Queen of the Mardi Gras Ball Page 11

  Beside her, Roxie whispered an almost inaudible plea, “Don’t do it, Roz. Don’t do it.”

  Buster turned his pale eyes toward the girl. Roxie ducked her head as if he might take a swing at her. That flinch released the words from her sister’s lips. “I don’t trust the words of a bully and a drunk,” Roz said.

  Madame St. Rochelle gasped. “Darling, won’t you take Buster’s hand? Forgive and forget since you were both at fault.”

  “I’m certainly not perfect, Mama, far from it, but I no longer regard myself as Burke Boylan’s wife.” Roz stood. “I’ve lost my appetite and will excuse myself from the table.”

  As she left the room, she hoped Buster would rage or break the dinnerware, showing his true colors to the St. Rochelles. His face had turned red enough when she’d had her say. Instead, she heard her father commend Burke for trying, and her mother apologize for raising such a stubborn, willful daughter. Father Darby gave Burke a sympathetic pat on the back. She heard nothing from her Uncle Gilbert or Roxie as she locked herself in the guest room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Roz guessed Buster would take a long holiday after Thanksgiving and return to work on Monday. She bided her time for three days. When Papa left for work and Mama had gone to her mah-jongg club, she summoned Clement and asked him to drive her to Prytania Street.

  Roz rang the bell at her own home, which brought Wilbert running from the kitchen to answer. “Is Mr. Boylan home, Wilbert?”

  “No, ma’am. He at the office.”

  “Good. I want to pack my belongings. Would you ask Lucille to come upstairs and help me?”

  “You ain’t comin’ back, Miss Roz?”

  “Never.” Roz stood in the small foyer and admired the newly installed banister, sleek and silver. She’d thought she might hang the pictures of the strangely fragmented women along the staircase. How those paintings would have shocked visitors. Burke told her often how much he hated the two Picassos and single Bonnard when she’d brought them back to their hotel in Paris. She need not worry about Buster’s opinion anymore. She supposed she’d take the paintings with her. They might be worth a great deal some day. One never knew about art.

  Oralee filled the kitchen doorway. “Come let me fix something for you, Miss Roz. You need feedin’ up, I can see. Lucille, you get yo’self upstairs and pack her trunks if that what she want.”

  Roz looked at the three servants and wondered if Burke would keep them on since she did not intend to come back. “Is Mr. Boylan treating all of you well?”

  “He never gave me any trouble,” Lucille said resentfully as she brushed past to go up to the bedroom.

  “High and mighty girl, that one,” Oralee said loud enough for the maid to hear. “Come on in the kitchen, sit down, and let her do the work. Wilbert, you go on about your business.”

  Roz followed Oralee for a last visit with the cook. Oralee opened the icebox and took out a half a cooked beef roast. “Red meat, that’s what you need to build you up again.”

  She sharpened a carving knife on a strop attached to the kitchen wall. “Wilbert say you two had a bad fight. He figured Mr. Boylan was beatin’ on you, so he pretended like he come upstairs to clean up a mess, maybe stop him that way. Then, here you come flying through the air like you been dropped from the landin’. Honey, I had a man who hit me once. I took off his ear with a razor, and no man ever messed wit’ me again.”

  Oralee sliced off three cuts of beef, then turned the knife on the fresh loaf of French bread she’d gotten at the bakery that morning. “How you want this po-boy dressed, Miss Roz? I gots fresh lettuce, mustard, onions, and pickles.”

  “No onions. Oralee, will you stay on here if I don’t come back?”

  “No, ma’am. I was jus’ waitin’ to see if you was comin’ back and needed Oralee’s help. Good cook gots lots of places to go, and I ain’t stayin’ here wit’ the evil eye on me all the time.”

  “Before I met Burke, I would have said there was no such thing as the evil eye. How wrong can a girl be?”

  Wilbert came in to join them. “That uppity girl was out there talkin’ away on the telephone. I say to move her behind upstairs and pack yo’ trunk. ’Fraid I gots to stay here. Old man like me might not find another job.”

  “I wish I could take both of you with me, but Mama doesn’t need more help, and frankly, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do. Perhaps, I can persuade Papa to let me attend nursing school now, but he’s so attached to Buster that he may not let me do anything to gain my independence.”

  Oralee set a doorstopper of a sandwich in front of Roz and poured a cold tea. Roz finished half and offered the rest to Wilbert. “I need to get upstairs and see that Lucille packs everything I want. Thank you both for watching over me when I was so alone.”

  “God bless, Miss Roz.”

  She’d miss them, well-meaning Wilbert and the formidable Oralee. Lucille, she wouldn’t miss at all. In the bedroom, the maid held a party dress up against herself and gazed into the dressing table mirror.

  “Lucille, please put that in the trunk. Let me get something from under the dressing table.”

  Roz found her makeup case sitting behind the tulle skirt exactly where she had left it. Dust covered the top. Evidently, her maid hadn’t bothered to clean under the skirting. The top of the table no longer sat in disarray. The peacock bottle had disappeared, but other perfume containers were arranged around the comb and brush set. When she lifted the stoppers, most of the scent seemed to have evaporated. She glanced up when the bedroom door closed behind Lucille and a key turned in the lock.

  “Lucille! What are you doing?”

  “I work for Mr. Boylan. He’s the one who pays me, not you. You’re a crazy woman.”

  Roz recognized the footsteps pounding up the stairs before Buster said a word. “Welcome home, Rosie. Glad to see you’ll be staying.”

  ****

  The November light faded early from the window. Roz wondered if a jump from the second story would kill her, but she was denied the chance to find out. Nails had been driven into the frames to prevent the sashes from being raised. She had other ways out if it came to that. She opened the makeup case, lifted the top tray, and took out the soiled purple holster and the tiny gun. Carefully, she fitted two of the small bullets into the chambers and slipped the weapon under the bed pillows. She could use it on Buster—or on herself if the situation became unbearable.

  The house stayed strangely still. She’d worn herself out pounding on the door and calling for Wilbert and Oralee to come help her. She heard Burke’s presence in the creak of the floorboards as he moved around the rooms.

  Several times, Lucille laughed as if she and Buster were having a party to which Rosamond had not been invited. Glasses clattered in the dining room and the aroma of a late meal made its way under the door. No one brought her food and water. She was forced to put the chamber pot under the bed to its original use. Then, she slept.

  With the light of dawn, Rosamond got up. In her first act to gain her freedom, she took a red lipstick from the makeup case and wrote “Help Me!” on the window facing the street. As automobiles and wagons offering fresh vegetables passed, and maids and cooks went on daily errands, the doorbell rang several times. Burke answered inquiries in a low, sad voice. She pressed her face against the glass and mouthed the words, but even the mailman shook his head and stared at her with pity.

  Around noon, the telephone rang. Lucille answered promptly and summoned Roz’s husband. Burke’s voice boomed out loud for Rosamond’s benefit. “Yes, Laurence. As I told Clement, Rosamond came to her senses and returned home. She’s very ashamed of herself for that scene on Thanksgiving. Lucille is taking good care of her. Yes, she’s eating well and resting. I’m taking a few days off from work to be with her. Let’s just say you caught us in an act of reconciliation.”

  Buster’s manly chuckle turned Roz’s stomach, and she thought how wonderful she had nothing to upchuck.

  “Yes, of course
we’ll be over for Sunday dinner. By that time, you’ll see an entirely new Rosamond. Always good to talk to you, Laurence.”

  During the passage of the long afternoon, the bedroom grew warm and stuffy. Roz slept some more, her hand resting on the pistol beneath the pillow. She woke with a headache and a dry tongue that cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Sitting up made her dizzy and weak-kneed. What had she heard to disturb her? Someone rapped on the door again.

  “Don’t play possum, Rosie. I know you aren’t dead yet. I’ll bet you’d like some bread and water, maybe a little of that cold roast beef you left on your plate yesterday.”

  Despite herself, some saliva spurted into her dry mouth at the thought of the half-eaten po-boy. Cautiously, she answered Burke. “Yes, I would.”

  “First though, we have to get a few things clear, dear wife of mine. You will never leave me. You will never lock your door against me. Get the upper hand, that’s what my father taught me, and never let it drop unless there is a fist on the end of it. In a few minutes, we will start on a new family. Forget trying to keep this one a secret because Lucille will let me know if you are on the rag or not. Wilbert and Oralee are gone, fired, and they’ll keep their big darkie mouths shut if they know what’s good for them. You are completely mine.”

  Roz wanted to tell him to go to hell, but that wouldn’t do. She had to get him into the room and close enough for the small pistol to do its work. Still, if she were too pliant, Buster would be suspicious.

  “Burke, the doctor said we shouldn’t have relations for another two weeks at least. Can’t we wait? I’ll be good. I’ll be very good by then.”

  “I can’t wait Rosie-posey. I’m no longer welcome at some of the better whorehouses in town, and I feel the urge. The best thing for you will be to have another child to replace the one you lost through your own fault. Anyway, I’ve had to tell the neighbors how the loss and the guilt seriously unhinged you, but we are trying so hard to keep you at home until you are better. The sanatorium will be the last resort.”

  “I do feel much better, Buster. Please, don’t send me away.” Roz put a small quaver in her voice. Oh, how he loved to be the bully.

  “Then, you have to understand, Rosie, you are Mrs. Burke Boylan. Mrs. Burke Boylan is all you will ever be. Do you understand, Rosamond?”

  “Yes, Burke, I understand.”

  “I’m coming in now, and you will be very happy to see me and will do whatever I ask.”

  “Yes, Burke, but please don’t hurt me again. I’m so weak I might not be able to please you.”

  Roz cocked the dual hammers of the little gun. “Come in. I’m ready and waiting for you.” Knowing he would assume she was lying on the bed, she took three shaky steps toward the door.

  Full-chested and confident, Buster entered the room like an emperor coming to visit his concubine. Aiming point blank at his heart, Roz pulled the trigger. The little gun bucked more than she expected. A small rosette of blood blossomed in his starched white shirt just to the right of his red braces.

  Buster looked surprised, then furious. That little bullet stopped him no more than a mosquito bite would bring down an ill-tempered bull. One lunge forward and he seized her wrist, bending it back to make her drop the pistol. Roz discharged the pistol again. The bullet angled upward carving a course through Burke’s scalp. A veil of blood welled from the wound, curtaining his cold, blue eyes and forcing him to raise his hands to his face to clear his vision.

  Roz ran. She kicked over the dressing table stool in her flight, tangling her legs, nearly going down. Buster lumbered after her, fell over the upturned stool and crashed to the floor. He lay still. Roz kept moving out into the hall, down the staircase, the new metal railing cool under her sweating palms. Lucille waited at the bottom, perhaps to stop her. Roz waved the empty pistol.

  “Run, Lucille, if you don’t want to die like Buster.”

  The maid took her advice and clattered down the hall in what seemed to be a pair of Rosamond’s best T-strap dress shoes. She left the kitchen door wide open behind her and headed for the alley.

  Calmly, Roz picked up the telephone receiver and dialed. “Papa, I think I’ve killed my husband.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Not feeling she had to say any more, Roz replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen. She took a drinking glass from the cupboard, removed the pick from the cutting board and went to the icebox to chip some shards from the big block it housed. Without Oralee to take care of it, the drip pan was nearly full to overflowing. Roz had the urge to remove the pan and soak her face in the cold water, but instead, she turned and held her glass to the tap.

  A shadow blocked the sunlight from the open kitchen door. Clutching the ice pick, Roz spun around. Oralee filled the doorway with her bulk.

  “You okay, honey? A friend come in the place where I was waitin’ and said she seen Lucille high-tailin’ her high-yaller behind down the alley. I done left two messages for yo’ uncle that you in trouble. He come get you out?”

  “No, Oralee. I had to take care of the situation myself. I shot Buster. He may be dead,” Roz said matter-of-factly as she sipped on her ice water. Upstairs, she thought she heard a bump, a groan. “Maybe not.”

  Roz took a seat at the worn kitchen table and kept the ice pick in easy reach. Oralee eyed her uneasily. “You want I could make you a nice egg sandwich.”

  “Thank you, I’d like that. I don’t expect I’ll be living here much longer, and I’ll miss your good cooking. Will you be all right, Oralee? And Wilbert?”

  “Sho’ thing, Miss Roz. I told Miz Rochon I come and work for her soon as I know you safe. Don’t know where Wilbert hidin’. Mr. Boylan scared him bad.”

  The cook took eggs and a quart bottle of milk from the icebox. She broke the eggs into a small bowl and whipped them with fury, adding a little milk. While the iron frying pan heated a dollop of butter to sizzling over the gas flame, Oralee chopped a little onion and bell pepper to add to the mix along with a pinch of salt. She opened the breadbox and sliced off two pieces from the loaf. The bread had gone a little stale, but would be fine toasted. This was the last little help she could give the girl.

  When Laurence St. Rochelle and his brother arrived, they found Rosamond calmly eating that egg sandwich. The ice pick lay near her right hand and a small pistol near her left. Her bobbed blonde hair formed a sweaty cap around her face, and her blue eyes seemed unnaturally large in her pale face. She wore yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and stained with a few dark splotches.

  “Where is Buster, Rosie?” her uncle asked quietly as if she might turn the gun on him.

  “Upstairs, and please don’t call me Rosie any more.”

  Before taking his black bag to the bedroom, Dr. St. Rochelle thanked Oralee for her help. “I was in surgery when you called. The nurse disregarded the messages. She said it sounded like some crazy colored woman calling from a bar.”

  “Don’t mean it ain’t true,” Oralee answered, crossing her arms.

  “Indeed. Laurence, I’ll see how bad the situation is. Stay with—Roz.”

  The three in the kitchen listened to the noises from above and the tick of the clock mounted on the wall over the table. Footsteps left the bedroom. Water ran in the bath. Someone cursed loud and long. Roz shivered but kept sipping on her ice water.

  Gilbert returned. “Well, Burke is alive. He dragged himself to the bed, but as the worst of his injuries is a bad concussion, he probably couldn’t stand well enough to get down the stairs. He lost a lot of blood from the scalp wound. As for this,” the doctor rolled a small, bloody bullet on to the table. “It lodged in his shoulder muscle. I’ve cleaned and stitched up both injuries. None are likely to be fatal, but we do have a problem. He wants Rosamond committed to an asylum in return for his silence about the matter.”

  Laurence St. Rochelle turned red-faced. “We’ll see about that! My attorney will be taking statements from Oralee and Wilbert—and that Dr. Landry if we can find him. We’ll see who ge
ts put away!”

  “All I want is a divorce, Papa. I don’t care who is blamed. I need to be free.”

  “I’d suggest you do go away, Roz, until this mess is straightened out.”

  Seeing the fear on his niece’s face, Dr. St. Rochelle held up a hand. “Not to an asylum or sanatorium. Cousin André and his wife over in Chapelle might enjoy your company. I think your spending some time in the country might be exactly what is needed to fix this situation.”

  ****

  Oralee Biggs had some tale to tell that evening in the speakeasy over the colored funeral home. “And I tole ’em, I ain’t stayin’ and takin’ care of that evil-eye man, so they gots a private nurse fo’ him. Maid come over from the Esplanade place to finish packin’ Miz Roz’s belongings and clean up the bedroom. Blood everywhere, she say. That fancy gold bedspread ain’t good for nuttin’ but rags now. Then, they taken Miss Roz somewhere I can’t say. Tomorrow, I makes my statement to a lawyer.”

  “Law ain’t gonna believe no colored cook.” Bessie Clarke had stopped in for a nip on her way to deliver a load of fresh laundry to Miss Josie’s establishment and should be getting gone. The girls would be wanting their ironed finery about now, not to mention clean sheets.

  “Police don’t know. If they do get wind, I ’spects the St. Rochelles pay ’em off. This jus’ to keep Mr. Boylan in line. Gonna be a divorce.”

  Having squeezed all the details she could, Bessie went on her way. She traded the story for a good dinner in Miss Josie’s kitchen. Some of the working girls still sat finishing their meal, and one in particular enjoyed the tale.

  Lulubelle Blanco, whose face had been considerably devalued by Buster Boylan’s fist before he was banned from the house, called to the barman to put a bottle of real French champagne on her tab.

  “A toast,” she cried. “To Rosamond Boylan, Queen of the Mardi Gras Ball. May she never hang for her sins!”

  ****

  Not everyone rejoiced in the news. Roxie St. Rochelle sat on the porch swing and cried as the servants loaded her sister’s trunks to be taken to the docks. The old paddlewheeler that still hauled goods from New Orleans up and down the bayous would leave at dawn. Her parents thought it prudent that Rosamond spend the night in one of the ship’s cabins for safety in case Burke was not as indisposed as he seemed and came after her. The train might have been faster, but the elders agreed Roz needed some time to gather herself and Cousin André’s wife would need to make preparations for the unexpected guest.