Chapter Four--PART ONE

Chapter Four—Part one

Later That Same Afternoon

For most of the past hour, Odette Dufrense had been lingering in a hot bath.

Again, a mundane, ordinary task, taken for granted by the general populous in most first-world nations, was considered an extreme luxury by the previously impoverished young maid.

During her stopover in Fayette Parish, she'd used a rather cheap, rose-scented bar of soap to cleanse her body.

(It was the only vaguely feminine soap that Dr. Taj Jackson could procure given the limited resources presented him in that off-the-map hick town.)

But as a member of the staff of Rosewyck Manor, particularly living in the Main House of the palatial estate, that soap had been switched out for a rarer, French-made variant, Lait des Roses, which proved even stronger in the olfactory department, with a scent that remained on the skin for a pleasantly long time.

(Odette never knew this soap in particular had been selected solely for her by Mr. Jackson; the servants in the carriage house made do with more economical cakes of Ivory.)

At the end of each work day, as Odette snuggled beneath her warm quilts, it was that sweet, yet subtly fruity aroma which aided in lulling her to sleep.

But today was different.

Special.

Odette wasn't going to retire to bed straightaway, with a copy of Photoplay or Motion Picture Monthly to keep her company.

Today, she was going out to see her very first film as an American transplant in Canada.

Au Secours starring Monsieur Max Linder.

Although she had scoured all of her magazines—even a few in Mr. Jackson's personal library under the guise of dusting the thousands of tomes contained within—Odette had found very little in reference to Max Linder.

Other than a short blurb in a March 1921 issue of International Cinema Weekly, where he was hailed as France's answer to Charlie Chaplin, she could find nothing else about him.

Disappointed, yet undeterred, Odette vowed to herself to show the utmost enthusiasm for Au Secours, and it's leading man, even if she wouldn't have known Max Linder had she tripped over him on the street.

Finally scrubbed to her liking and smelling as dainty as a spring bouquet, Odette drained the tub, and wrapped her nude form in a large, fluffy white towel, plucked from the dozen or so filling the shelf across from the tub.

How marvelous it was to have a bathroom all to herself; without having to share it with upwards of a dozen others.

Odette loved how austere and white the bathroom was.

Much like a doctors' and nurses' white garb, the color signified the utmost in cleanliness and purity to her, and she took great pains so that it remained pristine and sparkling.

Having indoor plumbing at all was still a shock to her.

Clean running water, hot or cold, at her disposal at any hour of the day seemed more science fiction to her than reality, but here it was.

Somewhere, far off on the property, a massive underground boiler system kept the water flowing.

(The boiler system had once been directly beneath the house in the winding basement, but had blown a few years prior, taking out part of a wall and bodily flinging Michael Jackson a good thirty feet across his own lawn, where he ricocheted off a tree and landed in a bush with a broken arm and four bruised ribs. It had taken his two physician nephews hours to pluck the thorns from his arms, legs and back, then clean the wounds with antiseptics—that had stung terribly causing Mr. Jackson to utter never before conceived swear words—and setting his arm with a cast and sling.)

Rising up on tiptoe as the tiled floor, showing the only color in the room as it was brown and white check, was cold in spite of a radiator beside the tub warming the room, Odette paced quickly to the door and let herself back into her bedroom.

Where she made haste with planting herself in front of the radiator there.

There she rocked for several minutes, standing on a small, threadbare rug, too worn to be displayed elsewhere in the manse, allowing the front half of her body to evaporate of moisture before turning to dry her back half.

Her mind had been on her fine frock and all the fancy accouterments she was going to wear that evening and how fine she'd look walking beside Mr. Jackson, when something glittering atop the dresser caught her eye, derailing her train of thought.

Intrigued, Odette wandered over, securing the towel yet tighter around her unclothed body, and her mouth instantly fell open in awe.

Standing upright, at about fifteen inches tall, was what appeared to be a model of Pharaoh Tutankhamen's sarcophagus, rendered in what appeared to be highly polished gold (she couldn't tell if it were genuine or not) and blue enamel.

Hands shaking from sheer giddiness, she started to pick up what she, at first, perceived to be a statue, merely for decoration.

And nearly dropped it, as it proved to be much heavier than it looked.

Gingerly, Odette, turned it in her hands, and light glinted off the words engraved right above the miniature Tut's head.

Les Nuit Egyptiennes Extrait de Parfum.

Perfume?

A new perfume—just for her? To wear to the cinema?

Odette, a trifle overwhelmed by the generosity of her benefactor, made quick work of opening the opulent sarcophagus; there was a small tab on the side, that when pressed, caused the front to pop open.

Revealing a bottle inside.

“Mon Dieu!” Odette gasped under her breath, brows shooting upwards.

Crafted of fine, frosted glass,the bottle had been fashioned to look like a fully wrapped mummy.

Pale amber liquid sloshed gently.

Removing the mummy, Odette found that it's head was the dauber and popped it off easily waving it under her nose for a whiff.

The scent was a richly deep musk, with hints of honey, jasmine and orange blossom.

A fine, sensuous fragrance...far more mature and womanly than her usual Duchamps, which was girlishly floral.

Dabbing a bit onto the inside of her wrist, Odette inhaled it, seeing stars and decided she would wear it that night.

She had to, Mr. Jackson had been so kind--

“Well, aren't you just the luckiest little girl in all of Juniper Peak?”

A crackling voice sneered, causing the teen to jump slightly.

Steely eyes darting up to the mirror, Odette saw, in the reflection, she was no longer alone.

The door to her bedroom stood wide open, with Elsie Moore leaning against the frame, haughty expression on her pinched, bespotted face.

A half-consumed cigarette wisped smoke, from between her skeletal fingers.

Bare shoulders straightened and setting the bottle down, Odette, leery of the evil glint in her adversary's popped eyes, demanded,

“And just what do you mean by that?”

The words were spoken, but Odette already had a fairly clear idea.

Elsie would never pay her a true compliment, not even if a gun were pressed to her forehead with the threat of her brains been blown out the back of her lopsided skull.

That emaciated creature moved a few paces into the room, her black uniform swaying, the cheaper grade of cotton rustling, fabric hanging off her bones.

Elsie idled long enough to take a drag off her cigarette, smoke releasing from her nostrils as she stared down her hooked nose.

There was a heavy, strained tension suddenly filling the small bedroom.

A finger, topped by an unpolished nail on her free hand, was pointed at the girl in the towel, Elsie stating with a wry, false chuckle,

“I just find it funny, Odette--”

“What?” She challenged spinning to face Elsie, bosom expanding, head cocking to one side.

“--less than a week ago, you were off in the backwoods of Louisiana, in some town no one had ever heard of, and now here you are. Not only working for Michael Jackson, but living in his house. Always by his side, morning, noon and night--”

“I'm a gentleman's maid, that's what I'm supposed to do, Elsie! It's part of my duties, damn it--”

She hadn't intended to curse aloud, it wasn't befitting a young lady, but Elsie indeed brought out the worst in her.

They were standing less than a foot apart now and Odette felt herself close to striking that old miser of a woman.

Elsie so reminded her of Madame Lenoir in many, unflattering, ways.

If Elsie had any inkling she was in danger of having her face knocked down the hall,the rest of her body following, she didn't show it, as she'd found her soapbox and was unwilling to leap down from it until she'd completed her thought.

Wrung out her tongue of the things that had been burning her to be expressed.

Whether welcomed or not.

“--and now he's buying you clothes and perfume from the best shops in all of Toronto. Having them rush shipped to the house. And poor Nellie hasn't been in her grave a month yet--”

Odette Dufrense snapped.

Tossing her loose hair, her eyes narrowed to unfeeling slits and she hissed lethally,

“It's not my fault Nellie died, Elsie—You act as though I killed her! She was nearly seventy! She was old! Elderly! Had a heart attack! Old folks have heart attacks! It happens! Old folks... die! You've been moping around, ever since I've entered this house, acting as though I murdered the woman with my own two hands—and I did not!”

It did give Odette something of a thrill the way the color fled that battle ax's face and her mouth fell open in abject horror at being back talked.

Emboldened, she took a step forward and Elsie actually took one back.

“Just because I'm partly Creole, and from Louisiana doesn't mean I practice Voodoo or Hoodoo or whatever dark magic you probably want to believe I dabble in, Elsie.”

She leaned further to the point their chests, rounded and flat, almost collided,

“...because if I did, you would no longer be my problem.”

Grey eyes flashed over that gaunt figure and Elsie audibly gasped, stricken.

Perhaps it was the first time one of her peers had dared to kick her soapbox out from up under her.

Or the realization that her behavior might have had more dire consequences than she'd ever expected.

Hand on her hip, Odette turned back to her mirror, picking up her brush and went to jet tresses with it, adding venomously,

“I can't help that Mr. Jackson chose me to replace Nellie; this is his home. He lost a maid and is well within his rights to hire as he sees fit. Yes, Toulouse Parish is a long way from New Orleans, even farther from Juniper Peak, but I'm grateful every day to have a place here. A job, an income...”

Odette paused, brush in midair,

“I don't know of your background, nor do I truly care to know of it, Elsie, let's be clear. I've lived in extreme poverty. Never knew when or if my next meal would come. Beat for any and every reason Madame Lenoir decided that day. Had and wore only one set of clothes that I'd outgrown by the age of ten. But I am here now, whether you like it or not. I'm fed three hot meals a day. Real food. Not scraps not even a stray mutt would refuse—meat, two vegetables, bread and sometimes a dessert. Every day! I wear real clothes and with the exception of the present company--”

“Oh!” Elsie felt after her chest as though she'd been stabbed.

“I am treated like a human being.”

Elsie Moore looked positively ill, a green cast flooding her sallow skin.

And although she hadn't anticipated the usually meek and quiet Odette Dufrense to be so outspoken, she wasn't yet done.

No high-minded, uppity outsider was going to intimidate her.

Elsie had been at Rosewyck Manor for too long.

Longer than any of the other workers.

She had seniority.

Elsie appeared over her shoulder, dark eyes murky with hatred,

“Don't you look too deeply into what Michael Jackson does or says, Odette.”

The brush was pried from her hand and tossed onto the dresser.

“Men like him run through silly young girls like you like a hot knife through butter.”

She went to put her hand on Odette's shoulder with it being pushed away instantly,

If that female didn't stop, she was going to wind up slapped and slapped hard.

“Look at Mr. Jackson's wild ass nephew...constantly stepping out on his wife and child to be with that Yellow Gal off in Chinatown. The other two may also be stepping out, but are perhaps more discreet. I wouldn't be surprised. Men like them always have more than one gal they're keeping. Rich men like Michael Jackson don't make wives of poor country maids. Only use them up until they've had their fill, then toss them aside like yesterday's newspaper in pursuit of the next pretty face to turn their head.”

Elsie sniffed loudly,

“You're just a passing fad, Child--”

Odette's eyes scanned the dresser top, trying to select the heaviest item with which to club that spinster over the head.

There was the oak-back brush she used to shine her shoes.

If hurled hard enough, she was certain she could cause a concussion.

(Sure, it would mean extra work for one of the Doctors Jackson, but that was but a minor detail. If homicide weren't illegal she'd have been strangling Elsie in that moment. Her restraint was indeed weakening by the second, and Odette did fear she would act out of character if that woman didn't fade from her sight soon!)

A small, quivering hand laid itself on that wooden brush with every intent to send it right into that smug witch's face.

Odette gripped it so tightly, a couple of her knuckles cracked.

“Are you also going to help bring shame upon the Jackson Family?”

Briefly, her eyes returned to the reflection.

She wanted to remember Elsie's ugly face before she turned it into a crater of torn flesh and broken bone fragments.

Odette halted, and while her face maintained it's determined, cruel expression of a girl swinging by the frayed ends of the proverbial rope, her lips lost all their color at once.

As though she'd received a sudden, unannounced shock.

She had.

Standing, just behind that steadily smirking gremlin, was Michael Jackson.

He had clearly begun dressing for the outing that evening, as he wore crisply starched navy trousers with suspenders over a white oxford, loosened a bit at the throat, showing the equally white neckline of his undershirt.

His head was bowed slightly, glossy, straightened locks obscuring his face.

Long fingers moved along the ends of his sleeves, securing white gold and opal cuff-links into place.

“Elsie...”

The name cut through the air with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel and the old biddy whirled on her heel, unable to hide her horror.

Not waiting for a reply, his head still down, Mr. Jackson continued to play with his cuffs, but instructed, without a hint of pleasantness to his voice,

“I'm feeling a touch of a cold coming on. Fetch me a hot toddy, with extra honey.”

Odette noticed he didn't say 'please' as he usually did with requests of his staff.

After only four days, Odette could scarcely stand to be in that female's presence; Mr. Jackson had endured it for years. Perhaps his tolerance of Elsie was beginning to grow thin, also.

Why did he keep her on his payroll in the first place?

That gaunt body remained where it stood between Odette and he, the only movement to be found was the flaring of her too highly-set nostrils in that hollowed out face.

Mr. Jackson's head came up and he peered at her through his hair.

“Now.”

“Yes, Sir...” Odette was given a glare of pure loathing, then Elsie scampered away like the vermin she was, her footfalls receding with much haste.

Leaving Odette alone with Mr. Jackson.

The room was still, the air heavy. The only sound was the light tinkling produced by Mr. Jackson taking his time to finish affixing his links to his cuffs.

Once satisfied with their placement, he admired them a moment longer.

Then turned his attention to the young girl wearing so very little.

She couldn't move.

She could barely breathe.

Slowly, he ambled towards her, steps silenced by his monogrammed slippers.

Face masked by his long tresses, dark eyes flittered over the unclothed youth, which went unnoticed, as her own grey eyes had fallen to the floor, staring at her pink toes.

Reaching around her, he picked up the mummy bottle, and tipped it, dampening the dauber and removing it.

Odette allowed him to lift her hair, where he deposited the fragrance behind her ears, and along the sides of her throat, causing a chill to run her spine.

Dipping it again, he took her hand, and flipping it over, began to rub the cool glass along her wrist.

“I...am nothing like my nephew...” He announced, taking her other hand and doing the same. “...TJ is twenty years younger than I, and is merely sowing his wild oats. He married very, very young—younger than you—against his father's wishes. But TJ has always been been headstrong and the wild one of the bunch. Every family has its black sheep, so to speak.”

More perfume was planted to the insides of her elbows.

“While I do not condone my nephew's actions, I can understand the reasoning behind such behavior. Even if it is...uncouth. He's a staunch Catholic, as all of our family is. He won't divorce Lorena, nor will she divorce him. And neither want Jessilynn to have a broken home.”

Odette sensed that there was more to that sordid topic, but as he was a gentleman, Michael Jackson left it unsaid.

The mummy was placed back into its sarcophagus, with Mr. Jackson sighing begrudgingly,

“His being a thoughtful father is one of the few noble things I can mention about TJ.”

His own eyes huge, rimmed in kohl, seemed to encapsulate the entirety of his slender face.

He met the frantic, wide eyes viewing him through the mirror and bent.

Moist lips pressing onto her bare shoulder, kissing it first, then speaking into it, his breaths warms and smelling of the vanilla-tinged cigarettes he so favored.

“You should get dressed, Odette, before you catch your death of pneumonia, parading about in only a thin towel.”

A lock of her hair was tugged playfully, with Mr. Jackson smiling at her in a boyishly mischievous way.

And as he had entered, he exited –silently, Odette turning to watch him go, until he vanished from sight around a corner.

Hand pressed to her shoulder, where her flesh flamed beneath her fingertips.

Odette's lips curled wickedly.

While she didn't have a clear idea of the nature of her relationship with Michael Jackson, if one could dare to call it that, she knew one thing.

Whatever it was they had...she liked it.

* * *

...Click....click...click...

Odette was pacing, and had been for upwards of half an hour.

Though the formal living room of Rosewyck Manor offered much in the way of comfortable seating, with armchairs and divans galore, Odette refused to sit.

She didn't want to crease her new dress.

The silk dress that, according to that insipid beast Elsie, had come from one of the best stores in all of Toronto.

A dress of silk, once slipped on, was discovered to be lined in satin!

A dress with a matching fur and velvet coat—draped across the arm chair furthest from the fireplace to avoid singeing—likely cost more that what some folks saw in a decade.

Factor in the shoes, the stockings and hat and Odette's head fairly spun.

She had preened and pranced about before her mirror for so long; she did look so fetching and becoming in blue.

Never before had she considered what colors looked best on her and which didn't.

Colors had simply been colors and whatever you ended up with, you just wore and were thankful you weren't naked.

Odette thought of Michael Jackson and his nephews. Men who could and did spend lavishly on their wardrobes.

She had seen peeks of the nephews' style and preferences, and was around their uncle daily.

Yes, everything she'd seen the men wearing flattered them, and well.

Flattered their differing hair, eye, and skin tones, and even suited their personalities.

In the short time she'd known Mr. Jackson, he'd always turned out well dressed, in colors and patterns that suited him.

What it must have been like to be rich...to be able to choose as you liked, and not solely for utility and what was cheapest to make the most of a dollar.

She was almost certain that the Doctors Jackson's wives and children also were afforded this...this luxury of choice. (Perhaps even Dr. TJ's mistress, Mei-Ling. He clearly could afford to keep two women!)

Odette often wondered what it was like, to be like these kept women, never having to lift a finger unless they wanted to.

She read the fantasy stories that featured women on yachts, in limousines, and on airplanes to places she'd never heard of; and saw it repeated in real life by the film stars being gossiped about.

The Jackson Family were not films stars, nor royalty, but they certainly seemed to live as such.

People like them probably thought nothing of going out to a matinee in the middle of the week. Being first in line as soon as a new feature was released.

It was baffling to Odette, whom hadn't seen a motion picture since before the Great War.

Going to a movie, in the first place, was a treat, in and of itself.

And then to be dressed so finely...attending as a guest of Mr. Jackson?

Why, her head was close to busting.

For the umpteenth time, Odette crossed the floor to the roaring fireplace.

Standing before it, small hands wringing wildly in front of her.

She desperately hoped she looked nice.

That she looked right, like she belonged.

It had taken her five tries to get that strange, unusual hat to sit on her head in a way she thought made her look fashionable and worldly.

Oh, how she wanted to impress Mr. Jackson.

Garner his approval.

Despite the flame crackling, Odette trembled.

Mind hearkening back to that moment in her room.

When Mr. Jackson had pecked her shoulder.

Even then, she could feel his soft, tender lips on her.

She should have swooned—why didn't she swoon?

Faint dead away into his arms?

All of the movie magazines she read included serialized versions of popular stories and novels, most of which were romantic in nature to appeal to their overwhelmingly female consumer base.

Each story had at least once scene where a dashing captain, or solider, or exiled member of a royal house, took a whimpering, doe-eyed, touch-me-not maiden in their strong arms, kissed (or ravished) them with the latter going limp from rapture.

Odette frowned off into the hearth, hands wringing harder.

The people she'd read about, in all of those flowery, melodramatic tales, had been lovers, whether outright or hidden.

Odette Dufrense held no title such as that with Michael Jackson.

She was his maid...and that was all.

But even to a naive, backwoods country girl like Odette, she knew how he acted towards her was....different.

Unnatural.

He had been different from the moment they'd met.

In a way, she'd always been treated as his equal, not his subordinate.

He'd gone out of his way to make her comfortable in his home.

She clearly had a nicer, and more expensive version of the uniform Mavis and Elsie wore. (And Mr. Jackson had made certain the dress brought out her grey eye color.)

While the others ate in the kitchen or off in the servants' quarters above the garage, Odette was always at Mr. Jackson's table.

By his side, chatting with him.

He...he wanted to talk to her, learn about her.

Her likes, her dislikes, what her aspirations in life were.

If she didn't know any better, she'd have reckoned--

“Victoire.”

At the sound of her true first name, Odette turned.

And about fell to her knees.

Mr. Jackson stood just inside the pocket doors.

He....he looked downright majestic.

Mr. Jackson wore a posh suit of navy.

In lieu of a traditional necktie, he wore a white gold and opal link necklace, in step with his cuff-links.

Also, instead of a jacket, he wore a floor-sweeping cape, blue as his vest and trousers, lending a truly refined and debonair air to the ensemble.

If one were to look up the word 'regal' in the dictionary, they were sure to find a photograph of Michael Jackson.

It was then Odette noticed it, and her breath emptied from her lungs in astonishment.

There, pinned to left, onto Mr. Jackson's cape, was a brooch.

Containing the single largest white opal she'd ever seen, rimmed by two bands of pave diamonds set in white gold.

It had to be false.

Gemstones didn't come that large, did they?

(Perhaps for Michael Jackson they did.)

He was wafting towards her, his blue alligator skin shoes squeaking ever so slightly.

Thick, lush tresses bouncing with each step.

Those dark eyes sweeping over her, seeming to brim with emotion.

Joy.

“How wonderful you look...” He whispered,and twirled her slowly, taking her appearance in from every angle.

“When I ordered this dress, I had no idea it would suit you so very well.”

Odette was suddenly bashful and as she had earlier, her gaze dropped to her feet, light causing the crystals on the shoe buckles to twinkle.

“T-thank you. Sir...” She stammered, heart a tom-tom in her chest. “It's the nicest dress I've ever worn.”

“You're welcome...” Clutching her hand, Mr. Jackson led her to where her coat had been laid, adding casually,

“Oh, I've slightly reversed our plans for this evening. Forgive me, but I'm quite hungry now, so we'll go to dinner first, and then to the cinema. It would be, rather embarrassing to have my stomach making more noise than the orchestra pit--”

The coat was held open for her.

“--if that's alright with you, Odette?”

Slipping into the sumptuous warmth of the velvet coat, allowing her boss to hook the hidden buttons going down the front, she nodded.

“I don't mind...” She trailed off as he adjusted the fur collar and fluffed her hair, loose and slightly waved from having been in a bun that day, around her shoulders.

He was asking her opinion?

That sweet, silly man.

She was delighted to be included at all!

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Jackson?”

Chester, standing in the hall, was peering in, expectantly, at the pair.

“I've pulled your coupe around out front for you, Sir. It's almost three o'clock.”

“Thank you, Chester...” Mr. Jackson produced two pairs of silky gloves from somewhere in his cape—a blue pair for himself and an ivory pair for Odette. “...you and the others are dismissed for the evening.”

Mr. Jackson was slipping Odette's arm through his when he noticed the heavy-set man continued to linger.

“Yes?”

“Mavis wanted me to tell you, the repairmen will be by in the morning to fix the heater on your pool, Sir.”

Mr. Jackson's eye's lit like a child receiving a new toy.

“Splendid—I've so missed my daily swims!”

Odette was led out into the hall, where she saw Mavis and Gus stood on the staircase, obviously wanting to see how the latest addition to the Rosewyck Manor staff had turned out in her new clothing.

And by the way the pair smiled approvingly, Odette could tell they liked the results.

The same could not be said for Elsie.

Curiosity had gotten the better of that relic, and from a tiny gap in the doors to the dining room, Odette caught sight of her peeking.

And scowling.

Cheerfully, Odette grinned broadly and watched as the doors were pulled shut.

Elsie couldn't stand it.

“Come along...”

With that, Odette followed Mr. Jackson out into the cold, snowy wonderland where his coupe sat idling, Chester rushing ahead to open the doors for both.

Settling into the rich, creamy leather interior, as Mr. Jackson switched gears, Odette, the young girl, whom had only known rural solitude for the greater part of her life, had no idea of the journey on which she was about to embark.

A journey which included far more than a French import film.

Ten minutes later, Michael Jackson's luxury coupe was making it's way down the lone, desolate road which led to the main thoroughfare of Juniper Peak.

The ride had been delightfully silent thus far, with Mr. Jackson focused on the seemingly endless stretch ahead, while Odette focused on him.

Oh, she had tried to be inconspicuous, keeping her face forward, but her eyes gave her away.

In spite of herself, she found her gaze constantly drifting off to the side.

Examining Mr. Jackson.

Almost greedily drinking in his fine suit and cape—which he had neglected to wear a hat with, as was customary of any well-dressed gent—and his extra adornment.

The opal necklace, links and brooch; that was also a bit of a shock to her, how Mr. Jackson openly and lavishly wore gems. Eye catching jewelry was something she'd always attributed to the female sex, not the male.

And yet, what could be called a faux pas for anyone else, was a normal day for Mr. Jackson, as it seemed to compliment him.

The...classically feminine touches to his looks, his appearance, seemed perfectly right to Odette.

How his long hair, black as onyx, so silky and straight, curled ever so gently on the ends to brush past his shoulders.

How up close, if she squinted hard enough, she could tell that he was wearing makeup.

The ever-present kohl smudged around the eyes, the very bare kiss of color to his cheeks that Odette knew was rouge as she had seen the pot of it on his vanity.

Lips showing a dull sheen from his lip balm, which she'd also seen whilst tidying his room.

Again it was these small, strange details that endeared Mr. Jackson to her all the more where, had it been any other man, would have driven her away irrevocably.

Removing one of her gloves she ran a finger along the edge of his cape, her whisper breaking the silence,

“Is...is this wool, Sir?”

Still looking forward, a sheepish smile graced Mr. Jackson's features and he replied musically,

“Not exactly, it's a wool-silk blend. I had it custom created special--”

“Are all of your clothes, custom?” Odette had asked this, but was very sure of the answer.

“Yes, just about everything.” Mr. Jackson was nodding. “I like to have clothing that fits my standard and the aesthetic I want. I must admit, at times I do envy women when it comes to clothing.”

Now Odette turned in her seat staring at him for making such an absurd comment. A man envying a woman was preposterous.

Men ran the world, and women generally fell behind them.

“But why--”

“Fashion is more geared towards women.” Mr. Jackson explained plainly. “Women have the King's Ransom when it comes to fabrics, patterns, styles and trimmings. So many different styles and variations to choose from it's nearly impossible to count them all. Then for men...its quite limited. Yes, there are different suit and trouser cuts, but only in a limited amount of colors and patterns. I guess for what is deemed masculine by some miserable oaf who calls himself a connoisseur. It's all backwards, really.”

The car pulled to the side of the road to allow a larger truck needing the extra space to go by without a collision.

(With the man behind the wheel staring at Mr. Jackson curiously, open mouthed.)

“In nature, it's usually the male of any sort of species that's the brighter colored in order attract a mate, while the female is drab in color. The peacock has this brilliant, brightly colored plumage that you can see from miles around. Blues, greens, golds...and the peahen is usually grey and black and recedes into the background.”

The coupe returned to the road,

“I have a handful of clothiers and we're always talking and in correspondence about different fabrics, different patterns, how to utilize the newest styles and fashions coming out of Europe and Asia. It's easier for a woman, like you, Odette. Say you wanted a red Chinese silk dress with silver and gold beading, you could walk into any boutique both here and across the world, I suspect and find that dress. Or something in the same vein as it. If I ask for a suit in the same manner, all I'd hear is 'Sorry, Mister, we don't have anything like that.' ”

In the distance, the town was coming into view.

“I thank God I'm fortunate to be able to have a say in what I wear. So many people just have to make do with what's available and that's that.”

Odette smiled to herself, as he was repeating her very thoughts.

“Before I left the Stage, Mother would sew all of the costumes for my siblings and I. Perhaps its a remnant of my Vaudeville days, where you have to stick out and be different to attract the public's attention. To be memorable.” He chuckled and Odette snickered.

Mr. Jackson was so interesting, so traveled, all the wonderful stories he must have had to share from his nomadic, performer's life.

“I'm forty-five years old, and I guess I'm too set in my ways on that fact to change now—nor do I want to.”

Odette was winked at slyly as they slid past the farms on the outer edge of the town.

And the gawking began with people stopping work, peering out of doors and windows in awe of Mr. Jackson and his unconventional yellow vehicle going by.

Yes, everything was different about Michael Jackson.

He didn't fit the so-called norm in any way, and that's what made him utterly perfect.

As they drew closer to the heart of town, Odette piped up,

“Are we going to dinner at The Dinette? I enjoyed that soup we had my first day here; and I...I've never eaten in a real restaurant before.”

“Oh,dear me no!” Mr. Jackson outright laughed and the girl sank back into her seat. “The Dinette is just a simple lunch counter. We'll be taking our dinner at The Morgana.”

The Morgana? Odette wondered to herself, eyes darting to the buildings on both sides of the street, where people were stopping in their daily walks and business, staring.

She saw The Dinette and a couple of other places that appeared to be restaurants—Strauss' Delicatessen, and Mae's Soul Food Kitchen—but nothing called The Morgana.

Was it down another street she hadn't noticed?

“Where--”

“It's in Toronto, Odette.” Mr. Jackson stated matter-of-factly. “I told you, your first movie in Canada was an event. I'm treating it as such. We'll go to Morgana's then off to the theatre out there. You probably wouldn't like the little movie house here anyway. It's small and cramped and the concessions leave much to be desired...”

Mr. Jackson was still speaking as they passed through town towards the ferry dock, but Odette heard none of it as her ears were ringing.

He...he was taking her out to Toronto!

Was that why they were so dressed up?

They were going to an elegant restaurant, and one of those grand movie palaces she'd only seen in her magazines and the newspapers as she'd discarded them each afternoon?

She could hardly contain herself.

If it wouldn't have scared Michael Jackson clean out of the driver's seat, Odette Dufrense would have thrown her head back and shrieked in sheer glee.

By the time Michael Jackson's goldenrod Duesenberg slid off the ferry at the mainland marina, dusk had begun to settle over the landscape.

Prior to this, the closest Odette Dufrense had been to the capital of the province of Ontario, was that dock, being splashed by the lake sharing it's name with said province.

She had wanted to see the 'big city' one day, but never did she expect to see it in the middle of a normal working week.

And certainly not with Mr. Jackson!

Instantly, Odette had her little face pressed to the glass, peering out in wide-eyed wonderment.

From what had been a brief, rural road, much like those on Juniper Island, suddenly an entire bustling metropolis arose.

There was so much.

So much to see, to hear, to take in and try to make sense of.

Most notably the abundance of buildings.

Older, low fat ones, competing with and crowding to be seen alongside that new modern marvel, the skyscraper.

Skyscrapers so tall, Odette had to crane her neck to see all the way up them, and even then, some stretched so far into the heavens, clouds hid their true height.

How different Toronto was from Juniper Peak and Toulouse Parish, the only places she'd ever known in this short life.

People were everywhere. Filling the sidewalks, spilling into the roads, driving vehicles—though none could hold a candle to that creamy yellow boy's toy—and on horseback.

Trolleys clambered by without abandon.

There was much noise, general conversation, horns honking, newsies and hawkers shouting to advertise their wares.

“...Hey Harold! How's things with the wife and little ones?...”

“...Yo, Sal—she's spending money faster than I can make it!'...”

“...Hell no, Clara! For the last time, you ain't getting a candy bar! You've got four cavities as it is!...”

“...Roasted chestnuts, peanuts, almonds! Only two cents a bag!”

“...Read all about it!!! Petrograd to be renamed Leningrad! Treaty of Rome to be signed! Read the very latest on the Shoeless Joe Jackson scandal! Right here in the Toronto Global News...”

“Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish—trout, croaker, grouper—I've got it all....”

In addition to English, Odette heard snippets of French, Spanish, German, Hungarian, and Cantonese.

She observed the very rich: men in top hats and tuxes, strutting about with ivory-tipped walking canes, slim slips of women, bundled in furs of every color imaginable, glittering with gems and painted in a bit too heavily with makeup.

Conversely, she also saw the very poor: grey, shadowy figures, dressed in rags, hobbling about on the fringes, clustered together in an effort to fend off the bitter cold. Staring out of spare, empty faces.

Ghosts that weren't yet dead.

Had Odette really looked like that, when Mr. Jackson first saw her at the Colored Orphan Asylum?

Worse?

Beat cops went about setting fire to gas street lamps, whilst newer, electrified ones lit automatically casting wide, yellow glows.

Eventually the coupe rounded a corner, and Odette was inundated with a multitude of aromas.

Sizzling meats, frying potatoes, baked goods both sweet and savory.

Restaurants of all kinds, lined each side of the wide road.

Steakhouses, French and Italian bistros, Oriental tea rooms (with rumored opium dens) and smaller, informal diners.

Traffic slowed to something of a crawl, as cars were being handed off to valets by the dozens, and people dressed in their finest, alighted for a meal.

The vehicle idled in front of Zhang's Gourmet Chinese Cuisine and Odette was merrily people watching, when a young woman caught her eye.

She was Chinese, of course, as she had walked from the eatery, and was quite the exotic beauty, with a charmingly round, flat face, small pursed lips and dark sloe eyes.

The woman, appearing close in age to Odette, had clearly been Westernized, as she wore a lovely red velvet opera coat, trimmed about the neck, down the front and around the ruched cuffs in a fluffy ecru fur.

Rabbit? Perhaps.

A red cloche had been pulled down low, where all that could be seen were her face, and the thick, straight black fringe across her forehead, stopping above pencil-thin brows drawn at an exaggerated slant.

Loitering beneath a streetlight, she pulled a small,gilt compact from her pocket and began powdering her nose.

That bothered Odette slightly. She'd learned from numerous print sources that it was ill-mannered for a woman to touch up her face in public. And though she wasn't wearing any at the moment, Odette figured when she did, she wouldn't repeat this act.

In a way, now, she felt everything she did reflected back upon Michael Jackson.

She never wanted to shame or embarrass him.

As the woman stood, admiring her face, at least it was tastefully painted in, from the restaurant, a boy of about twelve, wearing a more traditional Chengshan, trousers and slippers, leaned out the door and called to her.

What the boy said made every hair on Odette's head stand at attention and took the snap clean out of her garters,

“Mei-Ling! Telephone!”

Odette's eyes grew huge and she felt as though she couldn't breathe.

Mei-Ling?

Not...no way...that couldn't possibly be...Dr. TJ Jackson's Mei-Ling!

His...his mistress?

Right there, in public, for anyone with eyeballs to see?

Stealthily, Odette's eyes swept over to Mr. Jackson.

Had he seen this scandalous woman, heard her name called?

No...he was calmly staring straight ahead, drumming out a tune only he knew on the steering wheel.

Odette looked back to the woman, now talking to the younger boy in what she later learned was Mandarin.

The only thing she was able to make out was a single name—Tito Joe.

Yes, there was no mistaking it now.

That was indeed his woman.

Was he on the telephone for her--

In crystal-clear English, the boy all but shouted in angst,

“You and that goddamned doctor! Throw over any and every other decent guy for your precious, married, Dr.. Jackson! And he's Colored—Ow! Stop! Stop, Sis! OW!”

“Shut up, Kai! Damn you!”

As the car moved forward in traffic, Mei-Ling first shoved her brother to where he almost fell out in front of another slow-moving car, and began boxing his ears ruthlessly.

“Stop! Stop! Sis! Help! Somebody! She's trying to kill me!”

A shiny one-cent piece appeared in front of Odette's face.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Mr. Jackson teased, oblivious to the scene unfolding only a few feet away.

Forcing a grin and trying to push the image of Mei-Ling Zhang out of her mind, Odette managed to chirp so brightly she surprised herself.

“I'm happy to be with you!”

Her cheek was pinched lightly, the coin dropped into her lap.

“I'm happy to be with you too...immensely.” Mr. Jackson confided in a mild whisper, leaning so that his forehead touched hers.

Those beautiful dark orbs meeting hers.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Mr. Jackson pulled away from Odette abruptly, and she physically sagged, as if her life's force had been drained.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Spinning in his seat, Mr. Jackson was faced with a young Colored boy, wrapped in a flannel coat much too large for his rail-thin body knocking on the glass.

Rolling the window down, before he could get a word out, the child questioned,

“Is you Mr. Jackson, Suh?”

“Yes—yes I am. Is there a problem?” Mr. Jackson asked and the boy nodded, eyes rolling in something of a panic.

“Yas, Suh! My Pa's one of the cooks at The Morgana and he wanted me to tell you, that un...fortunately, they just ran out of Prime Rib, and he knows you love the Prime Rib, but he's got a feller out now going to the butcher shop for more. Pa says it'll be about two hours for the meat to get here, on account of the traffic and snow, and if you wanted to wait, he promises he'll hold your table for you. He's mighty sorry, Suh.”

Odette didn't know what she expected.

Michael Jackson was a man who'd likely seldom been told a shade of 'no', if ever, and a part of her figured he'd react poorly to his meal having to be pushed back so far.

When a gentleman was hungry, he had a mind put food in his belly sooner rather than later.

The handsome face with the sharp features turned to Odette, as the child continued looking through the open window anxiously between them.

Gloved fingertips patted at her knee.

“Would it bother you very much...if we reversed our plans, again, and went to the theatre first, then to dinner?”

“No, Sir...”

It still baffled her, that he asked her opinion on things she felt she had no place.

Satisfied, he turned back to the child and petted his head.

“You run along out this cold weather, and tell your father I'll return in two hours. If you need to reach me before then, I'll be over at the Palace Theatre.”

The child's face brightened.

“Yes, Suh! I know where that is! I'm going to the Palace on Saturday! My little sister and I want to see the new Our Gang picture—Tire Trouble!”

Mr. Jackson was grinning, as he passed a folded dollar bill to the child, his eyes bulging at his good luck. With that dollar, the boy could go to the cinema for weeks!

“I'll have to see that myself. I'm rather fond of the Our Gang films. Thank you!”

“Thank you, Suh!”

Odette stared in stunned silence, awed, as Mr. Jackson let his car idle a few minutes more, before he had enough space to perform and U-turn, and begin driving back along the opposite side of the road.

A question was bubbling up from within her and she had to ask it.

She would continue to be bothered the longer she put it off,

“Mr. Jackson...”

“Yes?”

“...why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what, Odette?”

He was keenly watching the road in front of them, but his head was tilted slightly, ear attuned to her.

She shifted in the seat, head lowering to where her hair hid her face.

A part of her was reluctant to actually view him as she spoke, hoping she wasn't being rude or overstepping her bounds.

“Ask...asking my thoughts on the decisions you make, Sir.”

“Has anyone ever asked your opinion before?”

Mr. Jackson knew the answer just by the way her little pink mouth fell open, realization hitting her like a street car.

“Why, no Sir--”

For the life of her, Odette could not recall a single instance where her preferences had been taken into account.

As long as she could remember, she'd been told, not asked, and had she not complied, there had always been Hell to pay. Usually by way of a swinging stick of birch wood that left bruises and welts in its wake.

“I figured as much...” His voice was low and solemn. “I'm quite certain you behave as you do, as a direct response to how that Lenoir beast so-called raised you. She was probably first in her class under that 'children are to be seen and not heard' rhetoric. That 'speak only when spoken to' foolishness. I don't like it. Never have, Odette. Children do not ask to be brought into this world; they just arrive and the lucky ones are brought up in kind, loving homes. Others, have do the best they can. You, and plenty others, have been taught that what you think and what you have to say doesn't matter. That no one will care...and that's not true. I want you to know you do have a voice,Odette, and it should be heard. Furthermore, you're my guest this evening and I wanted to make sure everything we did was alright with you. I respect you...and what you have to say.”

Odette turned to the window, so that Mr. Jackson wouldn't see her blinking away tears.

Michael Jackson...respected her.

How she wanted to burst through that pane of glass and fly around.

How she wanted to shout and scream at the Heavens, thanking God.

Odette couldn't quite describe how she felt.

Incredible, wonderful, amazing...these words all seemed to fall short.

But yes, the more and more she thought of it...the truer it became.

Michael Jackson treated all around him with great respect—even that repulsive Elsie.

Saying please and thank you. Speaking nice words in nicer tones.

Even though he was the wealthiest man on Juniper Island and could have treated anyone below him as such...he didn't.

He treated everyone as equals.

And that included one Odette Dufrense.

“Don't do that, please...” A blue finger was wiping at her tears.

“I can't help it...” She sniffled and half-laughed, overwhelmed.

“You'll get used to it, with time. You'll see.” She was assured as they began approaching a building.

Odette had been slumping, crying into the back of her own hand, but stopped when she caught sight of it.

The massive, majestic building of creamy marble, with a beautiful, rolling facade in the Art Nouveau style of the previous decade, rolling, swirling and rolicking upwards several stories into the darkened sky.

She would have mistaken it for a Catholic chapel, it was so stately and regal.

A tremendous sign, flashing in neon blue script proclaimed “Palace Theatre”.

This....this was a theatre?

As the car grew yet slower, Odette was stunned to see a long line of people, at least two hundred, if not more, loitering on the sidewalk, outside of the closed box office, a decadent booth showing curls of polished brass around a glassed in window.

Men, women, and children of all ages, bundled in coats, hats and gloves, waiting patiently. A sign posted in the window denoted that the tickets for the evening show would go on sale at eight o'clock.

Still almost three hours away, and already so many people were on queue?

Surely there were other theatres in a city as large as Toronto. They could have gone anywhere else, and yet, they waited.

It had to have been a great place, the best in town, if Michael Jackson were joining the legions for a viewing there.

A few heads turned and jaws loosened as the yellow coupe came up to the curb.

Odette could have sworn she heard someone say that Mr. Jackson's car was “exactly like The Great Gatsby's” in Fitzgerald's novel.

A Colored boy, perhaps fifteen years old, wearing a dark brown usher's uniform with a matching pillbox cap, was opening the passenger door, offering a hand while announcing with inflated importance.

“Good evening and welcome to the Palace Theatre, ma'am!”

Taking his hand, Odette sheepishly mumbled a 'thank you' and slipped from the vehicle onto the sidewalk.

It was so new to her, to be treated like a real lady.

She was beginning to feel like one.

The boy was racing around the car to the driver's side.

“Good evening, Mr. Jackson!”

That surprised Odette; the usher knew Mr. Jackson by name?

She wondered how often he spent an evening at the cinema, and quickly reasoned he had the means to go daily if the mood should have hit him.

Of course, the workers would be familiar with a repeat patron.

In the road, Mr. Jackson conversed with the boy, which Odette didn't hear, but the boy's voice cut above all the din,

“Oh, yes Sir! They've been ready near on half an hour!”

“Thank you!”

Odette was stunned to see that Michael Jackson passed behind his own vehicle, the young boy in the driver's seat pulling away.

Had she just witnessed the most polite grand theft auto of all times?

That boy was much too young to drive—right?

As he got to her and was taking her arm, she squeaked dumbly,

“Your car?”

“Roscoe's the valet. He's been parking my car for me for years. Good kid.” Mr. Jackson laughed easily. “The parking lot is in rear of the theatre.”

Oddly, no one else seemed to be handing their vehicles over to too young boys.

“Oh...” Odette started towards the line, where people were steadily falling in, some smoking cigars and cigarettes while other played Rock, Paper, Scissors to pass the time.

Two men began arguing over a dice game in the snow.

“Those things are crooked!”

“The hell they are—you watched me buy them you dumb ass!”

One woman reading a gossip sheet, was gasping to the disinterested man at her side,

“My God! Richard—Francis X. Bushman is getting divorced!”

“Yes, Dear...”

Odette, was stopped when Mr. Jackson made no moves towards the line, instead, heading for one of several pairs of doors, made of more of that precious brass, styled to resemble peacocks with their proud plumage spreading downwards.

She'd never seen such lovely doors.

Didn't they have to wait in line?

He could just bypass it?

Getting closer, one popped open, another boy, this one White, in uniform, beaming broadly,

“Good evening, Mr. Jackson, Sir! Your box is ready for you when you are!”

“Thank you, Jimmy.” Mr. Jackson patted the boy's shoulder, and he fell in step behind the pair, with them entering a short corridor, papered beautifully in crimson, tone on tone stripes with plush scarlet carpeting beneath them.

Huge twin urns of an Oriental type containing silk ivies were just inside the door and further down repeated at another set of peacock doors.

Above them, heavy, yet elegantly small, chandeliers lit the way.

Odette had been looking around, taking in the dishy surroundings.

Gasping to herself, nearly trembling with excitement and rapture.

If this were just the entry, then the theatre itself truly had to be a sight to behold!

It was then another sight grabbed her attention in a choke-hold.

Off on the right side, was a large, framed portrait in a heavy gilt frame.

Odette first squinted then her eyes almost fell out her face.

The portrait depicted was what appeared to be a ribbon cutting ceremony for The Palace Theatre.

Snipping the ribbon with a cartoonishly large pair of scissors, smiling brightly at the camera, was Michael Jackson!

A plaque affixed to the bottom of the frame read as:

“Opening Day, May 5, 1919”

Glancing over her shoulder, she found Mr. Jackson watching her sheepishly.

“You...own The Palace?”

She said the words, but didn't completely believe them herself.

“Not exactly.” Mr. Jackson corrected her, smiling broader and looking very much like a naughty child. “Joseph, my father, owns The Palace. I look after it for him, since he's in Spain. He wasn't even here for the opening; that's why you see me cutting the ribbon and not him. My family owns a few theatres...”

He stated this fact so easily, as though anyone could just own and run a successful theatre.

“Your family is in the theatre business? ”Odette repeated, allowing him to grasp her hand once more, Jimmy hustling to reach and open the other door for them.

That made sense to her. She knew he'd been in Vaudeville in his youth. Maybe it was a natural progression to go from performing in threatres to running them.

“Ah...somewhat.”Mr. Jackson hesitated. “My family dabbles in many areas. Some are physicians, a couple are attorneys, others run theaters and businesses. My sister, Latoya has a few of beauty salons across England and France.”

“Goodness...” Odette couldn't fathom it.

How very small she felt. Being in the company of such a cosmopolitan gentleman, who came from such a learned, interesting, skilled family.

She did feel slightly inferior, a feeling which multiplied the more she learned about Michael Jackson's background.

Her parents had been simple farmers; nothing like the Jackson family.

Nearing the door, as held by Jimmy, Mr. Jackson slipped behind Odette, hands covering her eyes.

“Sir--”

“This is your first time in a theatre in years, Odette, I want you to be surprised. It's a moment that can't be replicated after this, but I want you to remember this moment.”

In spite of herself, Odette grew more excited, a combination of Mr. Jackson's trying so hard to make everything special for her, and feeling him so close to her.

He was pressing against her from behind, and she was enveloped in that sandalwood-heavy cologne she'd grown so fond of so quickly.

Being pressed forward, she shuffled carefully, hoping she wouldn't trip or fall.

They walked what she judged to be maybe thirty or so feet and was sure they'd entered the main lobby as she could smell the buttery aroma of freshly popped corn.

Her mouth was practically watering.

Along with the scent of the popcorn, she could make out rosewater, a mild floral fragrance wafting through the air, fighting with it's richer, saltier counterpart.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Sir...”

Odette was certain she couldn’t contain herself any longer as she was bow hanging onto his wrists for dear life.
“Open.”
Mr. Jackson's voice was muffled as the hands were taken from her face and her eyes fluttered open.
And for a moment, Odette was stunned.
Absolutely, unequivocally stunned.

She had heard of people being stunned, and read about it in those fool romances of hers, but standing there, she truly, fully understood the meaning of that word.
Her heart thudding in her ears like tom-tom drumbeats.
Turning, she looked to Mr. Jackson for some sense of explanation, and he only looked back at her a hand pressed to his mouth, trying to gauge her reaction.
“Sir…”She stuttered, turning in a circle, blinking long and hard. “This…this can’t be…this…this is the theatre…?”
A gloved hand pressed his chest, an expression of intense despondence, hurt and detriment came to his face and his head bobbed in agreement.
“You don’t like it--” He started and was interrupted by Odette screeching,
“Don't like it? You think I don't like it? Why, it’s like Versailles! Better! It's beautiful! Stunning, magnificent, remarkable! Oh my Goodness!”
The interior of the Palace was no exaggeration, and never had such a single word conveyed one passionate idea so very clearly.
The front lobby of the Palace was, in short breathtaking.
The lobby wasn’t so much a lobby, but a grand front hall, dressed opulently and ostentatiously in shades of bright vermilion and gleaming gilt.
It was indeed as if Odette had entered a grand royal Palace, miles from Toronto, or even the North American continent.
It was regal, royal and screamed of Europe.
The massive hall was carpeted in deep crimson, with the walls papered in a matching shade. from the walls, half columns, painted in that expensive ore metallic were lit here and there with three pronged sconces, electrified by flame shaped bulbs. Every few feet, decorative mirrors gave the space the illusion of being even larger.
The hall stretched on for two stories and about a hundred yards in was the lavish staircase.
Carpeted in red as if made for only the feet of royalty, it was trimmed by a gold scrollwork banister curling gracefully as the lines on a woman's body, leading up to a majestic fountain.
The fountain, featuring five tiers of dangling crystal prisms and spheres, tinkled in the silent hall, as water spouted from the very top and fell back into a little pool surrounded by fat, naked cherubs playing pan flutes and harps.
A painting behind the fountain featured naked women lounging on the banks of a river with a few more splashing in the water for good measure.
It was a bit tongue-in-cheek, and Mr. Jackson had again seemed to satisfy his obsession with the female figure in an artistic way.
Odette was no longer disturbed by the sights of artistic nudes; she’d become desensitized to them from constant exposure in Rosewyck Manor.
Bending back, Odette took in the vaulted ceiling with a mix of a gasp and a scream.
Painstakingly, the entire ceiling had been carved in relief and featured everything from more cherubs to fruits to animals flouncing. Less work had gone into the Sistine Chapel!
Adding to the grandeur, eight huge crystal covered chandeliers, which Odette later came to the conclusion were shaped, in a way, like female breasts, hung and glittered like balls of diamonds overhead.
And it was then, Odette saw one of the most jaw-dropping features.
Right above the exits, in golden script on a sea of red,
“Take the Magic with You!”
“Oh, Mr. Jackson--”Odette reached for him and hugged to him tightly, gushing.
“It’s marvelous. I love it. I love every bit of it!”
Why she wasn’t sobbing, she’d never know.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” Mr Jackson winked and raising an arm, his fingers snapped with an ear-splitting POP!
Odette became aware of what sounded like distant marching and from around the staircase, from the hallways it masked, two lines of teenaged boys, two dozen of them, came goose-stepping out.
All, Colored, White and a few Hispanic, were dressed elegantly in usher’s uniforms of rust-brown epaulet jackets, shining with brass buttons and golden fringe, with black pants bearing a gold stripe down the sides.
Atop each of their heads, were small, brown hats, and white gloves on their hands.
Standing at attention on both sides of the hall, the boys, with the precision of a drill team, all removed their hats and bowed to her, gallantly, remarking in unison,
“Welcome to The Palace, Miss Dufrense!”
“Why…why, thank you!” Odette was shocked by the display and could feel herself swelling with an importance that only Madame Lenoir could have beaten out of her with that damned stick.
It would be Michael Jackson to do something so dramatic.

Take an already incredible event and make it even moreso.
“These are the boys who help keep The Palace running every day. Some have been here since the doors opened almost five years ago…” Mr. Jackson explained, leading her past them, each smiling at her.

She felt so welcomed. So accepted by their bright and shiny faces.

Each looking so friendly.
And as she passed, she could hear whispers,
“All I done heard about for the last three days was Mr. Jackson's 'friend' and how everything had to be perfect for her!”
“Gosh, she’s a looker!”
“Looker, nothing, she’s gorgeous!”
“Is she really Colored?”
“My mama’s that light--”
“--she ain’t pretty though!”

“Shut up or I'm gonna pop you in your moose mouth talking about my Ma!”

Although she had never taken a drink of anything stronger than bitter chicory in her life, Odette was shocked beyond compare and felt...drunk... to hear this gaggle of boys discussing her appearance so plainly.

Did they really think she was...gorgeous?

Her, the skinny, pale, big-eyed thing she saw in the mirror every day?

It was one thing to her to have Mr. Jackson complimenting her looks, but even though she did treasure his words, she was convinced they came from a place of politeness.

She didn't really think he meant those epithets.

Did he?

She didn't have time to ponder the point further, as Mr. Jackson squeezed after hand, pulling her across the carpet.
Leading Odette to the base of the steps, he turned around, announcing.
“All you fellows are dismissed until eight o'clock!”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Jackson!”
“Thank you kindly, Sir!”
“I’ll be here, you can bet on that!”
Falling out of formation, most of the boys started to drift away, talking amongst themselves.

A few staring at Odette longingly as they made their exits.
“Now I’ll show you to my personal box--what is it, Orville?”
Michael stopped as one of the boys, a thin, gangly thing of about fourteen with a face of freckles and coarse black hair came forward, eyeing Odette curiously.
“Ma’am, pardon my asking…” He was holding his hat so hard, he was starting to crush it. “…but what color are your eyes?”
Odette chuckled, blushing as so much attention was starting to embarrass her. .

“Grey.”

“And you're Colored?”

“Yes...”
“Golly, you look just like Jobyna Ralston, Ma’am…” The boy smiled, before turning and jogging away.
“Jobyna Ralston...” Mr. Jackson echoed, and was peering into Odette's face, rubbing after his dimpled chin, contemplating the comparison.

“I've never noticed it before, but now that Orville mentioned it, you really do bear a striking resemblance to that actress.”

Odette, whom didn't know Jobyna from a hole in ground only grinned, feeling warm all over at being compared to someone as glamorous as a film star, and having him agree.

With Jimmy still in tow, Odette was led by the hand, not to the main doors of the auditorium, showing more peacocks,but towards a smaller, albeit plainer door, a plaque engraved with Michael Jackson's name, denoting the stairwell, leading to his personal box.

The curving hallway was papered in a deep peachy-beige, clashing slightly with the red carpeting, lit by recessed lights. The same peachy color was repeated as the trio came to an archway, decorated with a heavy velvet curtain, adorned with thick golden fringe.

Mr. Jackson turned back to an expectant Jimmy,

“Would you please get us some popcorn and soda, please?”

“Right away, Sir!”

As the boy skipped back down the steps about four at a time in his haste, Mr. Jackson turned to Odette, hands falling onto her slender shoulders.

Kneading them.

“Are you ready?”

Odette nodded eagerly.

“Yes, Sir!”

Those arched brows bounded in amusement over dark, sparkling eyes.

“Then let's go!”

An Hour Later

Odette Dufrense felt as though she were dreaming.

Whatever may have been real life up to that point, faded away once she was escorted past velvet-trimmed curtain that had concealed Michael Jackson's personal box at The Palace Theatre.

The box was a balcony, constructed to the right side of the massive screen.

Odette hadn't been able to get a very clear view of the inside of the auditorium, as the lights had been dimmed except for a few directly above the silver silk screen, where a grand organ of glossy wood with three keyboards—Mr. Jackson had said it was a Wurlitzer—down and off to the side was having a book of musical scores set up by a distinguished, white haired man of an ambiguous race, wearing a tuxedo and massaging his hands as he prepared to play.

That thrilled Odette; most movies houses played only an accompanying record of mood music to go along with the films; The Palace had it's own organist for that purpose!

Mr. Jackson's box was luxurious, at that moment containing a half-dozen Rococo-style armchairs in peach brocade, comfortable, overstuffed affairs that Odette could have sat in for hours, perhaps days, if permitted.

The experience of watching a film was so much more than Odette had imagined.

The whole ride in from the Island, she'd imagined she'd see the Max Linder picture and the Max Linder picture, only.

Much to her delight, prior to the start of the film there had been three animated shorts—two Felix the Cat cartoons, and an adaptation of Little Red Riding Hood from the Laugh-O-Gram studio, which later became Walt Disney Studios—a Travelogue of New Zealand, the fourth installment of the serial Around the World in Eighteen Days, and a newsreel about King George V and Queen Mary touring Africa.

The gentleman on the organ played along softly the entire time, the notes deep and resonant, with Odette more feeling than hearing them.

This was a far cry from the little hole in the wall she'd been squished into in Toulouse Parish with the nuns.

She felt quite grown up and very much like a lady, sitting in that screen-side box nibbling on freshly popped corn and drinking soda.

Even this simple act had been elevated to Michael Jackson's exquisite standards.

She had expected her popcorn to come in a grease stained paper bag and her soda in a glass bottle.

No...

Jimmy had come toting a small, round table of ebony, with swirled carved legs.

On top of this was a placed a lead crystal bowl overflowing with the hot buttery kernels, along with matching chalices containing what Odette found to be a very sweet, cherry flavored soda, ice cubes floating in it.

Curiously, a bottle of Tabasco brand pepper sauce, manufactured in Odette's dear Louisiana, was placed beside the bowl.

And, yes, while the screen flickered, intermittently, Mr. Jackson would sprinkle a bit on some of the popcorn, not liberally about as he did when eating it alone, so as not to spoil it for his guest, and was popping the spicy bits into his mouth, pink lips jumping.

She'd never known of anyone putting hot sauce on popcorn and found it a charming quirk.

A long finger poked at her knee.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Mr. Jackson was leaning so he could whisper into her ear.

His lips brushing her earlobe.

“Yes, I'm having the most wonderful time. Thank you so much...for inviting me.”

The head bobbed and even in the dark her eyes glittered like diamonds.

“You're very welcome, I'm glad you could join me...if you'd like, we could do this each weekend. That way you can see what happens next in the serial. I can arrange for you to see the previous installments, too. They're stored in the projection room.”

Odette turned in her seat, hands to her bosom at her good fortune.

“I'd greatly appreciate that, Sir! How much is a ticket?”

Michael Jackson chortled at her innocence.

“You needn't worry about that, Odette. As long as you're with me, you won't have to spend a penny. You can have anything you like.”

Odette startled and her mind boggled.

She could come to the movies, for free? And have all the snacks she'd like?

“Oh—thank you! I don't know how I'd ever thank you!”

He was cradling her hand in both of his.

“Tell me, Odette, do you like me?” He questioned, kneading after her soft, white digits.

“Of course!” She remarked brightly, grinning as the opening credits for Au Secours appeared on the screen, the organist pounding out a dramatic flourish,

“I never thought anyone could ever be so kind to me, treat me so well, make sure I'm tended to and fed—I owe everything to you. I like you very much! I probably like you best of anyone I've ever known in my life!”

Pulling at one of his hands she kissed the top of it.

“Odette...” Mr. Jackson was out of his chair, dropping to his knees alongside her chair. “Do....do...oh...gosh....goddamn it....”He stammered and cursed under his breath.

Seeing him clearly struggling with something, Odette touched after his shoulder, eyes searching his down turned face.

“What's the matter?”

There was that stare again.

The stare from the Asylum, the stare from when he'd kissed her shoulder.

The stare he'd been giving to her in intervals the entire time they'd been in the theatre.

From Odette's mouth came a deep, guttural intake of breath.

A gasp of unbridled realization.

At once, in rapid succession, every interaction she'd ever had with Michael Jackson, no matter how minute and mundane, average and boring, sailed through her psyche with crystal clear clarity.

How he'd spoken to her, how he'd looked at her. All the things he'd done for her, bought for her, given her.

How he'd treated her so differently from the others on his payroll.

How she was the only one permitted to live under the roof of his mansion, though she were perfectly fit and healthy and not needing to be there, unlike the aged Nellie had been.

She had never let her mind linger on that possibility for too long.

She had never wanted to hope, to dream, to believe such a thing.

She couldn't.

Stricken, and close to hyperventilating, Odette rose from her chair, and began backing away, in a mix of confusion and horror.

If it hadn't been for the gold-leaf decorated barrier, she'd have stumbled and fallen to her destruction several dozen meters below on the floor of the main auditorium.

Her eyes fixed on the crouching figure in blue. Cape fanning out around him.

Crumpling closer to the floor, as organ music tinkled around them.

She was clawing at her throat now.

Trying to force the words out.

“Are...are you in love with me?” She begged hoarsely, her eyes unnaturally huge, her heart beat rattling in her ears.

He couldn't...he couldn't possibly be.

Girls like her and men like him didn't go together...

Mr. Jackson slowly, wearily climbed to his feet.

Staggered towards her.

He stood over her.

His breaths audible and causing her hair to dance.

Those brows flexed.

“I'm not in love with you, Odette...but I'm getting there.”

She mashed herself further into the corner.

“Sir! Do...do you understand what you're saying! What it is you're telling me!”

She felt as though she were screaming through a damned straw.

His expression was so pensive, so open, so bare.

Nibbling on his bottom lip, he nodded emphatically.

“Mmm-Hmm—ODETTE!”

She was gone, swooning, those grey eyes had shut, her body going limp.

And if Mr. Jackson hadn't grabbed her, hugging her to him, she'd have gone over the side and been a pretty splatter on the carpet below.

Out cold in his arms,Odette couldn't see the smile of relief on his face.

Hear his chuckles or him sniffling as he had begun both laughing and crying simultaneously.

Feel his warm kisses dotting her face as he stooped and picked her up easily, calling for Jimmy to fetch his car around for him.

As she drifted in that misty haze of twilight, she had no idea that her life was to never, ever, be the same.

Sometime later, Odette Dufrense came to with a rude start, drawing in so deep a breath, it was as if she'd never taken one before.

Laying there, she shook her head, throbbing slightly, and inwardly laughed at herself. What a wild and crazy dream she'd had.

Michael Jackson professing his love for her.

How very silly!

It did feel so real though.

There a tiny pinprick of pain that it had only been a dream; how wonderful it must have been for any woman to be loved by such a man.

And to love him back.

Shaking her head again, Odette felt quite thirsty, and opening her eyes, to get up and make her way out to the kitchen for a a cold drink, she froze.

Instead of the exposed crisscrossing beams that were above the bed in her room, was a canopy of deep green velvet and silk pleats.

A cold sweat took over her body as she looked about her, chest growing tighter and tighter.

The bronze panther lamps with the Tiffany and Company stained glass shades.

The maroon wallpaper with ivory and green floral accents.

The fire roaring in the marble hearth.

The painting of the naked lass who looked so much like her--

Odette sat bolt upright, bosom heaving.

This room—Dear God, she knew this room!

And it wasn't her own!

“I see you're finally awake.”

Seated at the small breakfast table across from the bed, calmly playing Solitaire, was Mr. Jackson.

Gone was his fantastic blue caped ensemble and in its place he wore a rust colored silk satin robe over purple pajamas.

A lit cigarette dangled from his lips.

Setting another card down amongst the stacks, separated by their respective suits, he added,

“You were out for so long, I feared I was going to have to call one of my nephews to come see about you...”

“I'm sorry, Sir, I--”

Odette whom had been draped over the top of the covers of the still made bed, started to swing her legs out to get and stopped.

A hand coming to her mouth.

The dress!

She was still wearing that expensive blue and cream dress!

Her tricone hat had been removed, but the rest of her outfit was intact!

She hadn't dreamt that evening?

Had she really lived...

Her mind rapidly replayed the events.

Up to the moment she must have fainted.

And the things that had been said.

Again she looked to Mr. Jackson.

His cigarette now smoldering in an ashtray, his long fingers still placing cards down.

“Sir, what happened--”

“You know very well what happened, Odette...”

His game ended, with him sweeping the cards up and shuffling them a few times, the sound the only one in the room aside from the crackling of the fire .

Cards again were laid down, and he continued,

“I told you...how I felt about you, Odette. How I've always felt...”

His eyes remained downcast. As if he were afraid to gaze upon her.

“I've been drawn to you...since the first moment I saw you, Odette. It's the reason why I got you out of the orphanage, onto the train and here so rapidly. Trust me, I bent a lot of the rules and I'm sure, outright broken a few, to expedite the process. I conferred with Austin in Harlem and my own personal attorney in Toronto. If we had followed the process of transport and passports and visas, the proper way, it should have taken weeks, perhaps months, to do what I had done in less than forty-eight hours. I couldn't leave you...”

He was arranging the cards once more.

Unaware of her movements, Odette was on her feet and inching towards the table.

“Now, I understand I'm quite a bit older than you. I'm forty-five and you're not even twenty yet. It's quite a substantial age gap, but I've seen larger ones. My brother Jermaine, who's four years older than me, once ran off with a seventeen-year-old, when he was forty-seven. Only lasted a week, then the girl's father found them somewhere in Siberia—the girl was Russian—shot Jermaine through the arm and took his daughter home.”

The eyes spotlighted the figure in blue.

“Is my age a problem to you?”

“No....no, Sir....” Odette shook her head, chewing on her bottom lip.

She vaguely remembered his fearsome reaction when he'd thought she was underage, until she clarified it.

Was this truly happening?

Were they honestly having this conversation and it wasn't just another fever dream?

Digging her nails into her palms, she had to make it hurt to understand that she was truly awake, and that this wasn't a vivid hallucination.

“Sit.”

Obediently, she was in the chair opposite him.

“We must be incredibly discreet Odette, at least for a while. A few weeks, perhaps a month or so. People in this town already talk enough about me as it is—and I can't help but feel like Elsie is helping to pour the kerosene on that fire.”

At the mention of Elsie, Odette spoke up, unable to conceal her utter distaste for that woman.

“Why do you keep her employed here? I haven't heard her say a decent word about you, or your family since I've been here. And I know Dr. TJ may have done some...unsavory things, but it's impolite to speak plainly about it. It's not right. She is part of your household and should keep her thoughts to herself. It shouldn't be public knowledge, Sir. It's disloyal! She acts as though she doesn't respect you--”

A pale hand went up silencing her, and Mr. Jackson shuffled his cards again.

“Elsie's had a hard go at this life...” He pointed out, directly echoing the same statement made to her by Gus.

What that meant, Odette had no idea and Mr. Jackson didn't elaborate.

“My concern isn't Elsie Moore; its the two people right here, in this room: Michael Jackson and Odette Dufrense.”

Those huge pools of deep brown softened as he looked over her, slight curl to his lips.

“I've meant everything I've said to you—I want to take care of you. Treat you as you deserve to be treated. You've had nothing for so very long... There's prisoners in Sing-Sing who are treated better than you have been. My...Darling...”

Reaching across the table he was cradling her cheek in his warm palm.

Darling!

He called her Darling!

She was his Darling!

“I will give you anything and everything you could want, Odette. Fine clothes, jewelry, the schooling you've missed, piano lessons if you so desire. Anything...” He rose from his chair and hovered over her. “I just want you to be happy. See you smile...a girl...a woman like you, should never be sad.”

“I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Jack—”

“Call me Michael, please.”

She hesitated a moment and he nodded at her, urging her on.

“Michael.”

The thrill simply speaking his first name gave Odette was incomparable.

She winced slightly as her forearm was grasped, her being pulled from her chair.

Yanked against Michael's warm, sweet smelling body.

Their eyes met for an intense flash of a second.

Then his mouth, moist and still tasting faintly of that Tabasco-laced popcorn was mashing hers.

How lovely, how delicious his mouth was!

Odette was seeing stars, as strong arms wrapped, her squeezing tightly.

Was Michael trying to push her through his body?

She hugged him back, holding him, never wanting to let go.

After a while, her lungs began crying out for air.

Pulling her head back, she gasped raggedly,

“Please....please...Sir...Michael...”

He was cradling her face in those soft, sweet-smelling hands.

Had he doused them in his cologne?

“I...I can't believe it...” He was whispering continuing to kiss after her, his words muffled and falling over one another like a drunkard tumbling down a staircase. “I've wished for this...dreamed of it...prayed for it...and finally....finally...”

Suddenly, Michael leapt back from Odette and spun in a circle, what had to be at least three times in rapid succession.

A remarkable feat as he wore purple monogrammed slippers.

She was taken in his arms again...

His chin resting atop her head.

“You've made me so very happy, Odette...” His voice, his body was shaking.

So was hers, trembling with so many emotions, so many feelings she nearly swooned again...with him kissing at her forehead,

“You have my heart...and I have yours...forever...”