding falling on deaf ears.
“About Mama, and the way she acted and ruin the dinner and films. I’m sorry she’s not happy with our being engaged, but I don’t care! Do you hear me, I don’t care!”
Hot, salty tears began streaming from her eyes and mucus from her nose.
“I want to marry you! I want to be your wife! We can be married right now, there’s Father Lachey, or we can go to New Orleans and find a Justice of the Peace there--”
“Hey…hey…hey!” Michael finally loosened her grasp and leaned back from her, examining the reddened and damp face. “Mein Liebling…calm down. Calm down, Sweetness or you’ll faint…calm down…”
Patting at her head, he wrapped his arms around her.
It was the warmest, most entrusting feeling.
“Calm down…I know you love me. I love you too, with all my heart. Now stop with this eloping foolishness. We’ll do nothing of the sort. We’re going to get married properly, at the church by Father Lachey. You deserve a real wedding, not some rushed vows in the middle of the night. I won’t have us sneaking around in the dark like bandits on a jailbreak! Now stop that crying, please Darling…”
Thumbs, large and soft were caressing her cheeks, and rubbing the tears away.
“Now, yes, perhaps your mother did take the news of our engagement rather hard, but I’m not offended…” He murmured, smooching at her forehead and sniffling, Vylette choked,
“You’re not?”
He looked sourer than a lemon earlier, but he wasn’t angry? He wasn’t offended?
“No, because I thought of it from your mother’s standpoint. You’re her first child. And Lorraine was left to her, when her parents died unfortunately. All Mrs. Meraux has known for the last eighteen years is you and Lorraine. You two were raised like sisters. Hell, you even act like sisters when you’re together!” Michael chuckled and slowly a smile came to Vylette’s face.
“All your mother hollered the whole evening was ‘My Babies!’ She probably thinks she’s losing you--she’s not, and in time she will come to realize that. You’ll live right here, in this house which is barely a drive back to your parent’s house. And I know Marlon and Lorraine will eventually move to New Orleans, but that’s also a short drive. We can still get together for Sunday dinners, church. All sorts of nice events. They can come into the City to see films and spend the day--we won’t just up and disappear, Vylette.”
His lips bumped her gingerly.
“My poor, sweet little bride. Look at you, positively exhausted, and with so much to do today: going to the train station to meet my relatives, and then coming back here to host your friends and help them pick clothing to buy. Such a busy woman needs plenty of rest…”
Stooping slightly and grunting with minimal effort Michael lifted Vylette and was cradling her to his bosom like an infant.
“I’m going to put you to bed, and let you sleep for a few hours, before we have to get on the road…I’ll phone your father, and let him know you’re here, so your folks don’t worry…”
Michael trailed off and a wide grin came to his face, when he realized, slumped against him, Vylette was already asleep.
She never knew that Michael had tucked her in with his stuffed lion, nor kissed her forehead, whispering in German at her.
She only knew that her crisis was averted, banished, and that Michael Jackson, as always, had taken a bad situation, turned it around and fixed it for the better.
Things always did turn out better, once Michael Jackson was involved.
* * *
A Few Hours Later
New Orleans Louisiana
“…Hello?…Is this the Dupuis Transcontinental Train Station? Yes?--I’d like to inquire about one of your arrivals--”
The dark, polished wood of the booth enclosing that lone payphone on the corners of St. Marie Street and Laveaux Boulevard made for a beautiful compliment to all of the earthy tones making up Michael Jackson that morning.
From the chocolate of his complexion, to the smoky darkness that were his glistening, flickering, partially sleep-deprived eyes, to the rich, chic suit hanging about his trim, svelte frame.
It was a three-piece wonder that gave Michael the appearance of having just walked clean off the pages of a gentleman’s fashion magazine. Constructed of lightweight, single-breasted worsted wool in a russet color that gently offset the reddish undertones to his complexion, the fabric was a tone on tone wide windowpane check, worn over an off white silk shirt and striped tie.
“…what time does the Starlight Limited from New York City arrive? I’m expecting relatives…”
Rocking back and forth, his feet gleamed in patent wingtips, with such a high-gloss polish, they were like mirrors.
On his head, a brown felt fedora had been pulled down over one eye. He was always so dapper when going town.
“…It’s my brother, Jermaine Jackson…his two little girls, Jessie and Jana and three of our nephews, Taj, Taryll and TJ…all from New York, all Jacksons…!”
A few away by the curb, sitting in the parked two-toned Caddy, Vylette was applying a thin veil of white powder to her nose, watching over the top of her compact, as Michael continued to bicker with the receptionist.
“…Look, I’m starting to lose my temper! All I’ve got in my gut right now is a glass of tomato juice and a hothouse pear! I just need to know when the Starlight Limited is due, so I can see if I have enough time to stop for breakfast--Eleven-seventeen? Did that kill you? Did you physically die from sharing that information?”
His voice took on a bitingly shrill edge.
Even from so far away, she could see the nostrils on his sculpted nose flaring.
“I didn’t think so--good morning!”
The receiver was slammed down so hard, it echoed.
Stepping from the booth, Michael unhooked the thee buttons cinching his jacket closed and grasped at his reed-thin waist.
“Jiminy Crickets, it can burn me up something fierce how some of those mush-for-brains dames try to get all high and mighty just because they’ve got a desk job. Damn it, I just wanted to see when the train got in…”
Still looking over the top of the compact at him, Vylette offered a sympathetic nod.
Michael had long since forgotten what time his brother’s train arrived and the only scrap of paper it had been jotted down on was thrown away by mistake one afternoon as Adelaide had cleaned his office.
Rounding the car, he slipped behind the wheel, slamming the door after him.
From around the lowered brim of his hat, the dark eyes focused in on Vylette, riding shotgun, still attentively powdering at her nose, which had gone shiny in the Louisiana humidity.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”
Voice growing soft, Michael reached over and patted at smooth thigh peeking out from beneath the silk skirt.
Grinning in spite of herself, Vylette appreciated the compliment.
She was the portrait of stylistic perfection that morning.
Wanting to look her best for meeting Michael’s kin, she wore a sleek, short sleeved suit of pale, cornflower blue over a short, puffed sleeved blouse of light blue and teal plaid, tying at the throat with an enormous bow. It was accented with teal buttons down the front and a matching belt.
On her feet, dull leather teal pumps were comfortable.
“Not in the last fifteen minutes…” Vylette teased, shutting her crystal covered compact and slipping it into her plaid hand bag, replacing her teal gloves.
Across from her Michael squinched his nose playfully, and turned the key in the ignition.
As they merged into traffic, he suggested,
“We have a few hours until my brother and them arrive, would you like to stop somewhere for breakfast? It‘s my dumb fault, I thought the train was due at seven-eleven, not eleven-seventeen! The least I can do is give you a decent meal.”
“It’s alright…” Lavender-blue eyes were loving as she patted the hand squeezing her leg.
She didn’t mind any of the trouble, she was so thankful he was still hers and that she belonged to him. That they would still be married in the near future.
She didn’t care that he’d bungled the train arrival times.
She was with him now and such mistakes could happen.
Such mistakes were quickly forgotten when men were as sweet and attractive and…sexy…as Michael Jackson.
“Anything in particular you’d like, My Violette Blanche?”
“I don’t know why…” Vylette picked at the long feather trailing from her small, woven beret. “…but I’ve got a taste for some Shrimp and Grits…”
“Shrimp? For breakfast?” Michael declared, glancing at her skeptically. “I know you said we’re on the Gulf, but shrimp? I‘ve heard of fish for breakfast--kippers--but never shrimp!”
“Don’t look now, your Yankee is showing!” Vylette teased and both laughed merrily. “It’s a traditional dish around these parts.”
“Well, I’ll try some. If its anything like the hominy grits Adelaide and you make, I’ll enjoy it…here’s a place…”
“It’s better!” Vylette snickered and Michael’s eyes widened.
Rising far above the road and noisy city, was a strange figure.
A huge, imposing, colored to life rendition of a proud rooster was strutting on top of the name of the restaurant, The Cock-A-Doodle-Doo Diner.
It was a cute, homey, no-frills sort of place and as Michael pulled a park in front of a long, streamlined building of sparkling chrome,, through the window Vylette could see several booths and the entire counter occupied.
As the couple, arm in arm approached the door, they stopped long enough to read the morning specials scribbled on a blackboard in colored chalk.
And at the top was Shrimp and Grits for thirty cents a bowl. (Advertised as ‘so delicious, you’ll slap your Mama!’)
By the time they got in, though, all of the booths were taken and Michael had to physically lift Vylette up onto a stool at the counter to avoid wrinkling her dress.
Once seated--and giving the stink eye to several men staring at his beautiful fiancée--Michael ordered the grits, with coffee and buttermilk biscuits.
Coffee came immediately and as the short-order cook went to work at the griddle and stovetop, Michael gazed at Vylette a few moments, as she busied herself sweetening and creaming her java.
“Mein Leibling?”
“Ja?” Vylette was still spooning sugar from a bowl.
“I…I wanted to talk to you about Jermaine…before we met him at the station.” Michael started and at the serious tone seeping into his voice, Vylette gazed at him curiously.
“Does…does he not like me?” She wondered thoughtfully and horror crossed her lover’s face.
“Jesus Christ--no!” He exclaimed. “Nothing like that Baby…”
He was holding her hand tightly in his to the point it was turning red.
“…it’s just…I hope you like him--”
Penciled brows raised and Vylette’s mouth came open with incredulity.
“Why wouldn’t I like Jermaine? He’s your brother, isn’t he? I get on nicely with Marlon--he‘s your brother, too!”
There was a pause as the bowls of steaming grits topped with a half-dozen plump crustaceans and gravy were set before them with biscuits alongside.
“I know…just…” Michael took a bite of food. “This is delicious, but I won‘t slap Mother…just, well, Jermaine has a way about him that can be, rather off-putting.”
Enjoying her meal, Vylette’s eyes went up with her brows in questioning.
Off-putting? How could a Jackson be off-putting? They were so jovial and engaging!
Michael, Marlon, Latoya…even Katherine had sent words of welcoming to her! They were loving, nice and joys to be around.
It seemed silly--off-putting!
The very idea!
“You know how Marlon likes to do his bragging?” Michael tilted his coffee cup to his mouth.
“Well, yeah…?” Vylette shrugged, chewing on a spicy shrimp.
Marlon was a proud sort, that came naturally.
But he did have the looks, money and charisma to do so.
It was half of what drew her cousin Lorraine to him in the first place.
Michael grunted and munched another spoonful.
“Well, Jermaine is that times ten, Vy! He’s kind of egotistical. You know, thinks money is the be-all, end-all. I’m already trying to prepare myself for when he stays with us a few days…”
Absently he was tapping his spoon against the side of his bowl.
“…because it was a three day ride on the train to get here. He can’t just turn around and go right back to New York. He has to recuperate and recharge a bit. Plus he’ll be attending the theatre openings. But he’s never seen anything like the Parish, before. He’s used to places like Paris, London, Biarritz, all those sorts of locales for a layover… for Christ Sakes, his car is at the train station now--a Rolls Royce Phantom!”
“Rolls Royce?” Vylette echoed and could just imagine how tongues would wag once Jermaine set foot into her modest hometown.
Why, a Rolls was even more expensive and extravagant than a Cadillac. That was the type of vehicles the film stars drove!
Not people who resided in Rainelle Parish! Most of them just had a buggy and mule at best. He was sure to draw stares at the least and cause the rumor mills to explode-- ie, that conniving, black-hearted Mary Povah, as she hated all the Jacksons, pack and parcel--at the most.
Michael continued, with his infernal tapping of the spoon.
“I’m surprised he’s letting Jessie and Jana stay in the Parish. It was one thing to have them in for the summer in New York--we only lived a few streets away from each other on Park Avenue--but I think it would be good for them to be around nice, normal folks--I just hope they get along with the children…”
The tapping ceased and he motioned for a refill of coffee.
“But we belong to the Country Club, won’t they play with children there?” Vylette interrupted, wondering if the wealthy children would be happier among their own!
The culture clash may have been too much. The scions of wealthy, theatre owners and those of sharecroppers?
How on Earth could youngsters from such vastly different backgrounds manage to find common ground? Was there any common ground to be found?
“We don’t LIVE at the Club, Vylette! They’ll be at home with us, going to Mass with us, playing with kids like Vinnie and the Povahs and the Pringles…” Michael shook his head derisively.
“My nephews are okay, Tito and Delores keeps them down-to-earth, but Jermaine and Hazel only indulge and spoil their girls. They don’t know what the word ‘no’ means unless they‘re hollering it themselves. I love my nieces, really I do, but they’ve got to learn they can’t have everything. This economy has turned and anything can happen--I pray it doesn’t. Jermaine would kill himself--don’t look at me crooked. He’d jump and splatter his Colored ass all over Park Avenue. I know him, he’s my blood.”
(Olivier Dauphine was his blood too, and Vylette didn’t even want to think of one of his descendants taking a plunge like he had in 1929. Although she‘d come very close to it herself, but she was no relation to him.)
Another spoonful went into Michael’s mouth and he grimaced.
Vylette stared downwards, not sure of what to say, if money was truly so important to his brother that he’d kill himself and leave behind two little girls who needed him.
“I…I can provide. I can provide well…” Michael commented, starting to take his tortoise shell cigarette case from his jacket.
“She’s wearing Scandalous by Lafar! It retails for thirty-two dollars an ounce! Get your goddamn nose out my fiancée’s hair, before I shatter it for you!” He snarled suddenly and startled Vylette spun around to see a man, close in age to Michael, jerking away from her.
“I’m…I’m sorry--Sorry Ma‘am!” He was humble, tilting his own hat and quickly moved down three stools.
Smartly, he kept his head turned away from them, avoiding eye contact at all costs. There was no need to further enrage that wiry fighter.
“I don‘t feel like getting my new shoes shitty, kicking ass, Pardon me…damn mashers.” He grumbled, placing a cancer stick in his mouth and setting it on fire, before returning to his original topic.
“I can provide, but I won’t have selfish, bratty children. I’d be a failure as a father if that happened. They don’t want to be Catholic, fine. If our girl likes girls or our boy likes boys, I can handle that, too. But thinking they’re better than someone else just for having a few extra dimes…I’ll go ape like I was Tarzan! What we have is a blessing, not an entitlement.”
Vylette gazed on Michael Jackson, wanting to cry tears of pride.
The man had values. Real, solid values, and wanted to instill such sentiment in their offspring.
He was the best man for her, truly the best.
And he was going to be a wonderful father to hopefully, their many children.
Hugging his arm, she whispered,
“You’re a blessing to me….”
* * *
Sometime Later
Dupuis Transcontinental Railway Station
Outskirts of New Orleans, Louisiana
“…Jesus Christmas! This sticks out like a huge, honking, sore-ass thumb! I don’t believe this! Damn it! We’re in New Orleans! This ain’t New York! This ain’t Palm Beach! This ain’t Hollywood! Who does he think he is? Bill Powell? Chaplin? Valentino? Good God in Heaven! Great Googly Moogly!…”
For the last twenty minutes, Michael Jackson had been ranting and raving so hard, he’d come out of his jacket!
“My Lord…this is ridiculous! Even for him! Lord have mercy on my soul! When I get my hands on Jermaine….!”
To the side, Vylette and the slack-jawed porter who’d helped them navigate the expansive parking lot behind the station to retrieve Jermaine Jackson’s Rolls Royce, stood silently and tensely watching what looked to be all of the hallmarks of a nervous breakdown.
But Michael had something of a right to do all the performing and noise-making he was currently doing.
If there was ever a vehicle to stop traffic and demand attention with a bullhorn, Jermaine Jackson’s was the vehicle to do it.
It could probably be seen coming from five miles away.
A huge, touring car it was, painted a deep, bloody maroon, setting up on wide, whitewall tires, every thing gleaming with golden brass.
The interior was a mix of golden, crushed velvet and red leather.
Even the vanity plate, stating only JJ-#1 was brass.
On the hood, stood a regal ornament in the shape of an eagle’s head, made of frosted glass.
It was such an eye-catching statement of vehicular majesty, that even a blind man could have noticed it.
“I told that damned fool, when you come to town, come in something discreet. I live in a small rural town now, I said. Nice, church-going, hardworking folks. Here he comes rolling in like the circus is here! All he needs is a parade of elephants and clowns and a few acrobats. Damn it to Hell!”
Michael stomped, and kicked the back tire.
“Ouch!”
He bounced in a circle, clutching his left foot in agony.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Y’all’s need any-thang else, Lady?” The porter wondered scratching at his kinked head, as Michael began rave in German.
“Dumbkof! Dumbkof!”
“No…what time is it?” Vylette asked, still holding Michael’s jacket as he continued to leap and perform heatedly.
“I should kick him in the chest! Jesus Christmas!”
A cheap pocket watch was produced.
“’Leven-’ifteen…”
“Thank you!”
As the porter ambled away, Vylette called,
“Michael! Michael! The train is due any minute! Mike--”
“You go meet it!” Storming over, Michael snatched the jacket away, and started to slip it on.
“Go over to the platform. I need a moment to smoke and get my head together. You won’t be able to miss my brother--trust me! Helen Keller could spot that walking dunce cap!”
Leaning, Vylette pecked his warm cheek and started away.
A moment later, Michael had caught up to her, his arm hooking hers.
“It’d be just my damn luck I let you go alone and someone molests you, then I gotta commit murder! I almost slapped out that sap sniffing your hair!” He growled, keeping step with her as a voice on a loud speaker called as a train’s horn blared,
“Now arriving! The eleven-seventeen Starlight Limited from New York City, Trenton, New Jersey and Boston, Massachusetts!”
Vylette smiled. Even seething as he was, he still made the effort to protect her body and her honor.
He was firstly a gentleman, always.
By the time they reached the platform, several dozen people milled in front of the engine and adjoining cars of the train, painted a bold yellow and black, resembling a steel bumblebee, still smoking.
Everywhere she looked, were people running here and yonder, embracing and kissing, shaking hands and gathering up luggage.
Vylette tried to stop at one of the passenger cars to ask about the Jacksons, to see which car they had been on, but was tugged along, almost yanked off her feet by the force.
Michael offered no explanation, as to why they weren’t inquiring about his family, but she soon saw why.
At the very end of about twenty cars, a one stood apart from the rest alarmingly.
Stretching for twice the length of a standard car, it was painted a lacquered navy and on the side in white script were the words Jackson: Established 1901.
(Author’s Note: for the setting of 1931, a not-yet-30-year-old Jermaine would have been born in December 1901.)
Vylette’s jaw dropped and was sagging somewhere near her dimpled knees.
A private car.
Michael’s brother had traveled in a private train car!
Vylette was spinning.
Until that very moment she thought she’d had a fair grasping of the extent of wealth afforded the Jacksons, but now, seeing that Jermaine traveled in such…luxury, the girl was spellbound.
Just what kind of a man was he?
How rich were the Jacksons? Vylette had never asked exactly how much they were worth--that was poor manners--but she couldn’t help wondering now.
“I told you, you couldn’t miss him.” Michael sighed with disdain. “Never can miss that goon…”
As Michael shook his head with regret, the silky blue curtains covering the windows parted and a bunch of small faces appeared.
There was a dull roar as someone shouted,
“IT’S UNCLE MICHAEL! LOOK, ITS HIM! UNCLE MICHAEL!”
There was a clang as the door on the side of the car came open, and three little boys, with no care in the world at all for the set of steps for them to use in order to reach the platform, leap over it easily and came stampeding at top speed.
Each wore matching navy suits with an argyle sweater vest, and red bow ties.
Letting go of Vylette, Michael dropped to one knee, arms outstretched for a hug.
“UNCLE MICHAEL!”
The smallest of the bunch reached him first and was squeezing him tightly as the other two got to his side grinning happily.
And right before her very eyes, all of the disgust and animosity seeping from Michael Jackson just seconds before, seemed to evaporate as he went through the children, laughing as gaily as ever, embracing them and kissing the tops of their heads.
“My goodness! Look at you--it’s amazing what a single year will do for you! You’ve all gotten so big! My gosh!” Michael was hooting, and patting them on the back, he climbed back up to his feet.
As the boys all began to chatter and compete to be heard over one another, each appearing to try to tell Michael his own experience on the train, he held his hands up as a signal for order.
“…I didn’t like it! My bed was too soft! The beds are always too darn soft!”
“Mine was too hard!”
“Taryll snored!”
“You liar--you snored, Taj!”
“The devil I did! But TJ got motion sickness!”
“I threw up--”
“Hey! HEY!” Michael cried, hooking his pinkies in his mouth and unleashing a shrill TOOT that not only silenced the children, but about half a dozen other people passing by.
As the three gazed up at him peacefully, mouths delightfully shut, Michael extended a hand to Vylette, pulling her closer.
“Boys…I have someone special for you to meet…”
He was trying so hard to control himself.
Much as he had the night before, when their engagement had been announced to her mother, Michael was caressing her shoulders tenderly from behind.
“This is Vylette…I want you all to take a good look at her, and get to know her very, very well this summer …because….” He broke into a nervous giggle.
“Hee-hee! Hee-hee! Because…in a few months, she’s going to be your Auntie!”
Tiny mouths dropped, before breaking into smiles and the boys were coming forward with arms outstretched to hug her.
The tallest, and presumably oldest spoke first.
“Hi Auntie Vy! I’m Taj--I’m ten years old!”
Taj Jackson was an adorable little guy, with a caramel complexion and beady, sneaky-like dark eyes. His hair was a deep brown and arranged in a large, naturally curled puff, with his teacup-handle like ears sticking out on the sides.
“Hello Taj, nice to meet you, Sweetie.” Vylette was hugging him to her.
Taj, echoing his uncle in how he was so well-mannered, was nudging the second tallest boy towards her.
“This is my brother, Taryll. He’s eight.”
Taryll was a shade or so lighter than his elder brother, his hair, just as wild and puffy, but in a shade of sandy blond as opposed to darker brown.
Hazel eyes sparkled as he came forward, embracing her.
“Hi…gee you smell nice.” Taryll stammered peering up at her as Vylette patted his cheek.
At least Michael wouldn’t lay him out for appreciating her perfume.
“You do too!” She laughed and behind her, Michael was guffawing.
The smallest approached.
“And this is--”
“I can talk!” The little boy growled defensively, showing his two front teeth were missing.
“I’m TJ! I’m five whole years old! Hi Auntie!” He was leaping against her lovingly.
TJ was a bit darker than his older brothers, his hair black with reddish highlights, and the same wide ears like Taj.
Deep, shimmering eyes looked upwards with adoration at her.
“Now…” Michael huffed, glancing towards the open door of the blue car, his hands pressing into his hips again. “…where is your Uncle Jermaine?”
Shuffling his feet and kicking at the wooden platform beneath them, Taryll chuckled,
“He’s fussing with Jessie and Jana, Uncle Michael--he’s trying to comb their hair and they’re tender-headed and they keep whining and crying and all.”
Michael’s mouth formed an “O” and his brow folded up.
He hesitated a moment, before his eyes fell upon the female at his side.
“Vy…” He began tentatively. “Do you believe…”
“…that I could maybe comb your niece’s hair for you?” She finished for him with a smirk.
“Mmm-hmm!” Michael hummed with one strict bob of his head.
“Oh, I suppose so…we can’t spend the rest of the day loitering on this here platform!” She snickered as Michael smooched her cheek.
“You’re a doll, Shamone!”
With the three little boys following closely behind, Vylette held her breath, she had never set foot on a train before, and certainly not a private car.
The same breath whooshed out as she was ushered inside.
The entire compartment smelled strongly of an expensive cologne, heavy on sandalwood and spices.
For such a small vehicle, as the car was, comprising of only a few dozen cubic feet, it was decorated just as lavishly as though it were a home such as Jackson Manor.
The walls were draped in thick, luxurious, cobalt blue velvet with a stark white quilted ceiling overhead. Scattered around the living area was a plush couch and several armchairs marked by heavy wood and along one wall was a small desk with a gold and white shaded lamp.
Beneath her feet was a muted carpet which she sank into by half an inch with each step.
On the far end of the berth, was an oak door, slightly ajar.
Vylette heard Michael draw a breath, preparing to call out a greeting.
But he stopped short when a pair of high-pitched, cultured voices were heard conversing back and forth.
“…my head is simply pounding, isn’t yours, Dear?”
“Yes! I wish I had an aspirin!”
“Father cannot comb hair to save his life, bless him!”
“But what are we going to do? We can’t go into public looking like…like wild women!…
“Yoo-hoo!” Michael hooted. “Jana? Jessie? It’s Uncle Michael! Would you come here please?”
“No, Sir!” A voice insisted. “We look just dreadful!”
Vylette snickered into the palm of her hand.
“I’m very sure you don’t. I know you’re having a bit of trouble with your hair…” Michael replied, eyes rolling. “…well, I have someone here who can fix your hair just perfectly for you--”
The door opened and midway down, two little, oval faces, both topped with long, coarse masses of naturally wild, curly black hair peeked out timidly.
Waving a gloved hand, Vylette tried to keep her voice as delicate as possible.
“Hello…I’m your Auntie Vy…do you think you could trust me with your hair?”
And in unison, both girls exclaimed, indignantly,
“You’re White, you can‘t comb Colored hair!”
“She is not White!” Michael nearly bellowed causing everyone to jump. “She’s Colored, and she can comb Colored hair! Now comb on--come on out of there, and bring her your bows and things!”
As the girls disappeared from sight and scuffling was heard, Michael turned to Vylette.
“I’m sorry for that--”
She’d been taken for just about every race under the skies, Colored, White, Some Kind of Spanish, at one time or another. And a child making the wrong assumption didn’t bother her at all.
“It’s alright. It’s not the first time I was mistaken for being White, probably won’t be last.” Vylette chortled, as the door opened wider and two girls, one a few inches shorter than the other exited.
Both were beautiful little creatures, a bit on the thin side, with sparkling dark eyes, downcast in their shame, with their hair all over their heads, and falling down their backs.
The girls resembled well-dressed dust mops.
Both girls wore crisply starched cream and red sailor dresses, with matching tights embroidered with little anchors echoing the ones on their collars, and red Mary Janes.
Each held a large red grosgrain ribbon, combs, brushes and a jar of pomade.
“That’s Jana, she’s nine.” Michael pointed to the taller of the two dust mops. “And Jessie, short for Jessilynn, she’s seven.”
“Nice to meet y’all.” Vylette was smiling and the girls looked nervous.
Were they really that concerned about their appearances, so young? Other than the worry of being seen in the nude, Vinnie would run all over here and yonder with her hair everyplace if Vylette didn’t get her to sit long enough to style it.
Taking the items from the girls, Vylette informed them,
“Don’t be so worried. We’re family--I’m going to be your aunt.”
Just like the boys, both girls looked up in awe.
Nodding Vylette added, feeling her face flush hotly.
“I’m going to marry your Uncle Michael.”
It still sounded so wonderfully strange to make such a statement. To hear it in open air and realize that yes, she truly was betrothed to this man. He’d chosen to spend the rest of his life with her.
Pleased, excited smiles came to the faces of the girls.
And that quickly, Vylette had gained their trust.
If she was good enough to marry their favorite uncle, then she was certainly good enough to tackle a few kinks.
Taking a seat on the couch and sinking into it, she tossed a tasseled cushion onto the floor.
“Whomever wants to go first, can kneel on this, so you don’t wrinkle your pretty dresses--” Vylette started, and Michael latched onto her hand.
Swiftly, the massive diamond was removed, as it would have easily tangled in the wild, free-flowing tresses and caused much screaming.
“Where’s your Daddy at?” Michael wondered absently, as Jana dropped to her knees in front of Vylette.
“He went out the back door to go check on his car…” Jessie answered, grabbing on his hand to examine the pink diamond. “Gee that’s pretty! Father says if its damaged, he’s going to sue the Starlight line, since they were responsible for the transport.”
“…But thankfully for the bankroll of the railroad company, my car looks exactly as it did the day I bought it! Thank God I had the presence of mind to send our belongings ahead of time…”
A voice, sounding very much like Michael’s soft masculine one, but bearing an affected, Mid-Atlantic accent announced.
(Author’s Note: A Mid-Atlantic accent is the way most of the old movie actors sounded, it was a manner of speaking that died out around the 1970s, and mimics that of an English accent. It was very popular with wealthy for a time. Think of how Cary Grant sounded…)
Brushing gingerly at Jana’s hair, taming it, Vylette glanced over and had to do a double take at the man who had entered the vessel.
She had never seen anyone who quite looked like him before!
He was a Colored gentleman, tall and trim, with rugged good looks and black, processed hair that hung to his shoulders in curls, very much like Michael’s.
There was a slight sheen to his face and throat, brought on by his unfamiliarity to the humid climate of the South and he shimmered much like one of the fried, glazed donuts from Mumfrees.
By comparison to Michael, in shades of modest brown, this man was very loud and ostentatious in an bright, ocean blue suit, paired with a mustard yellow tie and pocket square.
As he came closer, Vylette saw he wore shoes that were made of a strange, blue and white marbled leather, with gold accents on the upper.
There was a man who wasn’t afraid to stand out in a crowd!
His matching bowler was clutched in his left hand as the right one was extended to Michael.
“Michael, it’s so good to see you! You look well!”
“So do you!” Michael standing, pulled his brother against him, the two embracing tightly. “I see you didn’t wilt too much after three days on riding the rails!”
Dark eyes beneath wiggling scraggly brows widened ,
“I damn near did--oh!”
He gave a short gasp, when he noticed Vylette sitting a few feet away, expertly tying a large bow into his daughter’s hair.
“Pardon me.” He nodded and beaming with more pride than had ever been contained in one human being before, Michael could barely speak.
“J-J-Jermaine, I’d like you to meet my…my…my f-f-f- fiancée, Vylette. Vylette this is my brother Jermaine.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Vylette held out her hand, which was turned over, the back being kissed gallantly by moist lips.
“Goodness Michael. I know you said Vylette was beautiful, but she’s even lovelier than I expected. You certainly can pick them!” Jermaine had an odd way of smiling, in which he more bared his white teeth like a wild animal than anything else.
Seeing her tending to Jana, he pointed, mouth falling agape.
“You’re…you’re combing her hair, and she isn’t crying!”
“I know.” Vylette couldn’t help being smug as she patted Jana’s shoulder. “All done, Sweetie.”
“That didn’t hurt at all! Oh, thank you!” The child hugged her harder and bounced over to her father.
“She didn’t hurt me!”
“How?” Jermaine wondered hand on hip. “Is that some voodoo or something--”
“Jermaine, goddamn!” Michael swore under his breath turning all shades of purple in embarrassment.
“It’s not voodoo…it’s know-how! I have a sister about Jana’s age with the same problem. And it took me years to learn how to manage her without tears…Also…”
Lashes fluttered as she started in on Jessie’s locks.
“Don’t upset me, I know an ancient curse to make you run on your ears!”
She warned ominously, waving her hand dramatically, causing a look of intense fright to take Jermaine Jackson’s face.
Amused by the ribbing, Michael doubled cackling.
“Oh my God! Your face! Jermaine! Your face! Woo!”
Seeing he was the butt of a joke, he grimaced.
“Hmmm…well, whenever she gets done with Jessilynn, we can go, because I swear, as soon as we get to your house, I have to take a nap. I need to be in a bed that doesn’t rock all hours of the night.”
“You’ll have everything you need once we get back, and then we’ll have a nice big dinner this evening. I‘ve got Adelaide making all your favorites.”
“That’s splendid!”
“We can go…” Vylette started, looping another huge bow. “…now!”
“Goodie!” Michael clapped his hands as the children went running and leaping from the car. “In just a little while, we’ll all be back in Rainelle Parish.”
Vylette taking each of the arms offered her by Michael and Jermaine, wondered just how the town would react to the six new visitors coming to town.
A part of her loathed the reaction and yet, a part of her couldn’t help but wonder as people always did gawk at those different from them.
That was just human nature…and soon, very soon, they would all be the most popular spectator sport in town.
PART TWO COMING SHORTLY! THANK YOU FOR READING!
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