The Next Morning
Jackson Manor
Rainelle Parish, Louisiana
As the orange-red fireball that was the sun, began to emerge over the horizon, chasing away the inky blackness and shades of grey of the night, illuminating and highlighting the landscape of the former Dauphine Plantation and exposing all of the charming, brilliant colors of the estate, a figure appeared on the second story veranda, looking out to the rolling green fields and the ever-expanding, and lovingly tended flower gardens.
Vylette Meraux, still wearing the casual, lilac and white lounging pajamas she had hastily slipped on for the short jaunt between her parent’s home and the Manor, stood observing her surroundings, but not seeing a blessed thing.
The coffee contained in the delicate, pink rose decorated china cup, went unsipped and steamed in her smooth hands.
Above it, the pretty, heart shaped face was dark and turbulent, her eyes losing all touch of violet in the moment, were a crystal clear aquamarine of worry.
Vylette pondered Wallis Pelant, and the radical ‘social call’ which had been paid by her, just yesterday.
The young woman was torn.
Vylette had been brought up, her entire life to look down upon, loath and scorn girls like Wallis. Girls who were fast and threw both caution and their reputations to the wind.
What other way was there to describe it when a quasi-attractive girl could meet a man at breakfast and by dinner have had him empty out some of the best stores in all of Louisiana for her?
Favors that expensive weren’t given away as freely as all that, even if Jermaine Jackson was a multimillionaire.
Vylette hesitated to call Wallis a slut--although Lorraine had thrown that word around more than casually, when she had confided in her cousin about the clandestine meeting--but Wallis was frowned upon by the entire community.
It was an inescapable fact of life.
Vylette had seen the stares, some pitiful, others downright spiteful, and heard the malevolent whispers whenever Wallis passed in person or her name happened to come up in conversation.
Most everyone had a negative view of her and put up with her simply because there were no other grocery stores from which to buy food that one did not harvest or raise themselves.
It had been that way for as long as Vylette could remember. She had vivid memories of Wallis as a child, even in grade school, charming little boys out of their candy and apples, batting her lashes, swishing her hips and doling out kisses--as a child!
At eighteen years of age, Vylette was still awkward when it came to the art of flirting; it was a talent Wallis had possessed all along.
Wallis seemed to have been born grown and always with an insatiable appetite for the so-called stronger sex.
Why, Vylette had even noted a look of despair on Father Lachey’s face every time he had to place the wafer on her tongue during Mass.
Somehow Wallis had managed to turn a sacred, religious tradition into something tawdry and dirty.
(You don’t wink at a priest as he gives you the symbol of Christ‘s flesh!)
She was a wanton, wayward woman, whom many claimed was possessed by the ways of the Devil.
But in spite of all that seemed to condemn Wallis, Vylette couldn’t help but hurt for the girl.
Wallis, it seemed, had never been properly nurtured. Sure, her father had remarried, twice, after her natural mother’s death, but the stepmothers hardly bothered with Wallis, and were more concerned with their own children. Mr. Pelant was off and away going around the state securing goods for his store, often gone for weeks at a time.
There was no steady male presence to show her how a respectable man was to behave towards a lady.
And by now, Wallis was nearly twenty-years-old, an adult woman who should have been busy finding a husband and running a home and raising a family--at least, that was the consensus among the Parish.
Vylette was certain that by the time she was twenty herself, she’d be a wife with at least one baby to her credit, perhaps more.
Didn’t Wallis want to marry? Didn’t she want to be a wife and mother?
Wasn’t this racket of being a floozy getting near its expiration date?
She wasn’t going to be twenty forever. Was Wallis really going to still be up to the same tricks and behavior when she was forty? Sixty? Older?
Vylette could only wonder, and be plagued with the problem that such a predicament as Jermaine Jackson having invited her out to the theatre openings proposed.
It wasn’t even truly about the sordid talk such an association would inspire around town--and likely end up with her on the receiving end of her mother’s leather strap for such a shame--it was the thought that Jermaine Jackson had managed to walk right in, and in two days time, was playing fast and loose with two of the most dangerous families in the Parish.
First, there was Hannah Povah, coming from a family as old and respected as Vylette’s own, with that preying mantis of a mother, looming in the shadows looking for any sort of slip which she could use as ammunition for badmouthing the whole lot of them.
First, mother had been scorned, and now daughter, by the son of the very man whom had scorned her mother so long ago!
It was disgrace enough for any girl to be dropped like a hot potato without warning, but in favor of a girl of lower standing, a beazel, the trollop of the town, was an insult of maximum damage.
Then there was the dire matter of Wallis being a cousin of Steven Wilkes.
And though the two hated each other like cats and dogs, Vylette knew that Steven hated the Jacksons even more and would have seen Wallis’ dating Jermaine as the ultimate betrayal to him, as Vylette had thrown him over for Michael.
(And that both Michael and Marlon had laid him out to dry in separate instances.)
Steven hadn’t quite recovered from his concussion yet, but she’d had heard from her own father, only a few days ago that Steven was up and moving around his house, and doing minor chores for his mother.
He’d be in fighting shape soon, with a bone to pick.
Vylette’s light eyes widened in her heart-shaped head.
Steven was sure to start trouble once word reached him that Wallis was stepping out with the newest Jackson in town.
Steven loathed them all, despised them for being rich, and handsome and men of leisure, and Yankees and taking Vylette from his grasp, and being different than everything he was.
He was seething with jealousy he’d rather die than ever admit.
He was too arrogant and prideful to ever admit he was envious of the Jackson clan.
Steven was the sort with set ideas and when anything deviated from his preconceived plan, sparks flew along with fists.
Steven was already bent out of shape over losing the girl he wanted to marry and have a family with.
It was another indignation to have his own blood siding with the ‘enemy’.
And the last thing Vylette wanted was another Jackson-infused brawl.
But there was a glimmer of a silver lining to this dark cloud looming behind both Vylette and the respected and esteemed Meraux name.
Earlier, when Michael had driven Vylette up to the Manor, he’d explained that as the ladies prepared for their social engagement, he and Marlon were going to sit down and hash it out with Jermaine, hopefully to force him to drop Wallis and return to his original position as escort for Hannah.
The conversation was supposed to have been had the night before, but Jermaine hadn’t shown his face at home until about four in the morning. Though it went unspoken, but it was rather crystal clear he’d stayed the night over at the Pelant farm, being ‘thanked’ in the only way Wallis knew how.
Certainly, Vylette spent a great deal of time at the Manor, but she had never once spent the entire night, even though she were engaged to be married.
It just wasn’t done by good girls.
And whilst she had “fooled around” more than once with Michael, through their many Love Lessons, she had never gone so far as to have intercourse with him. (Even if Lorraine had been too hot and dizzy with lust to wait and had frequently coupled with Marlon.)
It was still different. Vylette was with one man and one man only. Lorraine was just as fiercely devoted to Marlon. Not a string of them as Wallis was and had probably lost count of them all.
Oh, Wallis was such a lost soul…
Finally titling the cup to her lips, and tasting the mix of exclusive Columbian bean, refined sugar and sweet cream, Vylette sighed deeply, scowling as the thought of another setback flooded her psyche.
She had spent nearly a week, preparing herself for the luncheon with Zelda Cormier.
So much thought had gone into her ensemble, the right accessories, the right hairdo and makeup, as to make the most perfect presentation, only to be dashed some fifteen minutes ago.
Right as Vylette had emerged from her bath, her body still damp and smelling sweetly of imported oils, Michael had slipped in.
She knew something was wrong, as his face had been contorted with sheer sorrow.
Taking a seat on the edge of the tub, Michael had spoken quietly and shattered her day…
Dr. Elias Cormier had called, saying his wife had to break their date. Apparently, their daughter, Zuzu, while practicing scales the night before, had allowed the piano lid to slam down and break two of her fingers.
All those hours later they had finally calmed the frantically wailing child to the point where the doctor could set the bones with splints.
And of course, no self-respecting mother would leave the side of an injured child to go nosh and gossip with girlfriends.
So now, the day stood empty as the Grand Canyon and Vylette hadn’t an idea of what to do.
“No…you listen to me you…you….you…jackass!…”
Vylette nearly spit out her coffee as clearly as a bell, Michael Jackson’s annoyed voice reached her ears from somewhere in the distance.
Setting her cup on the banister, Vylette, curious, began to tiptoe around the porch, following the sound of his voice.
“…no, why the hell would you instruct the caterers to set up for the banquet before the film? No…no…hell no--you don’t speak! You listen to me! I‘m the boss, aren‘t I?…Shut up before I come through the wire and throttle you!…”
Approaching the open French doors leading into Michael’s office, Vylette found her lover, standing, the receiver of his phone mashed to his ear, back to her.
“It’s impractical you imbecile!” Michael declared sharply, free arm waving to accent his point. “There’s going to be a ribbon-cutting ceremony first! Look, you ain’t about to make a monkey out of me and embarrass me in front the most important people in my life!…”
Michael picked up a glowing cigarette from the ashtray on his desk and took a heavy drag as Vylette took a seat on one of the leather guest chairs, eavesdropping eagerly.
“I’m going to have the girl I’m going to marry there! My brothers, nieces and nephews, my girl’s family! For crying out loud, Charlie Chaplin will be there! The actor! People from my country club--members of the press! I need the lobby to look like a goddamned lobby, you understand me Antoine?” He snarled, inhaling again.
“You’ve been an ass-ache to me from start to finish! ‘City Lights’ is an eighty-seven minute film! Surely you can set up while the film plays--”
The butt was mashed out and suddenly, Michael began hollering in German, most of which Vylette did not understand, but by his tone it had to have been lethal.
Returning to English, he lamented,
“I’ve sank over one million dollars into that theatre. You hear me? A million! And there’s a Depression on! My livelihood and my family’s depend on it! I need money to marry and honeymoon, and to take care of my future children! I ran over budget because of your inept bungling. But I swear to you, you fuck up the opening, and so help me God, I’ll fix it so you don’t work another day in your life in any of these forty-eight states!”
(Author’s Note: In 1931, Hawaii and Alaska had yet to become states.)
With that the receiver was slammed down with such force it should have shattered the crystal phone.
Vylette was impressed and warm that he cared so highly about her, and planned for their lives together.
She watched as he puffed more smoke, trying to calm his nerves.
A second later, he picked up the receiver again and tapped the lever.
“Hello, Operator?” He questioned softly and meekly. “If you heard any of that, I do apologize. That language isn’t meant for sensitive ears….yes….thank you. Good-bye.”
Vylette’s heart sang harder; Michael always was so polite to the girls working the switchboard whenever his language went to the left.
The phone was hung up a second time.
“Dumbkof!” He growled before noticing the attractive young woman on the opposite side of the desk.
“Oh…oh Vy….” He sighed, lifting the lid of the crimson and gilt box, and removing another cancer stick, placed it in his mouth.
With a click of the enameled dragon lighter, he was smoking.
“I’m sorry you heard that…I’ll be so happy to be rid of Antoine’s sorry self after Friday. Jesus Christmas…”
Coming around the desk, he sat on top of it, arms crossing over the front of his teal oxford.
A hand traced after the bare lines of the nude statuette on his desk absently as he blew smoke from his nostrils thoughtfully, and looked over the somewhat scowling face before him.
It always did bother his soul to see Vylette be anything except supremely content and his mind raced to find a solution to erase the frown from her darling visage.
“Mein Liebling, I’m terribly sorry your plans were canceled, but there are some things we cannot avoid, such as a little girl being clumsy…”
A smoke ring dissipated over her head as Michael came closer, dropping to his knees at her side.
Gently, he pinched after her pale cheek. “…and we shan’t let it spoil our good time. I want you to go and pick out a pretty dress. I may not be as socially stimulating as Zelda Cormier, but I’d like to take you to lunch in the City--”
The braless bosom expanded as Vylette inhaled deeply and her eyes surged to amethyst with excitement as she turned to stare at him.
“Michael, are you certain?” She gasped, startled at an outing suddenly forming for her. “We have to go in tomorrow--”
The sensible side of her appeared, and wanted to deter Michael from making a needless trip to New Orleans, when they would have to go right back the very next day.
A soft finger pressed and silenced her objections.
“Don’t worry about that. For the whole holiday, we’ll be on display again, especially with Chaplin coming. we’ll be in the newspaper and perhaps even on the radio…”
He paused taking in the look of joy and unbridled glee taking Vylette, causing her to glow.
“I need my time with you, alone…I want to take the afternoon with you. I don’t care much for the promotion, but I know I need it to make a profit. We’ll eat, and then I’ll go by my theatre…”
There was that queer look of sadness again, and he knew Vylette had longed to see the theatre that was half hers--and it fled when he added with a smile,
“I’ve changed my mind. I’d like for you to see the Palace, just with me today, before it opens…”
Vylette went stark white, her mouth falling open, as her mind struggled process so much happiness at once.
It seemed to good to be true!
After all these months of wonder, she was to be given a private tour of the Palace! And see it before anyone else in New Orleans!
Unable to speak intelligently, she threw her arms around his slim neck, kissing his cheeks heavily, drawing peals of giggles from Michael.
“We’ll have a grand time--”
Michael snorted, as the door adjoining the Library opened, and Marlon slipped in, a tumbler with ice and a dark liquid in his hand.
There was a low-boiling rage in his amber eyes and his thick lips pressed outwards in consternation.
There was trouble afoot.
He nodded politely to Vylette, before turning to his younger brother.
“Mike, I’m telling you right now…” He started, voice slightly slurred with the onset of drunkenness. “That snaky N(bad word) just left to go see that trash gal of his. And I swear before a Living God, I’ll knock his ass a-loose if he brings her back onto this property!”
“Vy, go get in your dress, Dear --”
Michael urged abruptly, and tried to push her away.
Marlon had another sip and his mouth flapped more.
“Bastard already refuses to leave the bitch here! I wanted to clock him before, but you said no! My fists are aching to bust his jaw! I remember that time up in Chicago he got on my nerves and I knocked his tooth out…I been on the wire the last hour calling around trying to find an escort for Hannah. I found one…but damn, I called about ten folks! Goddamn inconvenience…”
Hands up, Marlon dropped into a seat.
Vylette paused at the door, facing it but blatantly eavesdropping.
“I done told that N(bad word) he can’t be with us, if he wants to have that gal around. He can’t come with us on outings, not to restaurants, not to night-spots, not to the zoo, not to the carnival, not to the parades! I don’t wanna see his Black ass. I even put him on a different floor at the Hotel Imperial. No! He’s insulting everyone there! We’re trying to be respectable in this town and he goes and grabs the gutter whore--hell nah! I ain’t for that shit! If I see him anywhere in New Orleans but the theatre, I’ll kill him! Spent too much to get everything perfect to impress Lori…!”
Unwillingly, Vylette peeked back over her shoulder at the two men.
He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and slammed the glass down. Michael slumped a bit, clearly distressed by how Jermaine was starting to unravel all of their carefully laid plans for the Fourth of July Weekend.
Dark eyes widened in pleading at Vylette as Marlon shuffled for a cigarette.
Instantly, she was out in the hall, shutting the door behind her, her heart thudding wildly.
Leaning against it, she prayed that Jermaine Jackson wouldn’t provoke his brother into some sort of mess to land him in the electric chair.
Marlon was just too hot-tempered to irk in that fashion!
It was too dangerous.
* * *
A Short While Later
Michael Jackson was staring.
Openly and unapologetically, he was staring at Vylette Meraux.
It was something of a daily struggle, that grew more and more pestering and damning with each dawn, to remain cool, contained and gentlemanlike in her presence.
It was a nearly impossible task to overcome, when one was engaged with the intent to marry whom had to be the most beautiful, elegant and witty young woman he’d ever known.
Pulling his small, sleek sports car to a halt outside of the five-and-dime, he came close to running up onto the rickety wooden sidewalk, he was so distracted by Vylette’s charms.
It was only by the wicked stomping on the brake pedal did he avoid the disaster of driving through Old Man Goebbels’ storefront, in a mash of splitting timber and shattered glass.
But how could he not stare at the woman who tugged his rapidly and erratically pounding heart around on a golden leash?
Before his very eyes, Vylette, with the aid of fine clothing and cosmetics and even finer jewelry, had transformed from a sweet, fresh-faced ingénue, into an outright stunning lady, whom Michael constantly waited to see with baited breaths and dampened palms.
Just half an hour earlier, Michael had called to her from the front door, ready to drive off into the City.
As Vylette reached the landing below his mother’s portrait, Michael had had to sit on the wooden bench, as his long legs had suddenly failed him.
Wafting towards him, was this angelic creature, swathed in ivory chiffon, printed over pale pink and deep scarlet roses.
Her lovely, curvaceous form, which Michael spent many a night daydreaming about in next to nothing, had been set off to perfection, the wispy fabric clinging to her, the teeniest hint of cleavage revealed by a dipping neckline. Three-dimensional chiffon blooms rimmed her sleeves and swayed with each movement she made.
A thin, ruby tennis bracelet had been layered between two diamond ones, glittering in competition with the pink-tinged stone taking up her left hand.
Small ruby studs glimmering in her earlobes matched her crimson colored mouth perfectly.
That heart-shaped face, fanned by the large, halo brim of an ivory straw hat, decorated with more roses, had grinned down at him, the red mouth moving in apology for taking so long, a gloved hand touching and squeezing after his bare one.
The violet-blue eyes with thick black lashes fluttering at him, as she continued speaking, something about wanting to eat seafood, and how she couldn’t wait to see the inside of the Palace.
And all he could think of was how terribly he wanted to hug her and kiss her, touch her, just be with her in the most private and intimate of circumstances.
But as the gloved hand tugged his, encouraging him to come on, Michael had buried all those wicked thoughts and emotions under a mountain of well-constructed and taught gentility.
He couldn’t maul Vylette, no mater how horribly parts of him were screaming for her; he respected her too much.
Vylette was a lady and ladies were to be respected, revered and treated delicately.
Only ill-bred, crass men manhandled women.
Parked there, on the main road, Michael was more than keenly aware of how others treated Vylette.
Right then as a mixture of members of the best families in the Parish, and some of the poorest from ‘The Bottoms’ shuffled by, each seemed to call some form of greeting or at least wave to Vylette, who cordially returned all the salutations graciously.
Michael knew Vylette was watched with sharp eyes and whispered about secretly, but he dared anyone, other than that bitter-as-spoiled-grapefruit Mary Povah to come up with an unkind word about her.
The rose-trimmed hat bobbed suddenly, as that face looked to him, those light eyes questioning, before she opened her mouth.
“Did you need something from the store, Darling?”
She inquired in that soft, tender manner, her voice revealing it’s Southern accent plainly and Michael reeled in his seat.
It a took a moment for him to collect his tongue to form a viable answer. Didn’t she know the affect she had on him? How crazy she drove him, how he was warring with himself over her?
“I…I needed matches…” Michael heard himself reply shrilly, and instinctively, he began fumbling with the front of his jacket, producing a cigarette case.
And delighted in how the bluish eyes sparkled at it in awe.
This was not his usual, tortoiseshell and gold painted case; no this was far more extravagant, of filigreed silver, a small diamond-shaped piece in the center on which a script “M” was engraved.
“Oh, how delightful!” He heard Vylette coo in admiration, and it was instantly in her hands, as she closely inspected it, opening it, revealing twenty cigarettes lined up perfectly in one side of it.
“You will keep an eye on it for me?” It always amazed Michael he could come up with such teasing banter when his mind was shutting down on him.
There were white teeth showing and the brim of her hat collided with his fedora as she nodded,
“Of course, Michael--”
Reaching past her, he opened the glove compartment, revealing a small silver and royal enameled box.
“There’s some bonbons for you, if you’d like something sweet, other than me…” Michael slipped from the car and moved around the front of it, as Vylette took off her gloves and removed the lid
revealing two dozen treats.
“They’re all mint, your favorite…” He informed her, taking one and popping it into his mouth smiling broadly and absorbed that appreciative, doting smile being shown to him.
Her cheek flamed red as he pinched it, and sauntered off to the store.
Vylette watched him go, the tall figure, draped in the double breasted, navy chalk-stripe suit, a sapphire fleur-de-lis affixed to his lapel, until he disappeared into the dim interior of the store.
Breathing heavily, as Michael had the same effect on her as she on him, she tried to turn her attention to the candies, and carefully lifted the box out placing it on her lap.
It was then, something metallic caught her eye.
She came close to dropping the box, when it dawned on her what she was looking at: a gun.
Leaning forward in wonder, Vylette’s mouth dropped open, as she continued to stare at the small pistol, bearing all the hallmarks that exclaimed it did belong to Michael, and that he wasn‘t simply holding it for someone else.
It was gold-plated, and covered in intricate scrollwork, boasting a milky, translucent, mother-of-pearl inlaid handle. And as plainly as she was breathing, she could make out his initials, “MJJ” engraved on the handle.
It was his, it did belong to Michael!
A gun? Michael Jackson owned a gun? What did he need a gun for?
Her head throbbed suddenly and she stared at the storefront, where Michael was engaged in a lively conversation with Old Man Goebbels, an arm around his sloping, aged shoulders, both laughing carelessly.
Had he fired that gun? Had he….had he killed with it?
Was Michael Jackson capable of killing another person?
The closest Vylette ever come to a gun was her father’s old steel rifle from the Great War, that he now used to shoot at, but not hit, raccoons that would invade the yard from time to time.
Her heart throbbed harder, and she felt dizzy, and in spite of herself, she wondered if he’d ever employ it to protect her.
It was already dazzling enough to know that at any moment, if someone looked at her a bit too long or too hard, a curled brown fist would come flying to save her reputation from ruin and keep it spotless.
It never did enter Vylette’s furiously burning mind that perhaps…just perhaps…the gun was for Michael Jackson’s own protection. He was an immensely wealthy young man, who routinely wore fine gems, and expensive exclusive timepieces and custom-tailored suits. He drove one of the best American-made cars money could buy and lived in the grandest home in town.
More and more people were aware of who he was, both in Rainelle Parish and New Orleans, and what riches he possessed. Surely, he was a walking target for thieves laying and waiting for just the right moment to snatch any of those things, or even him bodily, to hold for ransom.
A man had to protect himself in uncertain times like these.
No, this didn’t enter Vylette’s immature mind for an instant.
All she could figure up was: “Why hadn’t he shot Steven--”
Once again, her mind didn’t register the consequences of Michael Jackson’s shooting Steven Wilkes.
The possibility of Michael ending up doing life on a chain gang, broiling like beef under the hot Southern sun, or worse, dangling lifelessly from the gallows, wearing a rope necktie, if capital punishment were handed down.
She could only see as far as her imagination let her, and it was a cleaner, tidier version of the many winding plots presented in those trash novels her cousin Lorraine was so fond of.
Beaming inwardly to herself, Vylette bit into another bonbon, humming in ecstasy, eyes shutting in her own gleeful passion.
Yes, Michael was her knight in shining armor and instead of being armed with a sword, he brandished a golden pistol, with bullets marked with his enemy’s names--
Greedily going to her mouth another of those mint-filled concoctions, Vylette paused when she heard the unmistakable rumble of an engine approaching.
There were so few working vehicles in the Parish, that Vylette had learned to readily identify them by sound.
No…it wasn’t the light, nearly inaudible purr of Marlon Jackson’s engine. He was at home with Lorraine. Only God himself or the burning down of the Paragon could have made him leave his home and the loving embrace of his “Cherry”.
It couldn’t have been Jermaine; he’d left much earlier to go do who knew what, with that tramp Wallis.
No…Vylette listened harder.
The engine had the distinctive chug-chug-chug of a less refined motor.
With a sigh, Vylette bit into her candy and began to sink back into the velvet seating. That was the noise Ulrich Povah’s Ford made. She knew that sound anywhere, he was probably dropping Hannah off to run some errands.
Mouth full of candy, Vylette sat bolt upright as a thought entered her mind and made her spine tingle.
It was nearly noon, on a Wednesday.
Ulrich was in New Orleans, attending medical school and had been gone since before dawn!
There was only one other car in the Parish that made that noise…
Sweat began to pour in streams down Vylette’s back as she swallowed the candy, still practically in one piece with a disheartened, saddened gulp.
Head turning, her eyes began to swell in her head.
A few yards away, in front of Wilkes’ Hardware Store, a black Ford Model-A was parking.
And from it, the hulking, thickset form of Steven Wilkes unfolded.
Vylette had to blink, hard, to ensure her they weren’t playing tricks on her.
What on Earth was Steven doing in town? The last she’d heard, he was barely moving around his own house!
And yet, there he was, in a crisp striped polo and slacks, leaning against the front of his car, lighting up a Camel in his mouth, and tucking a newspaper underneath his arm.
She had to get away. Vylette had to get away and fast.
If that damned fool caught sight of her, he was sure to start trouble.
All she wanted was to go to lunch and get a tour of the Palace before it opened.
Not watch Michael knock Steven’s hook nose off his face!
Vylette glanced at the storefront, and to her dismay, neither Michael, nor Mr. Goebbels were in sight any longer. Who knew how far back they were in the store, shooting the breeze as they always did together.
Instinctively, she looked behind her at the low brick building that was her father’s office.
And again, she was put out, when she saw her father, worn leather medical bag in hand, dashing from the front doors, following a group of excitedly moving and chattering young men in overalls and tattered trousers. No he was off on an emergency. Not even her own Papa could save her now.
Steven was now casually smoking, and intently reading the paper, a few feet from the front door of the store.
And the same amount of space laid between Vylette and the front of the five-and-dime.
If only she could make it into the store undetected…
Stealthily, Vylette’s perspiring hand came down and caught hold of the knob inside the car door, pulling until with the teeniest of clicks, it unlatched.
Her eyes never leaving the burly figure flicking ashes to the ground, Vylette slipped from the car carefully, and shut the door, holding onto it a moment.
“Hey Steven--didn’t know you were back!”
In the distance, a voice hollered to him, causing him to turn, and as a reaction, Vylette did too.
Eating what was left of sandwiches and flooding out of Mumfree’s across the way, were three young men, fat Darnell Keller, and a couple of the younger Pringles offspring, tall, lanky bronze-colored Lawrence and Paulie.
The three boys were dressed simply in overalls and tees with tennis shoes. A plaid newsboy cap clung to Darnell’s bald scalp.
Waiting until the guys were consumed with handshakes and back slaps, Vylette started to ease towards the doors of the five and dime.
Intermittently she could hear them talking and laughing over one another.
If they could keep him distracted a few moments more…
“…but did y’all see what the hell was in the paper today, though…Y‘all gotta see this shit!”
Steven was explaining something to the small group.
“What?”
“Show me?”
“N(badword) you know I can’t read so good!”
She was mere inches from the interior of the store, and could see the top of Michael’s blue fedora bobbing near the back of the store.
And that’s when she heard it.
Darnell’s voice, shrill and incredulous rose above the general din on the main thoroughfare.
“Is…is that Vylette?!?!?!”
At the mention of her very own name, Vylette’s own curiosity overwhelmed her and instead of carrying herself the last few inches into the store, she turned towards the group buzzing around the Model A.
The other three were jostling about behind Steven, jockeying for a view of the paper spread on the hood.
Was…was there mention of her in the newspaper? Why should she be mentioned in the newspaper? She hadn’t done anything that was particularly newsworthy that she could recall and was quite dumbfounded.
Heads were shaking in disbelief , and a scowl appeared on Steven’s swarthy face in the distance.
And in the moment when Vylette should have been making haste, Steven’s head came up, his cold blue-green eyes first swelling then narrowing at her.
Snatching up the paper, Steven Wilkes began making a beeline towards her, the others following closely and eagerly.
Reaching her and towering over her--Vylette had forgotten how massive a space Steven took up--Steven shook the paper at her.
“Explain this!”
He demanded, and immediately, around her, all movement on the sidewalk came to a halt.
It was then Vylette noticed what Steven had been showing the other young men, the society page of the New Orleans News.
And there taking up half a page was a photograph that must have been taken at Welcoming Gala that had been thrown at the Fleur-de-Lis Country Club.
Very clearly she could make out herself in the pale blue, paneled fringe, bugle-bead trimmed creation--though the photo was in black and white--and Lorraine in her skimpy green silk frock, flanked Michael and Marlon, in their resplendent grey tuxes. The four of them were seated one of the many round tables that had been crammed into the ballroom, all smiling brightly and saluting the photographer with fluted glasses of ginger ale.
Entranced, Vylette took the paper from Steven’s beefy hands and silently read the caption underneath the photo.
“Native New Yorkers and theatre moguls, Michael Jackson, 25, and Marlon Jackson, 26, are set to open their newest movie houses in New Orleans over the Fourth of July weekend. The Jacksons are pictured with their fiancées, cousins Vylette Meraux and Lorraine Devereaux, both 18, from Rainelle Parish.”
Vylette wasn’t sure if she wanted to regurgitate, cry, or scream, when it dawned on her what had caused such an uproar in Steven.
She had been outed by the society column: Steven now knew that Vylette was engaged to Michael!
Staring down at the four, gleaming, grinning fresh faces, Vylette tried to come up with a grand, showy and flippant explanation.
She didn’t want to look into that murderous, swarthy, tanned face, still bearing faint bruises.
“There is nothing to explain to you, Steven…” A quietly lethal voice spoke up and Vylette broke out in goosebumps.
Exiting the store, a small brown paper sack in one hand was Michael Jackson.
And his dark eyes were but slits in his head as he came up behind Vylette, his free hand pressing her shoulder and mashing some of the roses on her sleeve.
“I asked Vylette if she’d do me the honor of being my wife, and she very graciously accepted…”
His brows flexed and Steven’s nostrils flared.
“My brother Marlon also proposed to Lorraine and she accepted his offer…”
Michael Jackson was smiling devilishly. Vylette hoped he wouldn’t have to use that golden gun today, by the way Steven was going bloody red all over.
“We are going to be married before the year is out.”
Steven couldn’t have looked more stricken if he’d suddenly come down with double pneumonia, whooping cough and tuberculosis all rolled into one.
His entire world had crumbled like the walls of Jericho.
Down they went all around him. And in front of his lackeys, no less!
He went positively green as Darnell, Lawrence and Paulie offered Michael handshakes and words of congratulations to Vylette. They seemed happy at the news, and around her, Vylette noticed bystanders nodding approval at such a fortunate match--the richest gent in town with the daughter of one of the oldest families.
Steven merely stared, nostrils flapping, and his lips curling into a sneer over his white teeth.
If looks could have killed, Father Lachey would be tossing dirt onto Michael and praying in Latin.
They didn’t need to have another brawl in the street like common urchins.
The hand on her shoulder tightened,
“You will excuse us, won’t you, gentleman?” Michael questioned politely, to the three shucking and jiving around him.
“Vylette and I have reservations for lunch in the City, come along Mein Leibling…”
Michael made a show of running his hand down her arm and grasping her small cold hand.
Turning to follow him, Vylette would never forget the look on Steven’s face, as she looked back to make sure he didn't take a running start after them.
There was pure hatred as he glared at Michael, that was normal.
He did hate Michael Jackson with ever ounce of his nearly three hundred pound body.
And then…then as he looked to Vylette.
There was a queer, haunting sadness in his eyes.
Vylette was halfway to New Orleans, before she understood what that expression had been.
It was the look of a man with a broken heart.
END OF PART ONE
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