Chapter One

 

I have always loved those so-called 'fish-out-of-water' types of stories. Where someone is suddenly dropped into new, unfamiliar settings, with people unlike them in every way. They stick out like a sore thumb. Truly, this is a feeling I know all too well myself as the black sheep of my family so different from them in every way. And while it used to bother me that I didn't fit in, now I'm glad I don't. I'm glad I'm not a mindless follower. This story was inspired partially by that feeling. Of not quite belonging...but finding a place for one's self. Set against the backdrop of Prohibition during the Roaring Twenties in North America, I present the story of a young woman, impoverished by unspeakable tragedy, who finds solace in the mansion of a man who both intrigues and frightens her.

For your reading pleasure, I present:

“Virtuous Sinners”

A Michael Jackson and 3T Erotic Saga

By MJsLoveSlave

Chapter One

Toulouse Parish, Louisiana

January, 1924

Why did cocks always choose the most inopportune hour in which to crow?

While all was still draped in darkness, looking very much as night, before the first, gleaming strains could present themselves as a new day, cursed beaks parted,

Ca-ca-caaaw!

There was that ear-piercing, heart-palpitating, infernal racket.

Ca-ca-caaaw!

How had cocks come to perform such a task? Had it always been present from the first time a rooster strutted across the face of the Earth; or had the trait been taught somewhere along the way, forgotten through the annals of time?

It was a question that had tumbled, time and again, in the far recesses of Odette's mind, but, alas, had never reached a satisfactory resolution for the girl.

Ca-ca-caaaw!

All that noise, repeating somewhere below her window, meant that morning was upon her, and there were things to do.

Always many things to do.

As the old axiom went, there was no rest for the weary.

In a very sparse room, markedly empty, but remarkably clean, a figure stirred atop the straw-stuffed mattress. A mattress that had seen it's heyday back before Mr. Lincoln had signed the Emancipation Proclamation.

But it was all Odette knew and was grateful for. Before this, she'd slept on the hard wood floor.

The mattress and threadbare quilt were castoffs.

As a castoff herself, she'd long since learned to make the most of the very least.

The quilt, only a formality at this point, as it didn't really shield her from the winter's cold, was pushed aside and she sat a moment, willing her fatigued body into motion.

When Odette had last had a truly restful night's slumber, had been over fifteen years hence.

Odette made the Sign of the Cross over herself, as she did each morning, lips moving in prayer, thanking the Almighty for seeing her safely through another night.

And some mornings she actually believed the words she recited.

Her prayers out the way, Odette rose to her feet.

Her thin cotton nightgown, once white, was stripped off her slim body, replaced with the only garment she owned, an ill-fitting, much too short and small dress of a dark, indeterminate pattern.

Already a hand-me-down three times over by the time it fell into Odette's possession.

She had no shoes or socks to speak of, and couldn't remember when she'd last worn either.

Madame considered such things frivolities, and chose not to spend what little money she allegedly had on such things. (Although that didn't stop Madame from owning fourteen pairs of shoes herself!)

Instead, Odette resorted to wrapping her small, reddened, and chapped feet in the few rags she'd rescued from the trash bins and sides of the road as she had happened upon them. It was all she could do to fend off the ever present threat of frostbite.

While Louisiana summers could be hot, sticky and humid, the winters were also quite brutal, especially for someone as lacking in warm necessities as Odette was.

The last piece of the meager ensemble, an old paisley shawl, once belonging to Madame but thrown out due to the large bleach stain from a laundering mishap, was thrown about Odette's shoulders. Again a formality offering no true help.

Hurriedly, she ran her fingers through her hair, now a rat's nest of tangles, that if time could have been properly taken to wash and comb would have been a beautiful, shimmering raven black, in contrast to her pale, almost anemic complexion.

Such luxuries were nowhere in Odette's mind as she made haste, running out of the room, not in the main house, but in the back of a dilapidated old, unused barn at the far corner of Madame's rural property.

A barn that hadn't seen life since the Civil War, when it had crawled like vermin with Confederate soldiers whom had overtaken the property for a spell, long before Odette's birth.

No, Madame's house set some six hundred yards away, facing the only dirt road leading to town, with the “closest” neighbors several miles further out.

Rag encased feet hurried across the back lot, kicking up several emaciated hens and the lone, still hollering bantam cock.

Ca-ca-caaaw!

“Oh, shut up with all that noise! I'm awake!”

She grunted through grit teeth, moving faster.

Odette knew she couldn't be late, or face the consequences.

And the consequences usually involved a heavy length of birch being swung.

Bruises from her most recent infractions were still fading.

Soon the weathered, wooden, ramshackle building revealed itself, stretching up for two stories. On both floors, shadows made by candlelight moved here and to like small specters.

Nothing truly lived there...only existed.

Beside the road, an equally beat up sign proclaimed that the house was not a home, rather a business—and a shoddy one at that.

The Toulouse Parish Colored Orphans Asylum.

Quickly, Odette opened both the holey screen door and flimsy back door, letting herself directly into the dim kitchen.

Several unkempt children,a mishmash of shades but all considered Colored by the state and the greater country at large, all dressed similarly in rags like herself, glanced up from where they were huddled around the large potbelly stove, the only source of warmth in the room.

The oldest of the children, Tommy, a boy of about ten, tended to the cooking, his attention on two pans—a pot of boiling white hominy grits, and a skillet of frying bacon and and two sunny side-up eggs.

Madame's breakfast.

She always did eat so well, so much better than her little charges.

That was evidenced by the “breakfast” for them setting on a side table.

Pieces of dry toast with the barest scraping of margarine, and mugs of hot, unsweetened chicory.

Only Madame got to drink real coffee and eat real butter. Only she got the good things.

They were left with scraps, if that.

Finding a slice that hadn't yet been bitten, Odette picked it up and started to her mouth with it, asking no one in particular,

“Is she up yet?”

“Yeah...” The boy, stirring the pot answered, peeking back at her nervously, “...and she's complaining of having a chill. She wants you to start the fire in her room. I offered, Mabel did too, but she asked specially for you, Odette.”

Damn.

The word shouted itself in her head but her mouth remained silent, as she choked down a few gulps of strong, bitter coffee substitute.

She was hoping to avoid that woman today. She hoped to avoid her everyday. The less Odette saw of Madame Lenoir, the better.

With a grim nod, she took one more bite of dry bread, and left the children to their work.

That was all the children did here, work.

The front hallway was cold but better decorated than the rear of the Asylum, spic and span, walls painted a dull beige and boasting divans and armchairs in a matching upholstery.

Never sat on, never used, merely for show to the sporadic visitors who darkened their doors.

Poor Colored couples seeking to adopt into their families, and wealthier Whites looking to hire on children for cheap labor.

That's all the Asylum was for. A holding ground for children to be taken and never seen again, thrown to whatever lifestyle, for better or worse, could be speculated but not known for certain.

Odette mounted the stairs, leading to the second level.

Stepping off onto the landing, she saw Mabel, a yellow skinned girl of about twelve, sweeping the floors outside of the shut door to Madame's bedchamber.

Mabel acknowledged her with a nod; the children weren't really allowed to even speak to each other, lest they incur Madame's wrath, and that birch stick.

Odette lingered outside the door, working up her nerve.

She did so hate Madame Lenoir...

Finally she swung the door and entered, tentatively.

Madame Lenoir's bedchamber was big and full of fine things, paintings, comfortable chairs and a small table where she generally took her breakfast.

Beside the unlit hearth was the bed, covered in many quilts and blankets, in the center of which sat Madame.

At first glance, anyone could have mistaken Madame Florianne Lenoir for a White woman, given her quite sallow complexion, and the pale, stern green eyes under sparse silver brows looking out from her much lined face, and the long wisps of straight, streaked hair that had once been a light copper.

Odette, nay all the children, knew better.

Just as her unfortunate charges, Madame Lenoir was Colored, an old Creole woman, said to have been born during the latter years of the Civil War.

She was of African, French and lesser European extractions. It had been whispered she owed her White-passing appearance to having a Mulatto mother, and of course, her father was her mother's owner.

Instantly, Odette was on her knees at the hearth, loading in several small logs and using a flint to create a spark to bring about a flame to heat the room.

Only two rooms in the Asylum were permitted to have fires built in the hearths, though all the rooms contained one—Madame's bedroom upstairs, and her office downstairs, just off the front door.

Odette, trying to steal a moment to enjoy the heat, fidgeted uncomfortably.

Though her back was turned, she could feel it.

Hatred.

True, unfiltered, rabid hatred, radiating from the frail creature in the bed.

A hatred that had been stewing, growing stronger and stronger with each passing day of the last fifteen years, since Odette had been handed over to her at only five years old.

It had always confounded and perplexed Odette how that miserly corpse which refused to lay itself in a hole could so fully hate her...for possessing an appearance so like her own.

Odette, herself, could have very well passed for White, with a fine, porcelain complexion, straight black hair and wide eyes that were a deep, clear grey, without a hint of blue to them.

Indeed her facial features did lean more towards than Angloid as opposed to Negroid, save for her lips, thicker, fuller, and poutier than her typical fully European based counterparts.

Like Madame Lenoir, Odette was of mixed heritage, as both of her grandfathers had been full-blooded Frenchmen, one from Nice, the other from Lyon.

These were facts that she knew, as, unlike the others hiding in the shadows, tending to the cleaning around the Asylum, whom had been orphaned at birth, as she'd been told of background and lineage by her parents. But that was long ago and now she was here, with no other options. It was else Madame Lenoir, or the unforgiving streets of rural Louisiana.

Thus the Asylum had become the only “home” Odette knew.

In truth, Odette should have been turned out of the Asylum over a year ago, when she had passed her eighteenth birthday and was no longer considered a ward of the state.

Though, as she had no real schooling beyond the first grade, and no true skills to speak of, Odette had remained, working for Madame to earn her extremely meager keep.

A fact lost on Odette, disguised by years of bitter words and physical abuse, was that Madame Lenoir was fiercely jealous of Odette. She kept her hooks solidly latched into the girl whom she was quite certain, based on appearance and delicacy of manner could have easily elevated her station in life, perhaps marrying a high-toned man in upper Creole society in nearby New Orleans, or even become the well-kept mistress of a White man.

And that was the last thing Madame Lenoir wanted....that evil, cold-hearted old thing, was to see anyone doing better than herself.

“Victoire...”

Every hair on Odette's body stood, as the living cadaver on the bed called to her, in a heavily accented voice sounding more at home somewhere in Paris, belying the fact that Madame was an American citizen and had spent all sixty-plus years of her life right there in Toulouse Parish, only to venture out twice, both times to New Orleans.

Once to marry, and again to bury Monsieur Lenoir.

Odette, christened Victoire Odette Dufrense, shortly after coming into the world one hot June morning in 1904, had always gone by her middle name and everyone who knew her called her as such.

With the exception being Madame Lenoir.

She was sure Madame insisted upon using her first name, simply to annoy her—and she'd have been correct.

“Victoire—I'm talking to you, gal!”

Odette, whom had been blissfully warming her hands and feet by the fire, heard herself squeak, as that woman always managed to send fear itself coursing through her veins.

“Yes, ma'am?”

A gnarled finger wiggled, beckoning her,

“Come here, I've an errand for you.”

Reluctantly, Odette left the hearth and approached the side of the bed, where that pinched face studied her, eyes drifting over her pitiful countenance.

Painfully thin lips parted as Madame elaborated, her voice drier than autumn leaves,

“I need you to go to the grocer in town and buy a tin of the Delicieux brand of herbal tea, a pound of sugar, a pint of fresh cream, and a box of ginger cookies...”

At the mention of tea, Odette felt one of her brows raise in curiosity.

Madame Lenoir was a known coffee drinker, easily working her way through a half dozen pots per day, and rarely, if ever, touched tea. And she typically refrained from sugar and sweets.

Seeing the question marks in the girl's light eyes, Madame reached under one of the many decorative pillows on her bed, coming up with a small beaded coin purse, which she proceeded to open and dig about in, adding,

“A gentleman from up North has contacted me in regards to hiring on a maid to work in his household. I shall probably let Lucy or Mabel go, as they're old enough to work, but still young enough to be properly taught their station in life...”

Ah, so that's why she wanted tea...she was going to perform that song and dance of make-believe for another, ahem, customer.

As the last words left her mouth, the door to the room swung and silently Mabel entered, carrying the tray steaming with Madame Lenoir's breakfast.

A dollar bill and some loose change was extended to Odette which she allowed to be dropped into her hand.

Turning to leave, the old woman urged,

“And don't tarry, Victoire! I want the tea and cookies ready by ten o'clock! That's when the gentleman will arrive! And you still have to scrub the stairs this afternoon!”

Odette stood, looking at Mabel who was in turn staring down at her feet and a small pinprick of pain stabbed at her heart.

Why, that very afternoon that little girl could be gone, away from Madame Lenoir for good, working in some rich man's house, far, far away.

How she envied her.

How she envied every child adopted or hired away.

They got to know the freedom she so desperately yearned for.

* * *

To reach Obsidian Hill, one had to traverse a solid mile on a worn dirt path, that wove its way precariously through unbothered, virgin forest, past a lazy brown creek, covered by a thin sheet of ice that Thursday morning, and inclined up to...indeed a hill.

One came to Obsidian Hill as abruptly as Death came to the unsuspecting.

As Odette reached the crest of that rolling hill, she paused, heart beginning to race in her bosom, breaths quickening along with her pulse, bringing fresh color to her cheeks.

Spreading before her, like the plumage of a rather drab bird, were plots, each marked by simple, plain rectangular stones made of cement.

Nothing like the elaborate marble, limestone and granite monuments of the White cemetery nearer the heart of the Parish, but its Colored counterpart held its own in memorializing its own.

They may not have been fancy, but the nuns of the local convent on the outskirts of the Parish felt that every life deserved to be remembered, not forgotten.

“Each life, no matter how brief, is a blessing from God...”

A priest had said that once, during the funeral of an abject child in Madame's 'care' that had mercifully died during the flu epidemic. That name of the child had long since faded from Odette's memory, but those profound words, issued in eulogy, had remained.

As if compelled by a supernatural force, something greater than herself, Odette was moving, her calloused, partially numb bare feet moving over that cold ground, weaving in and around the stones, some marked with names familiar to her, others of strangers who lived and died before she drew her first breath of existence.

Drawn to a set of three stones just past the center of this sorrowful piece of land.

Coming to them, Odette fell to her knees, paper wrapped parcel of goods for Madame Lenoir bouncing on the ground, her fingers,small and starting to turn blue in the cold, tracing the engravings upon each in turn, reading them to herself.

She knew them by heart and forever there they would remain:

Edouard Dufrense 1883-1909

Lysette Dufrense 1887-1909

Zola Dufrense 1906-1909

How she missed them...

How, under the right conditions, she could still hear their voices.

Their laughter.

A tear slipped down her cheek, her bottom lip quivering with renewed heartbreak.

If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel their arms around her--

“Oh, mon Dieu! Pardonnez-moi!”

At the exclamation, Odette leapt to her feet, snatching up the parcel.

Standing beside her, was a nun, the light breeze causing her vestments and veil to sway.

From the crook of one arm dangled a wicker basket, overloaded with gardenias and snapdragons, as she'd clearly come to pay her respects to all lain to rest.

“I didn't mean to startle you, child...” The nun chuckled politely, plucking a few blooms from the basket, and kneeling, laid one across each of the stones.

“...were they your kinfolks?”

Met only with the wind, the Sister looked up, catching but a glimpse of the poor girl, disappearing over the hill, running away.

Sobbing loudly.

By the time Odette turned up the lane, leading back to the Orphan Asylum, some thirty minutes later, she had calmed down considerably, her tears dried and gone.

The only giveaway she'd cried at all was the slightly reddened cast to her grey eyes.

It would do no good to be seen crying; especially with a rich client en route, looking to hire out a child.

Emotion of any form was frowned upon, whether it be joy or sorrow.

Madame Lenoir never showed any emotion other than cruel disdain of her charges;. Sympathy was nowhere to be found, had it ever existed at all.

Odette knew from experience not to show anything other than a solemn face with downcast eyes, or face finding herself on the wrong side of that birch rod.

She knew she possessed feelings, albeit negative ones. An unflinching hatred for Madame and the catch-22 she found herself in.

Odette knew she's be homeless and victim to the seedy underbelly of the world, places even God himself had turned his back upon.

She knew what happened to unclaimed females like her, in the back alleys of the Parish, and the larger New Orleans, over a hundred miles away. She knew, because Madame Lenoir had told her so.

How girls like her, White-looking Coloreds fetched a high premium in brothels and good-timing houses, monetarily. But all were left morally bankrupt in the end.

It was a manner of life that had constantly frightened Odette to the point she remained prisoner on this far-flung rural plot.

Madame Lenoir's abuse was surely the lesser of the evils which she'd have to face had she dared to venture out to make her own way in the world.

For all the cruelty Madame Lenoir had shown Odette Dufrense, never had she compromised the girl's virtue.

Of course, that wasn't by accident.

No move that woman made was by accident.

Madame's days of entertaining suitors were gone with the age of the horse and buggy. A woman in her sixties, far into middle age, was nothing for young men with light hearts to line up for, begging for waltzes, and stolen kisses in shaded groves.

Odette's life was just beginning; Madame Lenoir's was rapidly nearing its end.

Beaus were no longer a part of Madame's life, and if Madame could no longer have a beau, she'd see to it that no one else did, either.

Especially Odette.

No, all Odette knew of life was sadness. Sadness, cold, hunger, rage. This was all she'd come to know and in some sort of sick twisted way, all she'd come to expect.

Jaded at the age of nineteen.

She couldn't recall when she'd last been genuinely happy, perhaps as a small child in her mother's arms.

Many a night she'd cried herself to sleep in the old barn, wishing her parents and sister were still alive. That she could go back to their little farm, nearer the heart of the Parish.

Where she'd helped her mother tend the garden and her father feed the animals.

Playing peek-a-boo with her sister till both fell over in a fit of giggles.

The memories were so faint now, they seemed more fantasy than reality.

Her mind wandering as she paced closer, Odette came to a sudden halt in the middle of that dusty old road, her plump mouth parting in surprise.

Parked in front of the Asylum was an automobile, the finest automobile Odette had ever seen.

As cars, a veritable luxury that only the wealthiest could afford and maintain, were few and far between in the Parish as most folks were barely a step or two out of the poorhouse following the compounded disasters of the Great War and Spanish Flu Pandemic, it was truly a sight to spy one.

Stepping closer, that small pain ravaged at Odette's chest once more.

Most folks who ventured to the Asylum arrived in an open topped, horse-drawn carriage, or on a swaybacked mule at best. Others, the feet God had given them were their only means of transportation.

Never in an automobile.

Odette didn't realize it at the moment, but she was seeing a limousine for the first time in her life.

A long, elegant vehicle it was, made of steel painted a deep, rich navy and polished to a mirror like shine.

Instantly, Odette was awed, creeping up alongside of it, taking in the spoked white wall tires, untouched by the Louisiana dirt, spares added decoratively onto each side of the vented chassis. Peeking through a back window, covered by a white canvas hood she could see the seats inside were made of pristine white leather.

At the front of the car, dozing peaceably in his seat, was the chauffeur, in a black uniform, light glinting off the bright brass buttons of his jacket and motif of an eagle on his cap.

The butt of an unlit stogie was held between rather thick lips, his dark face slack, nostrils on a broad nose flapping .

How fine this new client must be, Odette thought to herself, making haste to run for the back of the house.

How very fine!

Lucy or Mabel were so very lucky!

Either of them would likely live well in this rich client's house...and better...eat well.

She had to hurry now. If the car was empty of it's moneyed occupant, then that meant Madame Lenoir was already entertaining the client, and would be looking for her, along with a pot of hot tea and the cookies. And if she were late she'd surely be beaten black and blue for her tardiness.

Oh, she shouldn't have gone to the cemetery!

Why did she constantly do stupid things?

In the kitchen, the other children were clustered around the stove, warming themselves, talking in low, hushed whispered about the “rich gentleman” talking to Madame Lenoir. About how finely he'd been dressed, looking like something out of a magazine.

Enviously wishing he'd hire them all on; then maybe they could eat more than a ration of toast and chicory every day. Hell, prisoners ate better than them!

As Odette hastened to set a pot of water to boil and went about arranging Madame's finest china on a polished and carved oaken tray—items only brought out when trying to pawn a child off on someone—she heard Charlie, one of the smallest of the children, a boy of eight but so underfed he appeared no older than five years, lament,

“I don't even remember what real food tastes like!”

Miserably the others hummed in agreement, Odette included.

Tea was set to steep in the pot, and carafes of cream and sugar added with silver spoons for stirring.

Finally, the packet of ginger cookies was opened, and all the children rimmed that rickety old table, staring hungrily at the cookies.

For some it had been years since they'd tasted anything sweet, for others, they'd never even had a cookie.

Odette looked into the sad, begging, dust-smudged faces and made up her mind.

There had easily been fifty cookies in that parcel. Madame wouldn't miss it if half a dozen 'disappeared'.

A cookie appeared in each child's hand, and also Odette's, all of them eating and savoring the sharp, yet sweet flavor of the ginger tinged with molasses.

Who knew when, or if, they'd get a treat like this again?

Smiles were rarely seen in the Asylum, but at that moment, teeth were bared in that spontaneous moment of secrecy.

Odette moved through the first floor, lit only by the sun, covered by dark, cotton drapes. The only real light came from the end of the hall, with Odette knowing that many of the oil lamps sprinkled around the Asylum had been implemented to chase the gloom of Madame Lenoir's office away.

The rest of the house, however, had to languish in this semi-darkness till night set in once more.

Passing the stairs, Odette spied two slight figures.

Ah, the girls of the hour—Mabel and Lucy.

In due time, one of them would be off, to greener pastures and a new life.

Both sat on the the lower steps, heads turned towards that open door.

Eyes of curiosity huge in their gaunt yellow and brown faces.

Small, ashy hands gripping at the balusters.

Though her heart was ravaged by pain yet again, Odette had to ignore it and forced her face into a more pleasant expression. She'd cry at the end of the day.

Her nerves were bad enough as it were; she was mildly tardy and hoped she wouldn't face another beating.

Oh why didn't she leave Obsidian Hill alone?

It was all her fault.

She should have had the tea ready before this gentleman ever alighted from his limousine.

She would just have to suffer the consequences at a later time. But the consequences would come—they always did.

Closer to the door, she could smell the pungent, off-putting odor of cigarette smoke.

Madame smoked The Bayou's Finest, otherwise known as the cheapest brand available for sale on the market.

It never set well with Odette that one hundred cigarettes could be bought for a mere thin dime! She didn't know much about money or the costs of items, but that just didn't sound right and surely tobacco cost more than this!

Arriving at the opened door, she could hear that devil speaking, her voice full of false saccharine cheer,

“...yes, Mr. Jackson, I do believe I have a couple of girls whom might be of interest to you...girls of about twelve years. Old enough to do the work, and still young enough to be raised up in a good, Catholic manner, of course...”

Odette scoffed under her breath, light eyes rolling.

Catholic manner, indeed!

Aside from being dragged to Christmas Mass each winter and Easter Mass each spring, none of the children in the Asylum saw the inside of the church in town.

If she hadn't prayed daily for Madame to drop dead or otherwise meet her demise in some horrid, gory fashion, Odette likely wouldn't have prayed at all.

She only believed in God because she believed her mother, father and baby sister were all in Heaven, waiting to be reunited with her, and it was that singular belief that kept Odette going and prevented her from using her own two hands to kill Madame Lenoir.

“...I'm well know throughout these parts for providing the hardest working, most pious children you could ever hope to find, Mr. Jackson...”

For a nanosecond, Odette felt her face twist into a grimace and struggled to look aloof as she cross the threshold into Madame's office.

Thankfully the room was warm from a roaring fire that had been built in the hearth, perhaps by Tommy, as he'd seemed so eager to do so earlier.

Despite the warmth, Odette felt a chill run the length of her spine, a sordid, prickly cold that came only from looking up Madame Lenoir.

Presiding behind her large wooden desk, littered with old sepia-toned photographs and daguerreotypes of the young Monsieur Lenoir, his widow was austere and inexorable in a long black frock, her white hair piled into a pompadour that was in fashion some thirty years hither. She was forever in mourning for a man whom had been dead for almost longer than he'd been alive.

Madame wore a cool, cunning and calculating grin on her saggy jowled face. She always made sure to kiss up to any and all clients, looking to take a child off her hands, as for each child she successfully placed, she was given a bonus by the state of Louisiana.

Money was the bottom line; had always been and always would be.

No matter what, whomever this Mr. Jackson was, Madame Lenoir was hell-bound and determined to have him leave with a child that day.

Odette did not see Mr. Jackson at first, as he was mostly hidden from view by one of the two high backed armchairs facing the desk, reserved only for those oh, so special clients.

She could feel Madame's eyes on her, effectively boring holes through the poor girl as with her own eyes no further than the tray she was setting down, Odette began to prepare a cup of tea. It was the same as with a cup of coffee—no sugar, three spoons of cream. The cup was set before Madame and Odette staggered, as for a second, her icy, bony hand laid itself upon her wrist.

No words were spoken, but Odette knew what it meant just the same.

She was in trouble for being late...and would be tended to.

Odette had to blink several times to ward off a flood of anxious, frightened tears and swallowed twice before she could control her voice to the point of addressing the guest,

“How do you take your tea, Sir?”

Silence.

For an interval there was silence.

So long was it, that Madame Lenoir, who'd been gamely gabbing and placing herself atop a pedestal trailed off, letting go of Odette and occupying herself with a sip of tea.

“Sir?” Odette repeated, raising her head.

Never would Victoire Odette Dufrense ever forget the moment she first set eyes on Mr. Jackson.

Mr. Jackson didn't really sit in that old wing-back chair so much as he was perched upon it.

His clothing drew her attention right off; it was all the kids in the kitchen had been chattering about.

He was quite possibly the best dressed person to ever enter the Asylum, evidenced by the refined, charcoal and white, pinstriped, three piece mohair suit worn over a black shirt and tie.

Odette had never seen a colored dress shirt before and marveled at it.

Draped about his shoulders was an unblemished, snowy coat of cashmere, where, on one of the lapels of the coat was a pin, square in shape and encrusted with what had to be diamonds, several more dangling down and glittering under the lamp lights.

Odette had never seen a diamond, other than the tiny, rose-cut stone in the low-karat band of gold Madame always wore on her left hand.

Certainly not ones as large and beautiful as those on that coat.

If genuine, that single piece of jewelry likely cost more than the entire Asylum and all within it.

And it was worn so casually, not shown off or rubbed into the faces of those poorer than himself.

Mr, Jackson's hands were folded in his lap, underneath a black fedora.

More glitter was found as his cuff links were white gold, set with four princess cut diamonds.

It was then, eyes drifting upwards, that Odette took in Mr. Jackson's face.

His complexion was white.

Not fair as Odette's or even Madame's, that had a sheer tinge of pink and peach about it, but a true, milky, translucent white.

It was almost as though he lacked blood beneath his flesh, but that was impossible. If he had no blood, he wouldn't be alive, and Odette thought herself silly for letting something like that cross her mind.

He had such delicate, refined features...high, sharp cheekbones, a sharper nose coming to an upturned point in the center of his face. A soft dimple marked his chin below slightly parted, pinkish-red lips.

His eyes...

Odette nearly dropped the little chartreuse china cup.

Those orbs, a rich, deep brown, were large in that slim face, rimmed by long, inky lashes and what appeared to be a smudging of kohl to further accentuate them.

Dark, somber eyes, were focused directly on Odette.

His black brows, groomed and arched sharply, were raised so high towards his hairline, that a few wrinkles creased his otherwise smooth forehead.

His hair, brushing past his shoulders, was jet and straightened, curling slightly at the ends.

His appearance was unconventional, and uncommon, but it was this...strangeness that appealed to Odette. She did not know why.

She only knew he hadn't yet answered her and she repeated,

“Sir?”

Behind her, Madame noticing Odette receiving attention and not understanding it shifted in her seat and went to open her mouth to dismiss her.

At the same moment, Mr. Jackson blinked, as if the other two inquiries had never entered his ears and finally, replied,

“No cream, and two spoons of sugar, please.”

His voice was feather-light, almost a whisper, and spoken in falsetto.

As Odette quickly prepared the cup, Madame Lenoir resumed her soliloquy,

“I'm quite sure that either girl you select, Mabel or Lucy, will be of benefit to your home, Mr. Jackson...both rise before the cocks crow...”

Odette presented the still steaming cup to Mr. Jackson.

“Thank you.”

It was Odette's turn to stare.

She was used to only having orders barked at her from dawn till dusk, and if she were not speedy enough she would be hit several times over.

She couldn't remember ever being thanked for anything...ever.

Automatically her hands, were on the plate of cookies, offering them to him with Mr. Jackson partaking of one and dipping it into his tea.

“...they can cook and clean, do laundering and ironing--”

Indicating Odette with the half-soggy cookie, Mr. Jackson spoke over Madame Lenoir,

“How old is she?”

Both Odette's eyes and bosom expanded.

He...he was inquiring about her? Did he want her as his maid....not Mabel or Lucy?

Then that derelict bag of bones spoke, voice chillier than the out of doors,

“You don't want Victoire, she's much too old.”

Odette shuddered visibly. It was out of her control that'd she'd been born seven years earlier than either of the two for “sale”. She had no say in her conception or birth.

No one did.

“...Mabel and especially Lucy are quite adept at following recipes...” Madame continued to drone like a turbine.

Mr. Jackson took his time to bite the damp ginger cookie, chewing politely and swallowing, clearly ignoring the old woman and looking again to the younger one.

The one so clearly uncomfortable, she didn't know which way to look and whom had begun wringing little red hands in front of her tattered dress.

Bouncing from one rag-encased foot to the other.

“Are you also capable of doing a maid's work?”

The question caught Odette off guard, she wasn't used to being personally addressed by anyone other than Madame Lenoir and the orphans.

Odette did answer with an awed “Yes, Sir”, but she was drowned out by Madame, bolting up from her chair so quickly, she forgot to grab hold of her birch walking stick and had to clutch the edge of her desk to keep from falling with one hand.

With the other she pointed at the door all but yelling,

“That will be all Victoire! Go scrub the stairs!”

Deflating like a popped balloon, Odette could only hang her head miserably mumble “Yes, ma'am” and began to walk away.

Trying to hold back tears until she was out of view.

Why she was always deprived of opportunities?

Of escape?

Why did Madame hate her so? Wouldn't she be happier if Odette were gone?

She'd never done anything but try her best to be obedient.

Perhaps today would be the day she sprinkled arsenic in her rice at dinner and end that woman's being a plight upon Odette's life.

Odette never saw the jealousy only the cruelty.

A gentle tugging on the hem of her skirt, caused her to stop and stare down.

At the pale, spindly hand gripping the fabric.

Pulling her back towards his seat as Mr. Jackson set his tea cup and saucer on the desktop.

“...I wasn't done speaking to you...”

“You don't want a shiftless, stupid girl like that to hire on, Mr. Jackson!”

Forgetting herself and her greed for that bonus, Madame had made the desperate exclamation.

Only to be met by Mr. Jackson holding up the index finger on his free hand, as a means of telling that hag to shut the hell up without a sound.

“Tell me, what is your name?” He asked, voice low, yet compassionate.

Eyes on the floor, as she only truly knew to speak without eye contact the girl responded, hands wringing all the more.

“Victoire Odette Dufrense, Sir. But only Madame calls me Victoire, everyone else calls me by my middle name.”

“My name is Michael...Michael Jackson. I'm pleased to know you, Odette.”

She was tugged closer and with her head still down, she saw Mr. Jackson's shoes.

Again, even his shoes were befitting of a man so stylish and apparently worldly as Michael Jackson seemed, they were a twist on the classic two-toned wingtip, the leather uppers a gleaming black and silver. They could make silver colored leather?

“Are you an orphan, also?”

Face half hidden by her tangled mess of hair, Odette nodded, too pained to utter the words.

“Are you able read, write a clear hand and do basic arithmetic?”

“Yes, Sir...”

She didn't want to get her hopes up. Oh, Christ! She didn't want to get her hopes up.

He couldn't possibly be considering--

“Are you able to cook and clean; do the duties of a maid?”

The girl's head came up in wide-eyed wonder.

Lips quivered as she nodded,

“Yes, Sir. I do all of that for Madame...”

At the mention of Madame Lenoir, as a reflex, both looked back at her.

She remained upright but had gone a ghostly, deathly pale.

Her green eyes narrowed with fury, along with her mouth only a red line at the base of her face.

Her flat bosom heaved; it was clear she was trying to keep a cap on her temper.

She didn't want Odette to go. She never did.

She reveled in that girl's pain and suffering.

“How old are you, Odette?” Mr. Jackson was speaking to her but now was boldly returning Madame Lenoir's glare.

“I made nineteen last June...”

It was then a new, fresh realization dawned on Odette.

Why Madame Lenoir was so distressed.

As Odette was over the age of eighteen, she was legally an adult in the eyes of the state of Louisiana, and as such, her “benefactor” would not receive that much obsessed about bonus for her being hired away.

“Mr. Jackson...” Locating her cane, Madame Lenoir bumbled around her desk as he rose, standing about six-feet tall with a frankly slim, wiry frame.

“I have a half dozen other children for you to choose from! Take one of them—any of them! Look them over, I'm sure any of them would be a great addition to your household. You don't want Victoire!”

“Do not dictate my own wants to me!”

Mr. Jackson snapped and both Odette and Madame shrank back.

Odette because she'd never seen anyone talk back to Madame without falling away with a bloodied mouth; and Madame because she was swiftly losing a battle she was never intended to win.

“Odette?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Is there anything at all tethering you to this place? To Louisiana?”

“N-no Sir.”

Edouard, Lysette and Zola had been her only kin in the world.

She was getting away! He was taking her away! By Golly Sweet Jesus, after fifteen agonizing years—she was getting away!

Mr. Jackson wanted her as his maid. Not Mabel or Lucy, but her, Odette!

Odette could scarcely breathe and her entire body shook both with relief and excitement.

His next words turned the poor child's knees to jelly, barely able to support her.

“You're leaving with me, now. I've somewhat mangled the process myself, but I will find a place for you to stay, that's not here, and begin all the necessary paperwork to obtain a passport for you. I've been traveling around these parts with my nephew and I'll have him photograph you for the passport--”

“Passport, Sir?” Odette squinted up at him in confusion.

What did she need a passport for? Mr. Jackson only lived up North; judging by his attire and manner of speaking, she assumed somewhere in New York or Boston.

Did one require a passport to enter another state? Things were so different in the times after the Great War and with Prohibition in full swing.

“You need a passport to enter Canada from the United States.”

Canada?

Odette could feel her mouth falling open.

He....this man was going to take her to Canada?

At a later date, Odette would learn her new destination was over thirteen hundred miles from the Toulouse Parish Colored Orphan Asylum.

But all she could focus on was the idea that she was going to be away from Madame Lenoir!

Never again, God willing, would she have to see that old bitch in her natural life.

Hear her vile words of hatred. Suffer her insults without retaliation.

No longer fear that birch stick!

Free!

That simply, that quickly, Odette was free!

Unable to control herself any further, with hot tears falling down her cheeks and meeting under her chin, she dropped to her knees, weeping and hugging at Mr. Jackson's legs.

She couldn't even form a decent, intelligent sentence she was so overwhelmed.

Her Savior...he was her Savior!

“It's all right....that's quite alright....” Gingerly, Mr. Jackson helped the teary-eyed Odette back to her feet.

Reaching inside the cashmere coat, he came up with a black silk handkerchief and began dabbing at her little face.

Over her head, he asked,

“Do you require anything else of me? Do I have to sign any forms of release or anything of that sort?”

“No.”

The word was so hoarsely spoken, Madame Lenoir sounded as a bullfrog when croaking.

“Very well then. Thank you for your time.” Mr. Jackson gave a curt nod, replacing the fedora on top of his head.

A warm hand laid itself upon Odette.

“Come along, let's get you out of here...”

Odette was fairly tremoring she was so overcome at the idea she was getting away.

Getting far, far away from Madame Florianne Lenoir!

Reaching the door to the office, Odette paused, looking back one last time.

Madame had sank back into her chair, her head held in her hands.

Odette Dufrense didn't realize it then, but she'd achieved what Madame had always hoped she wouldn't—a sure escape, where she would no longer be under her influence and subject to her mental and physical abuse.

Mr. Jackson ushered Odette out into the hallway and up to the front door.

“Is...is it still rather cold outside?” He wondered peering through the panes of glass out at his car.

“Yes, Sir--”

“And you haven't a coat or shoes or anything?”

Embarrassed at lacking even the barest of necessities, Odette shook her head, cheeks tingeing bright pink.

Mr. Jackson began awkwardly wiggling, removing his fine white overcoat, and draped it around Odette.

“Sir, no!” She started to protest, deathly afraid she'd get so fine a coat dirty. A coat so clean and white could get so dirty and dingy so quickly.

Mr. Jackson shook his head, stating firmly, opening the door for her,

“I've plenty coats. I can spare one. It'll do you no good to arrive in Canada dying of pneumonia, diphtheria or influenza. Go on...”

Odette followed Mr. Jackson out into the cold of the early afternoon heading towards that sleek blue automobile.

Odette couldn't believe it—she was going to ride in that fine, fancy car?

She'd never ridden in an automobile before!

Seeing them approaching, the chauffeur, whom Odette had spied napping in the front seat, flew out from behind the steering wheel, rushing to open the back door for his boss.

He was a squat Colored man, maybe five-foot-seven, with very dark, smooth skin and could have been aged anywhere between twenty and forty.

“Odette, this is my driver, Chester Morton. Chester, this is my new gentleman's maid, Odette Dufrense.”

Odette had expected Chester to extend his hand to shake or at least offer a smile in greeting.

Instead, the shiny, dark face showed a strange expression...like when one was trying to mentally a solve a difficult math equation.

Confusion intertwined with...was that disbelief?

“Maid, Mr. Jackson?” He sputtered, his voice strange and rough, like he had a bleeding sore throat, but showed no signs of being ill.

“She is Colored.”

The statement was made sharply, and Mr. Jackson helped Odette up into the car, where she settled on the far end of the supple leather seat, Mr. Jackson slipping onto the same seat nearest the door that Chester hung onto staring after her.

Had he never seen a light-complected Colored before?

Just where in Canada were they from?

“Take us back to L'Hotel Boudreaux, Chester.”

“Right away, Mr. Jackson, Sir!” With that the door was shut and Chester was rushing back to the driver's seat where he turned the key in the ignition and the car purred to life.

He would continue to intermittently stare at this new girl throughout the entire drive.

Odette mashed the hanky to her face, crying harder.

From around the fabric, embroidered with MJ in matching black thread, Odette blubbered,

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson! Thank you!”

* * *

Two Hours Later

Odette Dufrense had been under the impression that Mr. Michael Jackson had been staying in one of the hotels or rooming houses in Toulouse Parish, and found that she had been mistaken.

For a quite a long time, she'd been quiet, weeping off and on, as they left the only town she'd ever known, going east in the direction of New Orleans, but never arriving there.

Instead, she found herself in another Parish, albeit quite larger than Toulouse, as evidenced by the Parish limits sign on the side of the road:

Fayette Parish Population 1453.

And quite suddenly, what had only been frozen over bayous and naked forests gave way to a crowded, bustling main thoroughfare.

Fayette Parish was clearly a country town, as evidenced by most of the structures made of wood,a few of red brick, all well-maintained, freshly painted and clean.

They drove by what appeared to be a school house, a Catholic church, several shops, restaurants and a courthouse.

Most amazing to Odette was the abundance of vehicles.

While none were as beautiful to her as the limo in which she sat, it did widen her eyes and loosen her jaw to see so many Ford Model A's and Model T's parked along the roads in front of businesses and zooming by around them.

After taking a couple of turns off from the heart of the town, a new building revealed itself.

It was a square building of red brick, in a rather plain style, showing no frills other than the lacy white curtains in each of the windows going up for three stories.

An iron sign posted near the glass and wooden door, read “L'HOTEL BOUDREAUX”

and offered daily and weekly rates.

Men in nice suits and over coats and ladies in dresses with matching (faux?) furs and hats crowded the sidewalks going where they pleased.

A few stopped to ogle as the limo pulled up right to the doors, Chester again rushing to open the back for Mr. Jackson.

The ogling multiplied as the clearly very wealthy Mr. Jackson helped the very impoverished Odette Dufrense from the car.

The poor girl in the tattered dress, with no shoes, whom had never had more than three cents in possession at any one time.

Odette did instantly feel so out of place.

Everyone, Colored, White and some mashup in between, all looked on her as they would an exotic creature behind the bars of a zoo.

The stares continued as she shuffled along after Mr. Jackson through the clean lobby, boasting divans and armchairs, a few occupied by gentlemen reading newspapers and smoking stinky cigars.

All staring as Mr. Jackson walked her to front desk where a heavyset man of about fifty had been leafing through a thick book.

A bright smile of familiarity came to his face when he noticed the mismatched pair at his counter.

“Ah, Mr. Jackson! So good to see you!” He grinned slipping his thumbs underneath the suspenders holding his trousers up. He had a heavy Creole accent.

“Hello again, Mr. Boudreaux--”

“How may I help you today, Sir?”

“Is the room across from the double I'm sharing with my nephew still available? I've hired on this young girl here as my maid, and it is impossible for her to remain from whence she came,” Mr. Jackson explained. “She will need to be put up for at least two days while I make arrangements for her to travel back to my home.”

“Yes, Sir,...” Light from the electric bulbs bounced off the proprietor's greased bald scalp as he nodded, “Room 213 is still vacant. Would you like to pay now, or settle up at the end of your stay?”

“End of my stay, please.” Mr. Jackson removed his hat, absently twirling a lock of his long hair. “Do you know if my nephew is upstairs?”

“No, Sir, he isn't. I was sweeping the front as he left. He's probably down at the Five and Dime. Said something about getting some magazines to read. Shall I call over there? My sister-in-law Enola runs that place.”

“No...” Those big brown eyes swept the pitiable girl at his side, nervously looking about her, dabbing at her face with the damp cloth. “...that won't be necessary... Could you send someone down to Raphael's for me? I'm famished and I'm sure Odette here is also.”

A small notepad and pencil appeared in Mr. Boudreaux's hands.

“What should I send for?”

It was then Mr. Jackson posed a question Odette Dufrense had never been asked before.

“What would you like to eat, Odette?”

The pale, oval-shaped face tilted in misunderstanding.

What would she like to eat? She...she could choose? She wasn't going to just get dry toast and coffee substitute? He was going to feed her...properly?

The brain under the tangled raven locks was about ready to bust in her skull!

Seeing the girl floundering in front of him, Mr. Jackson turned back to Mr. Boudreaux.

“I'll have the same as last evening: A fried chicken breast, red beans and rice and those honey glazed carrots. And a few Coca-Colas on ice. Same for Odette here.”

“You got it!” Mr. Boudreaux smiled first at Mr. Jackson then over at the girl going positively ashen beside him. “Rufus!”

From behind a divan, hidden from view, a light-skinned boy of about eight rose, a comic book in his hand.

“Yas Pa?”

“Get your coat, tam and mittens, I've got some running for you to do! Come take this over to Raphael's while I tend to Mr. Jackson. And if you see Mr. Jackson's nephew, tell him his uncle is looking for him, you got that, boy?”

“Yas Pa...” The boy sauntered over nodding first at his father, then Mr. Jackson and Odette, and calmly ambled for the door, pausing at a chair where a small coat, hat and mittens were laid. As he pulled them on, Mr. Boudreaux squinted at a plaque of dangle keys, selecting one.

“Here we are, 213--”

“Have you enough energy to go up the stairs to the second floor?” Mr. Jackson fretted his face showing his clear remorse that the room hadn't been on the first floor.

“Yes, Sir...I'm sure I can.” Odette was unnerved.

Mr. Jackson...he seemed to care about her well being.

He'd already lent her his coat to keep warm, and had ordered a meal fit for King George himself, and now he was worrying if she could walk up the stairs!

The closest Madame had ever come to concern was quipping “You ain't dead, yet?” when Odette had been down with the Spanish Flu, unable to move and crying for her mother in her delirium.

Mr. Boudreaux lead the way across the lobby, several patrons swiveling to gawk,to a narrow staircase at the opposite end.

Mr. Boudreaux went up first, followed by Odette, Mr. Jackson placing himself last just in case the girl were too weak and perhaps fainted falling backwards.

Upstairs was neat and well lit by electric lights, a long rug of blue and white running down the middle.

About two dozen doors lined the hall, each marked off with a number beginning with two. Room 213 was in the middle, across from 212.

“Here we are.” Mr. Boudreaux announced, turning the key in the lock. “Room for one...”

The door swung and Odette felt her emotions bubbling back up to the surface.

To anyone else, the room was so simple it was nearly rudimentary.

There was a single, twin-sized brass framed bed, made up with a blue and white patch work quilt with two pillows, an armoire in one corner, next to a dresser with a mirror atop it.

A single blue armchair was beside dresser, across from a small desk and wooden chair.

“Your private bath is through that there door. We have hot and cold running water.”

Mr. Boudreaux announced indicating a door across the room, slightly ajar showing a white porcelain sink. “The room is heated by a boiler system out back. You don't have to worry about trying to build a fire.”

“This is wonderful, Mr. Boudreaux, thank you, God bless you.” Mr. Jackson took the key from the proprietor, who made his exit, leaving him alone with Odette.

He was quiet a long moment, watching the slim shoulders on Odette Dufrense shuddering as she was again crying.

She had been sobbing nonstop for hours.

How could so small a girl, have so many tears?

“Do...do you not like the room?” He inquired, causing the girl to spin.

“Not like it?” She streaked across to him, her bosom heaving.

Grey eyes consuming that whitened face with incredulity. “You think I don't like it? Sir, this is like a palace compared to where I came from! A bed....I've got a real bed, all to myself? In a heated room? With a bathroom just for me? I don't have to share an outhouse with seven other people? It's indoor plumbing! I don't even have to leave! There's even electric lights! And...and you're feeding me too? Real food! Fried chicken! On a Thursday? Mr. Jackson...”

She gripped onto one of his warm hands with her tiny cold ones.

“I...I don't know what made you choose me, over Mabel or Lucy, but...Sir....I promise you'll I'll be the best gentleman's maid I can be. I'm not exactly sure what all I'll have to do, but Mon Dieu, I'll do my best!”

“That's all I ask of you.” The tip of her nose was tapped with a long finger. “That you do your job and are smart and honest.”

“Of course, Sir...”

As she vowed her allegiance to the man whom had rescued her from Madame Lenoir, Odette saw a new gentleman was leaning against the jamb of her open door, observing the dramatic scene.

Like everyone whom Odette had seen thus far, he was dressed smartly in a brown and beige plaid suit over a beige dress shirt and contrasting dotted tie in the same color scheme. A matching square was in the front breast pocket.

He was a couple of inches shorter than Mr. Jackson but still taller than Odette.

And as everyone who caught sight of her, this man was staring at her.

He was Colored, maybe in his mid to late twenties, with a bronzed complexion.

He had rugged good looks, and sleepy, lipid dark eyes, that appeared large as saucers behind the round lenses of his tortoise shell glasses.

A peachy mouth pursed, opened as if to speak, then closed and twisted downward as if he seemed unsure of himself.

Then the lips parted,

“You wanted to see me, Uncle Michael?” His voice was mild, resonant and cultured.

Mr. Jackson turned, waving the gentleman on into the room, while Odette was stunned into silence.

Why...all this time...she'd assumed Mr. Jackson was a White man.

The limousine, the chauffeur...

The more Odette thought of it, the more sense it made that, yes, Mr. Jackson was Colored, just with a fair complexion as herself.

Since entering L'Hotel Boudreaux—Boudreaux was a common Creole surname—she'd only seen Colored people.

The proprietor, his son Rufus, all of the people loitering about the lobby.

All like her, all Colored and Creole people.

Mr. Jackson's nephew came over, standing beside his relative.

Neat, straight brows went up at Odette.

“I'd like you to meet the girl who will be going back to Canada with us, Odette Dufrense.” A sweep of the hand indicated her, and she lowered her head, ashamed of how she looked.

“Odette, this is my nephew, Dr. Taj Jackson.”

Doctor? He was a doctor?

She'd heard of Colored doctors but hadn't seen one with her own two eyes. Even when she lay dying of the Flu, her doctor had been a timid, mousy White man. (Who had likely mistaken Madame Lenoir as one his own, thus why he was trying to save a bunch of Colored children, in the much segregated South.)

Continuing, Mr. Jackson knocked at the brown bowler atop his nephew's head, with it quickly coming off out of respect, revealing short, closely cropped black hair arranged in small curls, one falling across his forehead.

“Taj will examine you sometime tomorrow to ensure you're well enough to travel across state lines and the Canadian border. He dabbles in photography, so he will also take your passport photo...ahem...”

Draping an arm around Dr. Jackson's shoulders, he pulled him out of earshot of Odette, and was speaking to him in a rapid whisper.

“You understand?”

“Yes, Applehead!” Dr. Jackson nodded, and started back for the door, pausing mid-stride.

Spinning on the heel of a fine brown shoe, he walked back over to Odette.

Tilting his glasses down, he eyed her a long moment, pacing a circle around her.

Then he was gone, crossing the hall to lean into the room he shared with Mr. Jackson, just long enough to retrieve a tobacco colored trench which he threw over his arm, and was gone from sight.

Odette wanted to ask Mr. Jackson if that had been the medical exam, but she didn't get a chance.

Within seconds of Dr. Jackson's departure, little Rufus appeared holding a wooden box precariously, aromatic steam rising from it.

“Will ya be taking ya meal in ya room or this one, Suh?” He asked and with Mr. Jackson's hand on Odette's back, she was nudged across the hall towards the open door of the double room.

It wasn't too different.

A bit larger to accommodate the second bed, and the addition of what appeared to be a small dining table with two chairs was in the center of the room.

Of course, the armoire was lined with suits in different colors with coordinating shirts and hats. And at least twenty pairs of shoes were arranged on the hardwood floor in front of it.

Dr. Jackson's bed was the closest to the door, as a stack of new magazines had been laid up on it. A black medical bag was also on the foot of his bed.

So many niceties, just for the sake of having them. Sharp suits just for the sake of looking good and in fashion.

Odette didn't even know what was in fashion or not...

At the table, Rufus was a diligent little boy, setting out the plates heaped with two breasts each, fried to a golden-brown, mounds of red beans in their own gravy over white, long grained rice, with what appeared to be cloverleaf rolls, glistening with butter.

A separate bowl of carrots was set in the center of the table along with flatware.

“My Pa is getting the sodas—is you alright, lady?”
Odette was crying again. This time over the food.

Food, real food. Actual food that someone had seasoned and cooked.

Good, nourishing, body-restoring food!

“She's had a very rough day, Rufus...” Mr. Jackson explained, producing a dollar bill from his suit jacket and folding it, stuffed it into the front pocket of the overalls the boy wore. “...you will leave us now, please?”

“Yes, Suh! Thank you kindly, Suh. Just let me know when you're finished so I can take the dishes back to my Aunt Sarah. She'll be mighty sore if I don't...”

“I will. Thank you, Rufus” Mr. Jackson waved as the boy skipped out of the room.

He turned back to the girl wiping at her bright red nose.

“Odette, dear child...” He all but whispered, taking the soft, cashmere off of her at last and draping it on the back of the chair at the desk. “...I understand that all of this is probably new and shocking to you...a new job, and being in an unfamiliar place...but I fear if you don't stop crying, you will dehydrate yourself!”

“I can't help it, Mr. Jackson. This is the first time in fifteen years anyone has been nice to me!”

Mr. Jackson had been pulling out a chair at the table when he stiffened,

“I thought you said you were nineteen, not fifteen...

“I am nineteen!” Odette insisted. “I was born on June 20, 1904!”

“Then how...” Mr. Jackson started, and it clicked for him,

“Oh...you weren't left at the Orphan Asylum as an infant...”

“No, Sir. I was five years old.” Odette lifted her head, trying to mask her wavering lips.

The same pain that had savaged Odette's heart now savaged Michael Jackson's and he tapped the chair.

He didn't want to talk of such sordid topics...not now.

“Sit, Odette. I want you to eat your food while it's still hot. Please.”

She allowed Mr. Jackson to push her chair in for her and automatically, she made the Sign of the Cross over herself.

Odette couldn't recall when she'd last eaten a real, hot meal, with actual meat and vegetables and grains.

She, like those she'd left behind at the Asylum had been given a pittance at best, and was underfed daily to egregious proportions.

How any of them survived was a miracle.

Oh, how Odette had wanted to dive into the plate, mash food into her already watering mouth with her hands, gobbling like a hog, utensils be damned.

But, as she lifted the fork, a voice in the back of her head told her to go about eating slowly, take her time, chew her food properly.

Somewhere, out of the recesses of her memory, she recalled an article she'd seen some years before, in a newspaper discarded by Madame Lenoir.

Something about soldiers who had been prisoners of war overseas and starved within an inch of their lives by captors. How, once they returned to their home countries—they were British, Australian and French—and began trying to eat full meals, all rapidly fell ill. Their bodies unable to process food after extended periods without it.

She only hoped that the eating of food, which everyone needed to sustain life, wouldn't end up killing her. Several of the soldiers in the article had indeed, died.

Also, she didn't want to appear rude in front of Mr. Jackson, clearly a gentleman of means, by eating like she'd never sat at a table before.

Timidly, she lifted what she felt was a ladylike amount of red beans and rice to her mouth cautiously eating it.

How flavorful it was! Her eyes closed in pure rapture. Rich and warm, seasoned perfectly with a little spicy kick.

A piece of chicken was cut from the breast, crisp and juicy. Whomever cooked it had skilled hands, chicken breasts were usually the driest part of the bird.

Mr. Jackson kindly spooned some of the glazed carrots onto the plate and tears fell as she enjoyed their sweetness.

“Odette.....” The top of her hand was patted for her attention, and sniffling she raised her head to see Mr. Jackson nibbling a carrot from his fork.

“Yes?”

“I feel we should discuss your employment, your duties, your pay, that sort of thing and get it out the way and understood.”

Odette nodded. She knew her title was that of gentleman's maid, but wasn't quite sure what all it entailed.

Rather than cutting a piece of meat loose, Mr. Jackson paused, picking up his entire breast and taking a bite.

Once chewed and swallowed, he continued, resting his cheek on his fist.

“I believe Fate intervened for both of us, Odette. When I first came to Louisiana, I had no intention at all of hiring a maid. I actually came down to accompany my nephew. As I mentioned earlier, he's interested in photography and cameras and things of the sort. There's a certain camera he was after, some German make with a long name I cannot pronounce, but they've set up a factory for them in New Orleans following the war. Anyway, Taj wanted to come down but didn't want to come alone, so I accompanied him. There was a maid before you, of course...”

Again, Mr. Jackson grew quiet, as little Rufus reappeared, carrying a metal bucket filled with ice and a half dozen glass bottles of Coca-Cola, the caps removed.

The young boy was thanked a second time, another dollar going into his front pocket.

Odette wondered how much money Mr. Michael Jackson had, just to be able to give away dollar bills on a whim without thought. As if they were pennies.

And even pennies were so rare and dear.

“My previous maid, Nellie, was getting on in years, close to seventy, I believe, and unfortunately, shortly before I came to Louisiana, she passed on in her sleep.”

“I'm sorry, Sir.” The words came flying out of Odette's grease stained mouth, as it was just natural to her to make such an utterance at such a statement.

“It's quite alright. But the other day, I was sitting in the cafe, taking breakfast with my nephew and telling him about Nellie, when the woman serving us mentioned the Orphan Asylum. Said her cousin out of Baton Rouge hired on a little girl not too long ago and suggested I contact Madame Lenoir...”

At the mention of her name, an expression of abject revulsion crossed Mr. Jackson's pale,strange, handsome visage. It was clear, just as Odette, he did not like that old bitch.

“...that's how I wound up out in Toulouse Parish....and found you...”

A softness returned to Mr. Jackson's face, the clenching of his jaw released and he rubbed at the dimple in his chin thoughtfully.

“Ahem!” He straightened and removed two of the soda bottles from the bucket, placed on the floor alongside the table, one for each of them.

“You will take over Nellie's duties: waking me, and preparing my breakfast—all my meals—and ensuring that my bedroom and office are tidy and in order. My laundry of course--”

“Do...do you have a wife, and children that need tending also, Sir?” Odette questioned meekly, discreetly adding more carrots to her plate.

“I am a bachelor.”

The words hung in air a few grim seconds, Mr. Jackson drinking his soda.

Odette did the same and coughed softly as the carbonation burned the back of her throat.

She'd always wanted to try a soda, and was so far enjoying it, even if the bubbles kind of hurt. Beat drinking only lukewarm water and chicory all day.

“You're basically to shadow me as needed. You will be paid every Friday afternoon, ten dollars--”

Ten dollars!

Odette nearly choked. She was to be paid ten dollars? A week? Why...that was forty dollars a month! She'd have that much money? So much money! Some folks didn't see that much in a year, let alone a week! She couldn't believe it! She simply could not! She was going to have money! Save it. Buy things—food, clothing, shoes!

If she were dreaming, she'd just have to kill herself if she awakened to find it had never happened.

“...how...how much does it cost to rent a room, up in Canada, Mr. Jackson?”

How strangely he stared at her.

“My domestic servants live on the premises at Rosewyck.”

“Rosewyck, Sir?”Odette repeated, never having heard a name like that before.

“Yes, Rosewyck is my estate...” Mr. Jackson went to his mouth for the last swallow of Coke and stopped.

“Your things are arriving, Odette.”

“What?”

Odette spun in her chair.

And would have fallen out of it onto the floor had she not been white-knuckling the back of it.

Across the hall, she saw Rufus, and two older girls looking very much like him, each toting stacks of cardboard and paper boxes off into her room. They were followed up by their father, toting even larger boxes with a few bags dangling from his beefy arm.

“That's....for me?” Odette could feel the air whooshing out of her lungs and she turned back to gaze up on Mr. Jackson, idly dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin.

“Yes...”Mr. Jackson stood and with a wave of his hand indicated she follow him back to her room.

“You had nothing when we left the Asylum. Not coat, no shoes, no clothes, anything. I sent Taj out to get you things you'd need for the journey back to Canada. It's even colder up North this time of year, and snowing. It'd be poor manners if I were to let you suffer and freeze, while my nephew and myself dressed for the inclement weather. I also trust Taj's judgment...he has a wife, and daughters. I figure if anyone could choose items for a girl, it would be him.”

A dollar bill was given to each giggling child as they filed out and a five was passed in a handshake to Mr. Boudreaux.

“I sent Taj to the local stores to get things you'd need for travel, a coat, scarf, hat, mittens, dresses, stockings, shoes, um...unmentionables. Toiletries like soap and shampoo. Comb and brush. Things of that sort. I...I wanted to start you off on the right right foot--”

“Uncle Michael!”

Dr. Jackson rushed in, now wearing his trench coat, half a roast beef po-boy, a few bites taken and wrapped in wax paper, in his hand.

His face showed his exasperation as his prominent ears were turning red, and not from the cold.

“I walked all around downtown trying to find a bag big enough to fit everything you just bought for Odette. None had a bag large enough. It'll have to be a suitcase or a trunk!”

Those arched brows rose and fell as his uncle waved a hand nonchalantly,

“Then get one, Taj.”

“Can I finish my goddamn sandwich, first?”

“No...now. You're intelligent enough to walk and chew at the same time.”

With a grimace, Dr. Jackson bit angrily into the po-boy, and made his exit, his stomping down the stairs clearly audible.

She laughed.

For the first time, in a great, many years, Victoire Odette Dufrense laughed.

A true, hearty, honest-to-goodness laugh that came from her soul.

For the first time in over fifteen years, Odette was HAPPY!