Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The interior of that custom yellow Duesenberg was markedly silent, and had been, ever since it departed on its journey, Rosewyck Manor but a speck growing ever smaller in the distance.

The coupe glided along the freshly shoveled road, a few car lengths behind the black Ford, both en route to Mass.

Odette Dufrense was troubled.

The head, topped by the chapeau of glittering black beads, turned,and crystal eyes fell on Michael Jackson.

He cut a stoic and somber figure, in a smoke grey trench and fedora.

His dark eyes focused on the automobile ahead of them, mouth a grim pink line.

She couldn't understand it; perhaps she never would.

The way the entire town of Juniper Peak had summarily and completely shunned Michael Jackson.

Every last person.

Was no one man, or woman, enough to stand up for him? Speak out against this injustice? Were they all cowards?

They had to be...to let a man live amongst them for over twenty years and not try to include him. Invite him in, be friendly and become acquainted.

Only leer, gawk and stare as he passed by. Not regard him as the man he was, but treat him as an attraction in a sideshow, liken him to sword swallower, or pinhead, or midget.

It was no fault of his own that he'd been born Colored, or that he'd made his fortune on the stage in his youth, or that he'd made shrewd investments that allowed him to live more than comfortably at a mature age.

Michael Jackson had simply managed to play the hand dealt him better than most and it showed.

Perhaps it was naivete and a bit of bias, but Odette could find nothing untoward or off-putting about how Michael Jackson lived his life. He'd worked most of his childhood and was now reaping the harvest sown from seeds planted a lifetime ago.

He was kind, quiet, kept to himself. Seemed very clannish and stayed close to home unless he absolutely had to venture off.

And with the way he was treated, Odette wouldn't want to venture off either.

If there were anything scandalous or unsavory about Michael Jackson, she was certain she'd have heard about it by now, from any of the other four whom toiled on his property. Especially Elsie, as she couldn't hold on to a secret even if it had been strapped to her bodily with chains of steel.

And as far as Odette could tell, all of her coworkers were respectable, upstanding folks, even if Chester wasn't a church-going man.

No one would work for a man of ill-repute.

Odette glanced through the windshield, and could make out the yellow face of Elsie, visible in the rear glass of the servants car, peering back at them.

Watching.

No...if Michael Jackson had ever done anything to put a black mark on his name, she'd have been the first to hit that old snowy trail in exodus.

Odette shook her head to herself.

It didn't make a lick of sense to her.

And Michael willingly put himself in the same chapel with them—himself in the old choir stand, the rest in the pews.

Somewhere was a priest, a man of the cloth, also complicit in this utter foolishness and segregation.

Based on what? That Michael Jackson was wealthy?

Yes, greed was a sin, but not being wealthy.

Had Michael Jackson been poor, would he have been treated differently?

Welcomed? Accepted?

It was sickening.

Again she looked at him, took in his profile.

Michael's almost hauntingly beautiful pale dermis, eyes rimmed with the smudges of kohl, the kiss of rouge to his cheeks.

Yes, his appearance was unconventional...and Odette still wondered how his complexion had lightened so completely from the the darker-skinned child he'd once been.

But his appearance was what had drawn her to him in the first place.

Was it his appearance that pushed people away? That he didn't look like whatever they had expected the average Colored man to look like?

Already, Odette had an utter disdain and looming hatred of everyone in Juniper Peak, perhaps with the exception of Willa the Waitress and that was only because she was Chester's not-yet-confirmed sweetheart.

At this point, Odette had lost the interest in wanting to go around town or get to know it's inhabitants. If they could throw away a man without knowing him first, then she could throw away an entire town without bothering about them any more than necessary.

“Michael...” Gloved hand, clutched gloved hand on the seat between them.

“Why do you continue going to Mass here, when it's clear the people here...don't want you? Why don't you go to Mass, in The City, with your nephews and their families?”

“Don't be absurd, Victoire...” He sighed and his free hand thumped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “My nephews go to five a.m. Mass. And we'd have to stay over else at one of their houses or in a hotel in order to rise so early. It'd been lunacy to try to travel so far from here the day of. Why, we'd have to get up at something like one or two in the morning! And we can't do that just yet...”

His hand came up, cradling her chin.

“...I've already been taking a gamble, bringing you into The City on outings. But at least I have some anonymity there. And I wanted to spend time with you, just the two of us. If we're both missing from service, especially after your debut today, and folks find out that I took you, overnight, alone, into Toronto...people would talk up a storm.”

Thin shoulders shrugged carelessly, Odette pointing out stubbornly,

“It seems the people around here have been made up their small minds about you, Michael. What should it matter if they have something to say now?”

“I'm trying to protect you, Odette!”

A fist pounded the wheel and the vehicle swerved.

“I want you to be able to go out in town, and not have a scandal following you everywhere you take a step, Baby! I want you to make friends--”

“I don't want to be friends with anyone here.” The small chin lifted in defiance a second time. “Not if they keep you separate. Treat you as less than human. Even with the way Madame Lenoir treated me like garbage, the handful of times she dragged us orphans to Church, I sat on the same pew as her. That woman despised me, and still I at least sat on the same pew as her! Those people won't even afford you that!”

The dark eyes were tumultuous, but Mr. Jackson held his tongue.

Odette did not.

“If it weren't for you buying me this lovely new dress and coat, I'd have rather stayed home. I don't want to sit and watch people avoiding you like The Plague! I don't need friends! I don't need them!” She repeated with staunch conviction.

“I've never had them before, I don't need them now.”

A small hand caressed his knee, careful not to spoil the crease in his pant leg.

“You're all I need...Darling.”

Michael chuckled softly, asking,

“Are you always this strong-willed?”

Grey eyes shifted to out the window.

“Yes...when it pertains to someone I love.”

Observing the snowy landscape, she added, “I suppose once it all comes out in the wash what I am to you, Michael, I'll get treated the same way. The Sweetheart of the Richest Man in Town. The strange Colored girl who looks White that's been imported from some town in the South no one's ever heard tell of before. I'd rather call a spade a spade and nip this thing in the bud, rather than be false. Let these folks play make-believe in my face, then go skittering like a pack of scared jackrabbits when the truth comes out.”

She absently picked at the silver crank that lowered the window.

“It's not for me.”

“You're a sweet young girl.” Michael reasoned, his voice saccharine. “You should have some girlfriends.”

“Maybe one of the doctor's wives, once everything is out in the open.”

“I don't want you to suffer, Odette, not like I have.”

A sharp eye sought out the chiseled face.

“I'd rather receive gossip and cold shoulders over a birch rod any day, Michael Jackson.”

That shut him up, right away.

The rest of the journey passed on in more of that replete silence.

It went unspoken and didn't need to be: both worried about how the other was to be perceived—treated—by the public. Odette, moreso because Juniper Peak was now her home and she had no means by which to travel away.

Fifty dollars, sure, but she had no idea of where to go or stay as she had only been in Canada a week, and seen only bits and pieces of two towns out of many.

The incredibly expensive parts of Toronto where fifty dollars was but pocket change.

Plus, she couldn't let her Mr. Jackson go off into that lion's den alone.

Not anymore.

Just...it wasn't right.

How could anyone claim to be Christian and act in this manner, and have for decades?

It would never sit well with her and the very thought of it upset her stomach.

They sailed past empty homesteads and farms, all quite vacant as everyone had congregated out around the one church.

To pretend to be so Holy...it was laughable!

Soon, the heart of Juniper Peak came into view, all the businesses shuttered and dim that cold February morning.

Finally, they turned onto a shoveled lane that inclined up a slight hill.

Over to the left was a modest schoolhouse, weather-beaten and white-washed, about a dozen children horse-playing and pitching snowballs at one another. Having a merry time before services began.

At least they were, until the yellow coupe slithered by.

Then all motions ceased, and the boys and girls grew still, eyes fixated on the luxury vehicle.

The only one on the island.

Sure, there were other American makes, Ford, Chevrolet, Oldsmobile, and a few Canadian makes that no one remembered the names of, but only that one Duesenberg.

Unable to control her jaw, Odette remarked frigidly,

“Staring is rude. People should teach their miserable offspring better!”

For the first time since the ride began, he laughed.

Michael Jackson laughed.

A cheery, pleasant, much-welcomed noise it was.

Through her coat and skirt, a large hand gripped her thigh, and squeezed appreciatively.

At the crest of the hill, surrounded by a picket fence, was an unremarkable building of light colored brick, with all the hallmarks of a “holy” building: peaked stained glass windows, a set of shut plain double doors engraved with crosses, and high above under a steeple, a large brass bell waited to be rung denoting the start of services.

A small sign, just outside the fenced area denoted Saint Jude's Catholic Church. Established 1862.

Odette felt herself inhaling deeply as they passed through the open gate.

A smattering of those common-made cars, and a few horse-drawn carts, littered the snow-covered lot while throngs of the townsfolk, young and old, gathered in varying clusters both trying to keep warm and passing the time with idle chatter.

Odette regarded each and every one of them with contempt.

She felt she would never like them any more than typical, expect, for begrudging pleasantries.

These were the people whom had excluded her Mr. Jackson for longer than she'd been alive.

The snakes...vipers.

The coupe came to a halt just behind the Ford carrying the servants and idled a moment.

Long enough for the other three to disband and disperse, Elsie and Mavis joining a group of women, Colored and White, underneath a tree, while Gus took up with a gaggle of men smoking pipes and cigarettes a few yards over while leaning against a huge black sedan.

Everyone else seemed so happy, so lighthearted that bright morning.

The hand released Odette's thigh, and reaching over her, opened the glove compartment.

From it, Michael plucked three items: a Book of Hymns and a Holy Bible, both leather-bound and embossed with his name in the bottom corner, and the most beautiful set of rosary beads Odette had ever seen.

Shimmering black pearls were connected by small beads of white gold, culminating in a Crucifix of Christ—his feet and hands showing tiny diamonds for the stakes attaching him to the cross.

Even his Rosary was an event.

“You ready, Baby?” He spoke but his lips didn't move.

The apprehension was so thick it was almost visible to the naked eye.

“Yes.” Odette was solemn.

There was a sigh of resignation, and Michael opened his door, exiting.

Instantaneously, everyone, no matter where on the property, turned to look.

Stare. Gaze. Gawk.

All eyes were on him as he rounded the front of the car to her side.

An audible murmur crescendo-ed when he opened the passenger door and offered a hand to help her alight.

Briefly, she caught a glimpse of Elsie, her head close to those of the others around her, mouth moving faster than should have been possible, whispering, while a stone-faced Mavis looked on. God only knew what old sow cow was telling the others.

Odette's heart ached further, when she noticed Michael had his head lowered, as he offered his arm to her, which she took.

Why he couldn't even hold his head up!

Defiantly, verging on the edge of outright discourtesy, Odette Dufrense did the opposite.

The head in the twinkling black hat remained up, and she returned every gaze she could meet with as much fire and vinegar as she could muster, to the point a great many looked away from her.

Oh, they could dish it, but couldn't take it, eh?

Moving rather swiftly, a step or so from running, Michael Jackson was leading her towards the doors to the church, bypassing dozens. He didn't stop and speak to anyone or shake a hand, nothing.

Nor was it offered.

As they went by the ladies near that one elm, Odette heard Elsie clear as a bell,

“...that's the girl I was telling you about, the one that's replaced Nellie! Doesn't look very much like a maid, now does she? Mr. Jackson keeps ordering those high dollar dresses out Toronto...”

At the comment her head whipped around and grey eyes narrowed maliciously.

Fear crossed Elsie's face and she took a few steps back, hiding from view behind a very obese woman in an ill-fitting coat and tam. No, she didn't want to be dragged around that yard in front of God and everyone that morning.

There were about ten steps to mount before they got into the church, and as a patent, tasseled loafer landed on the first step, a meek voice called out,

“Good morning, Mr. Jackson.”

On the other side of the banister, stood a boy of about seventeen or eighteen, smiling sheepishly up at them, twisting a cap of houndstooth in his hands.

He seemed a shy type, with a bright red hair that puffed about his head like a halo, with cool freckled skin and pale blue eyes in a slim, pointy face.

He wasn't much to look at, but there was a genuine, friendly glow in his eyes.

And it was a face which caused Michael Jackson to smile and offer a hand which was gamely shaken,

“Good morning to you, Julius.”

Odette gazed upon him with fond recognition. Julius—the boy from the switchboard whom Michael tied up on a daily basis.

“Odette, this is Julius Abernathy,” Michael pointed out as the boy came around.

“Julius, allow me to present Odette Dufrense?”

A small hand was offered him and Julius stared at it, seemingly surprised she'd want to shake his hand.

Slowly, his larger, rougher hand grasped her gloved one and he pumped it eagerly, smiling brightly,

“It's very nice to meet you! I've....I've heard a lot about you.”

“It's nice to meet you too...” Odette returned the smile warmly, “Thank you for hauling all of my packages out to the house.”

“Shucks!” Julius collapsed into peals of goofy laughter, “I was glad to do it! Anytime! Mr. Jackson's a right nice fella!”

Perhaps there was some hope for this hellish hamlet after all.

“Come along...” Michael was starting to tug her up the steps. “I want you to meet Father Laramie.”

“You'll excuse me?” Odette smiled and began to follow him.

“Are you really a maid, like everyone says?”

She turned back at the inquiry,

“Yes, that's what I was hired to do—why?”

The boy went as red as his hair. “Well...you just don't look like a maid!”

Michael snickered as Odette slid her arm from his and placed hands on her hips in challenging.

“What does a maid look like then, Julius, if I don't look like one?”

She never got a clear answer, with Julius babbling a long moment, glancing at Mr. Jackson, nearly hollering “Shucks!” a second time and beating a hasty retreat to a group of other boys, all laughing.

“I think you have an admirer, Miss Dufrense...” Michael teased in a choking whisper as they continued up the steps.

“Only you interest me...especially after last night--”

A larger hand clapped over her mouth silencing her.

“Jesus Tapdancing Christ, Odette! We're at Church!” Michael spoke through gritted teeth, reaching for the door, and releasing her face.

She only smiled at him as he took hold of one of the knobs and turned it, opening the door for her.

The door opened onto a small alcove with pegs meant to hold the outerwear of the parishioners, but Michael didn't shed a single item, other than his hat, which he held atop his books.

Through the alcove they entered the sanctuary, painted a deep cream color, lined on both sides with pews. Along the walls, showing stained glass of an amber color, were statues of various religious figures and saints.

It was a plain, utilitarian space, with no more adornment than needed.

At the very front was the altar and podium from which sermons were delivered. Behind that was several risers, with a polished pipe organ, forming the new choir stand Michael had mentioned.

On reflex, Odette looked over her shoulder.

In the very back, above the alcove was the old choir stand.

A loft boasting a single pew.

The spot to which Michael Jackson had been unceremoniously banished.

Turning back, Odette stared at the gigantic rendering of Christ on the Cross, in polished oak, taking up the greater portion of the wall behind the podium, flanked on each side by an amber window.

Silently, from a side door near the back, a half dozen nuns, stern creatures draped in black with veils flowing nearly to their heels, only their faces, lined with age and religious wisdom visible, came marching.

One seated herself at the organ while the others busied themselves readying the church for service.

Two large heaters, used to heat the space in winter had a nun at each, starting and stoking fires, while a third was placing a pitcher of water and glass on a small table beside the rostrum.

Others, armed with rags were doing quick dustings of the windows, and all the hard surfaces within reach.

“Michael Jackson...”

A tall figure, wrapped in a rustling black robe was approaching smoothly.

An elderly gentleman, face heavy with wrinkles but showing a kind light in his eyes was extending a hand to Michael, who took it.

“And how are you this morning, my son?” He asked shaking his hand and patting his back with the other.

“Fine...fine. Father Laramie, I'd like you to meet Odette Dufrense.”

Light danced across his silvery hair as the priest regarded her kindly and took her hand.

“Odette... It's nice to meet you, my child. Michael has told me about you...Welcome to Juniper Peak and Saint Jude's. I hope you'll have a nice time here and make yourself at home in our little parish. ”

“Thank you Father, I appreciate that. I'm sure I'll get along just fine. I already consider Juniper Peak home.” Odette had no idea how she managed to remain civil, as she so badly wanted to demand to know why Michael had to sit so far away and he seemed not to care nor do anything about it.

He was the priest—he ran the church! He was presiding over this...this injustice!

Father Laramie's lips parted and he grinned at her, nodding in understanding.

“I'm sure--”

“Pardon me, Father?”

One of the withered women in black appeared at his side, producing a small silver pocket watch from the folds of her garment.

“Yes, Sister Mary Clarence?”

“It's almost eight o'clock, Father, should we open the doors?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!”

With a deep nod at the finely dressed pair, he was gone, the nun at his side, both rushing for the doors to allow the rest of the townspeople in.

Hooking her arm back through Michael's, Odette allowed herself to be escorted to the left side of the building, along the side wall and to an innocuous door.

From there there took an unadorned staircase up to the loft.

Someone had been there before them; a candelabra blazed on a table, offering the only source of light up there, aside the windows muted illumination.

The bell denoting that church was letting in began to chime loudly, and Odette was thankful that the loft had been dampened immensely against the noise or she and Michael would have surely gone deaf if they'd gotten the full sound.

Indeed it rang so loudly, that the floor was vibrating beneath their feet.

While Michael removed his coat, draping it over the pew with his hat, Odette leaned against the banister.

She wanted to see them. Look at them.

The people whom Michael Jackson couldn't sit among because not a single one appeared to have the self control to not stare at a fellow man.

To her further dismay, heads were turning, eyes going up.

But as Michael was seated, he was obscured from view, leaving only her visible up above the rest.

And everyone was curiously regarding this new girl...whose legend mixed true with false.

The girl who may or may not have been an orphan, found somewhere in the Southern United States—Louisiana, Georgia, Mississippi, it varied depending who you asked—rescued from an orphanage, the street itself or in some cases a sanitarium, by Mr. Jackson.

The new girl, who, while dressed modestly in her black coat and hat, a tap from Mr. Jackson had her removing her overcoat, displaying the fine silk embroidered bi-color frock.

A frock that was leaps and bounds fancier and of a better grade than the wife and daughters second richest person in town, Zeke Harper, the owner of Harper's Produce, could procure.

Unbeknownst to her, Odette's dress was one of the more expensive modes available from LaVonda's of Toronto, while the Harper females made do with middle-of-the-road frocks from the Sears-Roebuck catalog.

Indeed, Odette's appearance and grooming was not lost on the populace.

She was young, very beautiful, and looked nothing like a maid to any of them.

She didn't appear a servant—there were a great many in that congregation, girls and women who were pale, underslept and overwrought.

Girls and women whom traversed The Lake to The City daily before the sun dared to rise to work and keep house for wealthy families in their mansions.

They didn't live in the mansions, as Odette did, didn't have a room to themselves in said mansion.

Odette appeared more like a girl whom servants waited on.

And there was a hushed consensus, that passed in whispers and knowing looks, unheard under the blare of the pipe organ and the cluster of nuns on the choir stand singing hymns of old in Latin.

Odette Dufrense may have been a maid for Michael Jackson, but she wouldn't be for long.

While Odette had been distastefully eyeing the old members of the church, people in her Mr. Jackson's age bracket and beyond, she neglected to look at those closer to her own age range.

There was a bit of a disturbance with the younger set, scattered around the pews.

Boys of all ages, some too young to even understand what their hormones were doing or even what a hormone was kept glancing up at the pale, pretty figure haunting the loft.

Only knowing that they liked how she looked and enjoyed looking at her.

(Until a mother or grandmother pinched them back to paying attention or a disgruntled girlfriend slapped her beau about the head for daring to give attention to another girl.)

A few men snuck brave peeks upwards also, but were stealthy enough as to not receive a strike of their own from hen-pecking wives.

At some point there had been a sermon, as the nuns had taken a seat in a pew in the front reserved for them, the organ had gone silent and Father Laramie had taken the podium.

Mr. Jackson had appeared at Odette's side, his Bible opened for them to share, the string of black pearls dangling from his hand as a long finger pointed out the scriptures being read.

Odette pretended to pay attention, but couldn't.

How could she?

The tension in the room was palpable; she could feel it.

And by the pain revealing itself in the doe eyes on the pages of God's Word, Michael was feeling it also.

Had been for over twenty years.

To be in a place where you were clearly unwanted was a terrible feeling; it was how Odette had felt since her very first day at The Asylum.

She didn't like it; she made up her mind to find a way to convince Michael to switch to whatever church his nephews worshiped at in The City, even if they had to stay over night or lose sleep to hop an extremely early ferry.

She'd rather never sleep again than watch the circus that was Mass at St. Jude's a second time.

She'd rather Michael be surrounded by his family who loved him and were happy to be around him, than the holy hostility he was being shown at the present.

There were a lot of things Odette would have rathered, but it simply had to wait.

Eventually service drew to a close, with Father Laramie presiding over Communion—everyone taking a sip of wine from a gilt chalice and having a thin wafer placed on their tongue while Holy Words were spoken over them.

Of course, Michael Jackson and Odette Dufrense were the very last to partake of the Body and Blood of Christ, as by the time they came down from the loft, the line was circling the inside of the building.

Odette was outright bristling and could barely hang on to her composure as she took a sip and ate the cracker. How she managed the Sign of the Cross as Father Laramie blessed her, without screaming a blue streak of obscenities, was a wonder.

She wanted to get away, far away from this place and never come back.

If she never saw the inside of Saint Jude's ever again, it'd be too damn soon!

Odette would have fled the church and sat in the car, if Michael hadn't been holding on to her coat.

And unfortunately, Michael was still at the altar, lighting a prayer candle, and chatting quietly with Father Laramie.

Stubbornly, Odette waited by the open doors leading to the steps, arms wrapped around herself to brace against the cold.

Peering out over the front yard of the church house, watching people talking amongst themselves, calling to one another.

Children picking up their snowball fight, running back and forth, causing an almighty ruckus.

While Mavis and Gus were slowly walking back to the Ford,his arm around his wife's thick middle, Odette saw Elsie was the Belle of the Service, as a group of middle-aged women clustered to her, Elsie in the middle, her mouth moving wildly.

Surely talking about her.

What else could a woman who seemed to have no true life of her own outside of the walls of Michael Jackson's grand estate do besides chatter on endlessly about the private matters behind its walls to a rapt audience of old peahens in desperate need of more snugly fitting corsets and to find some business of their own!

Once she was able to be public as Michael Jackson's Sweetheart, she was going to fire Elsie Moore, Odette had long since made up on her mind on that point.

“...well, she looks mighty White to me...”

“ ...no, she's Colored. My mama heard it straight from Miss Elsie. She's from Louisiana. Creole or something...something like...Colored and White...”

“Oh! You mean like Mr. Jackson's little nieces!”

“Yeah! And by her name, I reckon she's some type of French--”

Her thoughts of cruel vengeance interrupted, Odette heard feminine voices in close proximity, discussing her.

Venturing just beyond the door, she spied a pair of Colored girls, near her age, loitering on the steps, trading second-hand gossip, backs to her, heads close to one another in worn felt hats that didn't match their carefully mended coats.

“Well, how French do you think she is? Like half or something? I hear she's the new maid over at Rosewyck—you know since Miss Nellie up and died.”

“I don't know—”

“Mes deux grand-peres sont des Francais de pure souche, originaires de Lyon et de Nice, si vous voulez savoir!”

Both girls whipped around, faces contorted with horror as Odette Dufrense answered their question, in angry, fluent French, stomping down a few steps and out into the cold.

“W-w-what?” One of them murmured as the girls appeared to clutch onto one another for dear life.

The head of jet waves tossed, her hat bouncing off, revealing the length of red ribbon tied into a bow.

“I said: both of my grandfathers were full-blooded French, one from Lyon and the other from Nice, if you must know!”

Grey eyes washed over them and she was beginning to lose the grip on herself—Odette was furious.

What right had they to sit and speculate about her background, her lineage?

“Is there anything else your insipid, inquiring minds would like to know, or are you satisfied?”

She started to take another step not sure if she was planning to brawl that morning or not. She would just have to make up her mind mid-swing.

“Odette.”

Suddenly, Mr. Jackson was at her side, replacing the hat on her head with a playful tap.

“You shouldn't be in the cold with nothing on your arms, you could catch your death of pneumonia.”

The coat was held open and Odette allowed him to slip it on her.

“You can talk to Peola and Luella later; I'm expecting my family...the house needs to be prepared...”

Mr. Jackson brushed around her and down the steps, only pausing to tip his hat at the girls, who continued to gape up at her with wide, saucer-like eyes.

Truly, half the churchyard was staring, but what was new at that point?

He walked a few more feet out and stopped.

“Victoire.”

“Yes, Sir!” Odette continued down the steps and couldn't help herself,

Stopping in front of the two girls, she informed them,

“My given name is Victoire Odette Dufrense. I typically go by my middle name. I am five-eighths White and three-eighths Colored—and you can quote me personally on that!”

Jaws hung all around.

She then flounced past them to where Mr. Jackson continued to stand, the pair of them advancing to his fine yellow automobile.

As the door was opened a voice cut across the eerily silent yard,

“Goodbye, Odette!”

Julius Abernathy, snowball in hand, was waving after her.

The corners of her mouth went up as she returned the gesture, then got into the car, Mr. Jackson closing the door after her.

As he rounded the car for the driver's side, Odette kept smiling.

Maybe she did have a friend in Juniper Peak after all.

Sometime Later

Rosewyck Manor

The interior of Mr. Jackson's office was starting to warm up, but an errant chill clung to the air, as a fire had been lit less than ten minutes earlier.

Odette sat quietly on the blue brocade chaise, small hands wringing in her lap.

Her mind was anywhere and everywhere at once; when they had returned to the Main House, the others had disbanded to change into their work uniforms—chatting happily about being paid extra for working on their day off—but Michael had told her to wait for him up in that painfully silent office.

He wanted to “have a word with you.”

Odette was terribly worried. Was Mr. Jackson going to upbraid and scold her for her behavior at Mass that morning? Was he angry with her?

Furious?

Had she somehow compounded matters and made them worse by allowing her mouth to run away with her and her emotions get the best of her?

The last thing she ever wanted to do was bring shame upon Michael Jackson and his house.

Her spine stiffened suddenly, her ears perking up to a familiar noise.

In the distance, but growing steadily closer was the sound of soles clicking on the hardwood.

Mr. Jackson was nearby.

Behind her, the door swung and the footfalls continued until he appeared at the end with the upholstered half-back, his face downward as he had draped his suit jacket over one arm, leaving him in just his shirt and vest on top, and was removing the aquamarine pin.

Tossing the jacket down carelessly—the jacket alone probably cost more than all of Odette's possessions—he finally spoke to her.

And surprisingly, it wasn't in scolding or reprimand; but a simple request,

“Odette, fetch me a cigarette and my lighter from the desk, please.”

Instantly, she was on her feet, obeying, plucking the items up and as a good second through, also collected the ashtray of amber glass.

“Thank you, Darling.” He took his own sweet time to sit down, set the cancer stick ablaze in his mouth and blew a smoke ring.

It dissipated in the air over her head.

Those doe eyes swept her from head to foot before focusing up at her tense, blanching face.

“Why on Earth didn't you tell me you could speak French like a little Parisienne? You could have knocked me over with a feather when I came out of the church and heard you!”

If Michael were at all annoyed at her for how she'd spoken so sharply to those two teen girls, their names escaped her at the moment, he never mentioned it.

“I...I so seldom speak it...”She admitted, hands steadily turning in front of her. “I usually only speak it when I'm angry. I didn't much like having my background speculated on--”

“--and you were speaking France French, not Creole French...” Michael paused, long fingers affixing the aquamarine to his vest, indicating he planned to go sans jacket that afternoon.

“I understand the Creole variant is very common in Louisiana, Lord knows I heard enough of it while I was at L'Hotel Boudreaux; Mr. Boudreaux spent the entire time shouting at his children in it. Did you learn it from your grandfathers? You said they were from Lyon and Nice? I understood you perfectly...”

The head of raven waves shook in the negative.

“No...My Mama's Papa, Jean-Luc died before I was born, and Papa's Papa, Etienne died when I was about two. My parents preferred to speak French at home, but taught me English...and that's all Madame spoke to any of us in at the Asylum...English.”

Odette always thought that evil woman resented her for being fluent in French even as a small child and Madame Lenoir had no grasp of it as a woman nearing seventy years of age.

Arched brows bounced in understanding at her and Michael grew quiet.

He was quiet for so long, that Odette, uncomfortable and unable to read the relaxed features of his handsome face, began apologizing anyway,

“I'm sorry if I acted out of character at Mass today...just...I was infuriated by how everyone there treated you so poorly. Stared but didn't speak to you--”

“You'll get used to it.” Michael remarked flatly and another ring exited his mouth.

Odette gaped, horrified. He really expected her to stand idly by, turn a blind eye and let this bull mess continue unchecked? Without speaking up or standing up on his behalf?

Why it had nearly proven impossible that morning. And he wanted a repeat performance next Sunday and all the ones thereafter?

“Mr. Jackson—Michael! Can't we try to going to Mass in The City? I don't care if I lose a few hours of sleep. That's what strong coffee is for--”

Her comment seemed to pass right through one ear and out the other, none of it making contact with his brain, as he set the cigarette in the ashtray, and abruptly changed the topic,

“Why haven't you worn any of the makeup samples I got you from Cecelia's?”

Those slim shoulders went up and down,

“I don't know how to apply it, Sir, I've never worn makeup before.”

“Bring the items up to me. I'll help you. I'd like to see how you look with it on. Just a bit, since you're already naturally beautiful...” He stood and loomed over her. “Only ugly girls need lots of makeup.”

Hands grasping her shoulders and kneading them.

Odette allowed him to kiss her softly on the mouth.

“Keep...keep this dress on, don't put on your uniform. I like this dress on you and want to look at you in it longer...” His breaths were warm against her face.

Noting the apprehensive glint in her grey eyes, he added, “If anyone says anything about it, I'll handle it. I won't be told what to do underneath my own roof!”

Her backside was patted gently and Odette was out the door, all four of her cheeks redder than the inserts on her dress.

Scurrying down the stairs, she skipped the last three steps, jumping and landing in the front hall.

To her right, she could see Gus setting out the hors d'oeuvres in the living room, light classical music coming from the Victrola.

Across the hall to the left, Mavis was busily setting the table for nine,

and had stopped to polish the glimmering gold-plated candelabra that would be in the center of the table that evening.

It took a bit longer to find Elsie. Although Odette wasn't seeking her.

Odette went through the side door, heading for her bedroom, and spied that living specter perched on the naked chair in the hall. Resting or hiding, was anyone's guess.

Odette had intended to pass her by without a word, as ignoring her got her through most days without committing a bloody homicide.

But Elsie just wouldn't let her be.

As Odette passed her, those thin flaps she called lips parted,

“I notice you're not doing very much work this morning.” She snipped and Odette paused midstep.

Staring ahead of herself at the shut door to her room she quipped in retort,

“And what does hanging around here, holding the chair down on the floor count as for you, Elsie? Hmmm?”

Odette couldn't help but giggle to herself, as zinged by that pointed observation, Elsie launched herself up and was hurrying away out to the front hall.

In her room, Odette gathered the items as asked, but also refreshed her pressure points with more of her Les Nuits Egyptiennes, so Michael would not only enjoy looking at her, but smelling her too.

It was a rather nice feeling, doing things for Michael and having him reciprocate with much enthusiasm and admiration.

She was partly up the stairs when she heard Elsie's voice, whining to Mavis,

“... I told you that Odette gal was nothing but trouble! I been told you! Over and over! God help me! I'm her elder and she doesn't even afford me the respect and reverence I deserve!”

Flatware clanked and Mavis heaved when sounded a sigh that had been brewing for the ages.

“Elsie, respect is a two-way street, Honey. And I can honestly say I haven't seen you doing jack shit in the way of even trying to respect that child. You've been hateful and cold to her since the day she set foot in this house. I know you're still sore Nellie died, but damn it, it's not Odette's fault! How in the HELL do you expect her to show you anything but contempt when that's all you've shown her?”

Odette was beaming like a complete idiot.

“Mavis! Don't you care! Can't you see what's happening? What's going on between Mr Jackson and that girl! She's bewitched him! Mark my words, one day she'll be running this entire house!”

It was then Mavis Clarke uttered a sentence that made every hair on Odette Dufrense's body raise,

“If you're so worried about Odette becoming lady of the house, if I were you, Elsie Moore, I'd start treating her better, because if she does gain that power, I guarantee she'll throw you out quicker than Michael Jackson could say yes! The way you've had it out for that child since she's been here and for no damn reason other you're mad she's Nellie's replacement! That girl didn't kill Nellie! And you're being ridiculous! Have been for a solid week and I'm sick of it! ”

There was a gasp of pure agony and the sound of feet fleeing.

Odette could have been worried that the servants were clearly seeing through the thin charade she and Michael Jackson were masquerading behind like a pane os glass, hitting the nail on the head that their dealings with one another was more than professional, but she didn't.

It was the idea that all recognized if—and when—she became second in command under Michael, that Elsie Moore would be sent packing, expeditiously.

Back on the second floor, Odette neared the office, the door left ajar and could hear Michael speaking on the telephone,

“...you're at the marina now? Waiting on the ferry? That'll be about how long? Ninety minutes? Yeah, don't worry, Silly! It's fine! It'll give Gus a chance to make some tea and cider so it'll be hot and fresh when you all arrive! No, take your time. I'll see you then. I love you, too...”

He was hanging up the phone as Odette entered,

“That was Taryll...they just missed the ferry but will catch the next one.” He informed her and pointed towards the chaise, where the handheld mirror and cloisonne pot of vanishing crème from his vanity had been placed.

A robe of mauve velvet had been folded.

“Remove your dress, I don't want any powder to get on it. Slip the robe on but leave it open, I don't want you to catch a chill, but I need to be able to blend the makeup down your neck.”

Michael was unbuttoning and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, as Odette did as told, setting the items aside and unhooking her dress, slipping it off and putting it over the back of one of the guest chairs.

Light danced off of her diamond bracelet.

Pulling the robe on, and rubbing at its sumptuous sleeves, Odette asked,

“Do...do you always buy the best of everything?”

“Yes.”

Michael had been dragging one of the chairs from the table holding an elaborate checkers set closer to her but stopped a faraway look to his eyes.

“Believe it or not, I grew up very poor Odette. Before Joseph decided to put all of us kids into vaudeville, he worked in the steel mills in Gary, and Mother tried to tend house and keep up with ten children running and crawling around. Joseph didn't make much, and naturally it was thought all of us boys would go to the mills once we were old enough to help pay the bills, take the burden off my folks. Food was short, a lot of beans and rice, things to stretch a dime. But then we went on the stage. Singing, dancing, acting. We did it all. Made more money in an evening than my father made in six months! From a young age I made up my mind to get money, have money and keep money. And to surround myself with nice things. And I have.”

The chair was pulled in front of the chaise and he sat, large hands pushing the front of the robe open a bit wider.

“I didn't get to go to school, like normal children. I was a working child and didn't get my diploma until I was twenty-four. I did a correspondence course because I was far too old to go any schools here, even if I had put up tuition.”

The vanishing crème was opened, and the crème, smelling lightly of citrus, was carefully spread over her face and down her neck, moisturizing and further softening her dermis.

“That's why I'm so...obsessed...with learning and knowledge. I love to read, I love to find out and discover new things. Money is wonderful, but the mind is truly invaluable Odette. I knew you were greatly intelligent, just how you speak. You don't sound like someone brought up in a barnyard somewhere. You are intelligent.”

“Th-thank you...” Odette whispered, as she'd only been called different flavors of stupid by Madame Lenoir all her life.

“I plan to cultivate that...” Michael trailed off and was opening the powders, scrutinizing them, trying to figure which came closest to her complexion.

“I want to cultivate all of you, Odette. You're like a rose...and I want to help you bloom.”

The powder, the palest shade called Blanche was set aside, Michael explaining it was the finishing touch, after everything else had been put on. Michael said he used that shade when he ran out of his custom-made powder as he was even paler than that.

It was killing Odette not knowing why or how Michael Jackson had lost his darker skin tone, but something within her kept nagging it'd be rude to ask.

A light grey eyeshadow was chosen and stippled on, more concentrated on the lid and diffused towards her rounded brows. He noted that because of her eye color she could get away with several colors—grey, black, navy, green and brown. Maybe even violet—his sister Latoya was fond of violet eyeshadow.

Creme blush in a blue-based red was daubed on the cheeks, Michael instructing her to use a light hand. Too many women put on too much rouge and looked like circus clowns as a result.

Kohl was smudged around her eyes, Michael advising her to always use black, even though brown was also an option. He stressed with her skin and eye color it would really enhance and bring them out.

“Definition is everything You're defining and showcasing your face.”

Cake mascara went on with a small stiff brush, Michael repeating not to use brown as her lashes were naturally black.

Brown would make black lashes appear “ashy”.

As Michael opened the tubes of lipstick, eyeing them, Odette asked how he knew to apply women's makeup so well?

He did wear cosmetics, anyone looking at him could see that, but it wasn't applied how he was instructing her.

His pink lips curled into a smirk,

“I always helped my sisters—Maureen, Latoya and Janet—get dressed and made up for the stage. It's second nature to me now. Don't you worry, I know the difference between stage makeup and real life makeup. Pucker...”

He poked his lips out and Odette followed suit allowing him to dot, rather than smear the color—a red on par with the rouge—along her mouth and rubbing her lips together.

Powder was applied generously, lavishly, and allowed to set a good ten seconds before Michael used a small brush to remove the excess.

“Does...does it look nice?” Odette was apprehensive, wondering if she looked very different.

She's seen the ads in her magazines and in the news paper,

The women depicted always looked pretty, but not quite themselves.

“You tell me.”

Michael, mirror in hand turned it so Odette could see herself.

The painted mouth fell open.

Why...she was beautiful!

Her eyes seemed to glitter and call for attention more than ever, her lashes appeared a mile long! She never knew her lashes were so long!

Her cheeks showed the very slightest hint of color and her mouth was an exclamation point at the base of her face, her lips a decidedly becoming shape.

“I...I love it Michael! Oh, thank you! I...I look so pretty!” She was in his lap, hugging, her lips pressing his.

“You've always been pretty and don't forget it.” He booped the tip of her nose and pulled her closer.

“Odette...” His hand was clutching at one of her flesh globes through the scarlet silk of her combination. “Did you like, what we did that night everyone was at the movies?”

Blushing Odette ducked her head and nodded, feeling a bit guilty for daring to admit she had enjoyed something...sexual.

Girls were supposed to be innocent, demure and unspoiled creatures.

But she liked being morally corrupted by Michael Jackson.

He could spoil her as much as he liked.

“We should do it again sometime...” Michael mused, tugging at the fabric and allowing a firm breast to be exposed. Leaning, a flash of pink tongue circled her nipple, thrilling Odette and causing her to bounce involuntarily on his lap, excited prickles breaking out all over her skin.

“...tonight?” The word popped from that cherry-red mouth and Michael's head shot up.

“If...if you'd feel up to it after my family goes back to the mainland.” His eyes, tone and being were hopeful.

Sheepishly, Odette nodded, realizing what she'd consented to.

She should have felt some type of way, some shame, something.

But she was only happy, that he was happy.

All she cared to do was keep Michael Jackson happy.

Ninety minutes later, Odette, once again dressed and presentable, loitered near the buffet at the rear of the living room nibbling on a Deviled Egg.

Gus had outdone himself yet again, as he now toiled in the steam filled kitchen, working on the lamb for dinner, managing to set out an impressive array of nibbles—more of that Liver Pate, on Garlic Crackers, this time, Shrimp Salad with Radishes on Toast Points, a Variety of Pickled Cucumbers both sweet and sour, Bacon-Wrapped Breadsticks and some form of a mayonnaise-based dip for the sticks to be enjoyed with.

In a bowl, a Cherry-Berry Punch bobbed as a cold beverage option; the air was heavy with the scent of both herbal tea and chocolate wafting from the kitchen, waiting until the last minute to be served while still piping hot.

Through the open door to the hall, Odette saw Mavis and Elsie taking their places near the vestibule, ready to receive and put away the outerwear upon their guests arrival.

Elsie sneered at her, and Odette sneered back.

Across the room, Michael Jackson stood, holding the velvet curtain back, watching.

Odette could see the snow falling a bit more briskly through the window.

Her nerves were starting to wear at her.

She was still very worried she'd have four versions of Cornelia Jackson stomping and ordering her about.

She hoped the children did take to her in some capacity.

She worried if she didn't get along with those little princesses, it may damage her in Michael's eyes.

And she'd have thrown herself from the highest point of his home if that ever came to pass and she fell out of favor with Michael Jackson.

“Here they come, finally.” Michael announced to the walls, and in the distance, growing louder, was the honking of Taj Jackson's car horn, signaling their arrival.

AAAH-OOGA! AAAH-OOGA

Michael, smoothing his hair made a speedy exit, the sounds of feet scurrying and doors opening, while Odette jetted over to the window.

Coming up the driveway were three luxury automobiles, Dr. Taj's cream and brown Pierce-Arrow, an identical version of that car in sapphire-blue behind it, and bringing up the rear was a gaudy, crimson Rolls Royce coupe.

Odette could make out Dr. Taryll at the helm of the blue car and of course Dr. TJ was driving the red car.

The odes to rolling excess pulled to a halt next to the front steps, and engines shut off.

Driver's doors opened, and the Jackson nephews in trenches, bowlers, scarves and gloves in shades of black, brown and tan disbanded, each circling the cars effortlessly, waving and calling to Michael who returned the gestures, opening the passenger doors for their daughters.

Four girls, all outfitted in coats in unseasonably pastel shades of baby pink, mint green and baby chick yellow, trimmed in fur with matching tams and muffs came tearing out, shouts of “HI UNCLE MICHAEL!” filling the air as they all stampeded up the steps onto the porch and into his arms, each laughing and kissing at his sharp cheeks.

Odette noticed that all three of the Jackson wives were absent.

Were they also part of that larger pack that shunned Michael Jackson?

The Jackson relatives fell into the front hall, many conversations being had all at once.

“...goodness me, I think it's getting even colder! Don't you think so Teddie?”

“I'm nearly frozen, Tommie!”

“Me too!”

“Michael—I damn near skidded off the road coming through town, my wheels lost all traction for a second. Jessilynn was screaming!”

“I didn't scream that much, Papa!”

“Yes you did, got my ears ringing, little girl!”

“Oh, Papa!”

“Applehead, Mass was so dull this morning, I fell asleep twice. Father Kirkpatrick can talk the paint off the walls—haha!”

“I had to keep elbowing you awake, Taryll!”

“And you almost cracked my ribs, Taj!”

“Your snoring was drowning out the pipe organ, Taryll, goddamn it!”

As the conversation continued in the hall, one of the nieces wandered in.

A tall, thin girl of about ten, she was very clearly Jessilynn Jackson—she had Dr. TJ's entire face, although a bit more feminized with softer features,rounder cheeks, fuller lips, and a kind glow about her gold-tinged eyes and his incredibly thick yet tamed eyebrows in a sharp arch that mimicked Michael's..

(Odette was convinced there was no way her brows were that shape naturally and someone had to have spent quite a while plucking them into submission. Then she was horrified at the thought of a child plucking her brows!)

Jessilynn wore a drop-waist frock of a medium blue with red and yellow flowers all over it with a large frilly collar trimmed in red rickrack.

Her hair, long and just as unruly as her father's fluffed around her shoulders, somewhat restrained by the wide length of red fabric wrapped around her head and across her forehead.

Odette was pleasantly surprised, because she had expected Jessilynn to be of a fairer complexion as it had been stated more than once, the Jackson Nieces were all some form of mixed race.

But Jessilynn was her father all over again, right down to her rich sienna skin tone.

“Hello!” The child chirped brightly, politely, as she went to the table, picked up a plate and began placing egg halves on it.

“Hi--”

“Hey, Corny! They've got that Shrimp stuff you like so much!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Ooooh, my fave!” Cornelia's Jackson, in a fuchsia dress frothing all over with Battenburg lace came darting through the door, tremendous matching bow bobbing in her golden curls. Odette saw, satisfyingly, she wore no cosmetics and her little bare face was adorable.

Dr. Taryll had clearly put his foot down.

Without her face painted all to Hell, one could see that even though she were blonde and blue-eyed, she had Dr. Taryll's face.

She was greedily shoving a toast point into her little mouth, smacking in an unladylike manner.

Cool blue eyes drifted to the woman in black and red and with her mouth still bouncing, the child didn't say hello, good afternoon or any form of pleasantries.

Instead, she walked over to Odette, gave her a cursory head to toe observation and surmised in her clipped manner of speaking,

“You, are a flawless beauty.”

Then she was back beside her cousin, stuffing her face again.

Leaving Odette fairly reeling.

That... little bit of spoiled flesh had paid her a compliment.

“...Oh, but Uncle Michael, you've simply got to pose for us! Please!”

“Oh please, we'd love nothing better, Sir!”

“Papa gave us a whole room for our art, we've turned it into a studio and Grand-Pops sent us some paints and brushes from Rome--”

“They're awful swell--”

“The very swellest!”

“And we even have a brick of the prettiest blue marble you ever saw! I might chisel a statue with it—if Mama allows me!”

“Mama said no--”

“She'll change her mind—come on Uncle Michael, what do your say?Be a pal, please!”

Two voices tumbled one over the other in pleading , as Michael came sauntering in, holding a hand of each of Dr. Taj's twin girls.

Girls who were bookends in navy and white dotted dresses, trimmed in bright yellow satin about the collars and cuffs, a bow on their little bosoms.

The yellow was picked up at the ends of their dark brown hair, each woven into two thick braids, where satin bows had been tied.

The Jackson genes must have been overwhelmingly strong in the family because the girls resembled Dr. Taj so completely, it was as if any traits from their mother hadn't even attempted to be carried on into the next generation.

They had his round cheeks, his sleepy eyes—Theodosia's were brown and Thomasina's were a lighter amber, just as Dr. Taj had stated and was truly the only way to tell the two apart.

Each even had a little mole in the exact same place beside their noses.

“Sister Mary Josephine is having an art contest and I want that gold medal!” Theodosia begged, jumping impatiently, while Thomasina tugged at the hem of her uncle's vest. “I want a chance at it too, Uncle Michael! Please, Sir!”

“I'll think about it...” Michael was smiling, leading them over towards the table, his nephews blowing in after them lazily, Dr. TJ flanked by his brothers, holding a solid gold lighter up as they each lit a cigarette dangling from their lips.

“Girls, I want you to meet my new maid—this is Odette Dufrense. She's come all the way from Toulouse Parish, Louisiana to be here--”

“She doesn't look like a maid, Uncle, she's too pretty.” This came from Cornelia, stated bluntly, while ladling herself a cup of punch. She needed something to wash down the three Shrimp Toasts she'd inhaled.

One of Michael's eyes twitched with annoyance.

Doctors Taj and Taryll maintained stoic expressions while TJ, who didn't pretend to look the other way about his uncle's intentions toward Odette, was grinning cruelly to the point he bit his cigarette in half.

Who the hell did he think he was fooling, if even a child could pinpoint the obvious?

“Hello...” The twins smiled as they breezed past Odette to the table and like their father, were loading their plates exclusively with Deviled Eggs.

“Is there anything you'd like Mr. Jack--” Odette was spoken over by Dr. TJ questioning, as he pulled a silver enameled cigarette case from inside his jacket and selecting another cancer stick to replace the one that now littered the floor,

“Aren't you supposed to be wearing a uniform, Odette?”

“Um--” Tense grey eyes darted to Michael, who was at the buffet, chewing on the Pate, an arm draped around Jessilynn who was hugging him.

“She's wearing the dress she wore to Mass this morning. I liked how it looked on her so I told her she could keep it on...”

Slowly Doctors Taj and Taryll were drifting to the table, small plates in hand, but had their eyes trained exclusively on their sibling.

Rather than going to the table to feed, Dr. TJ made a beeline to Odette.

“I don't like this classical music, makes me think of my piano lessons...I want to hear some jazz...”

From somewhere, Cornelia had made that declaration.

The youngest Jackson brother loomed over her to the point his cologne was strangling her.

With his free hand he felt after the fabric of her sleeve.

“I know silk—fine silk—when I feel it. This didn't come out the Sears-Roebuck catalogue.” Dr. TJ stated with knowing in his eyes.

The other men were tensing up as the room fell silent, Cornelia Jackson having removed the classical record and was digging through the others stored on the shelves of the Victrola.

Continuing to finger her sleeve, Dr. TJ's head dipped further with him asking, thick brows flexing,

“Did you buy this dress—or my uncle?”

Odette started to turn her head to Michael for guidance and found those same fingers on her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“TJ, let her alone, we just got here—Jesus!” Dr. Taryll cautioned as Dr. Taj blew a smoke ring into the air, frowning.

Michael was gently untangling his niece's arms from around his midsection.

“Uncle Michael--”

“Hush, Jessie, please.”

“I'm asking Odette a simple question. She can answer me.” TJ glanced at his brother, then cruel eyes returned to her.

“I know you only make ten dollars a week—we all pay our domestic servants the same wage and I know this dress cost at least ten times as much. I've got a wife and daughter—I'm buying more dresses than I can count! So unless you stole it and you don't look very much like a thief to me, I assume my uncle bought it.”

Odette became aware of strong hands gripping her shoulders, Michael pulling her back a few paces from Dr. TJ.

“I bought the dress for her, Tito Joe.” He spoke quietly, addressing his nephew by his full name. “When I hired her, she had nothing but some colorless garment that wouldn't even fit a toddler! No dress, no socks, no shoes, no coat. She'd have died of double pneumonia if I'd been so heartless to make her travel up here with tattered scraps of fabric on her back!”

Dr. TJ was quiet for a moment, long enough to light his cigarette.

Almost on cue, Jessilynn appeared at his side, holding up an ashtray to catch the ashes.

“There's dresses for sale at the mercantile in town—”

“I buy quality clothing. It lasts longer. No need to have her in a cheaper dress and it needs to be mended or replaced in a month's time.”

Lively ragtime music started to spill from the Victrola and across the room, the twins began waltzing with one another, Cornelia rocking to the beat to herself, none of the children seeming to pay attention to the scene devolving with the adults.

Even Jessilynn's little face showed her mind was far elsewhere, her eyes upward at the ceiling.

“Hmm...” Dr. TJ nodded and blew three smoke rings in the air. “You can't blame me for my curiosity, Uncle Michael....Odette looks...”

His eyes traced her figure in a way that made her tremble.

“...expensive.”

“How I spend my money is my affair.” Odette was scooted towards the table. “ Get me another Pate Cracker, please.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It just seems like a waste of money to me. Dressing up a woman that's not your wife or girlfriend...just a maid...unless...” He took another drag and flicked ashes into the tray.

“...unless Odette is more than just a maid...” The accusation came in a cloud of vanilla-scented smoke.

There was pure malice in Dr. TJ's face and absolute murder in Michael's.

Odette had a shaking hand out to grab the appetizer, eyes on the uncle and nephew, fearful a brawl would break out.

They always seemed seconds away from laying hands on one another in the most violent of ways.

From behind her, where he had been steadily packing away eggs to the point he should have sprouted feathers and began pecking about the floor, Dr. Taj glided smoothly and laid a hand on Michael's shoulder.

“I thought you were supposed to try to beat my ass again at Chess, Applehead?” He spoke in a calm, measured manner, tilting his glasses down to glare across at his sibling.

“I'm gonna beat it.” Michael replied in a hiss, the glaze to his eye showing he wanted to lay Dr. TJ out to dry for his innuendos.

He glared a moment longer, then spun on his heel, Dr. Taj in tow, flinging the doors to the adjoining library open with a bang, Taryll, half a dill pickle in hand running after them.

Finally, Jessilynn spoke up, sighing with boredom,

“Papa, may I go dance please? My feet are going to sleep standing here!”

Hand mashed to her forehead, Dr. TJ lightly pushed his daughter away, taking the ashtray and heading for the open doors.

“I want to play with the black pieces, Michael! You know I always play with the black!”

“And you always lose with the black pieces too, Taj!”

“Goddamn it!”

At the doors Dr. TJ Jackson paused and his head turned slowly, to stare at the girl in the red and black dress, cowering with the liver slathered bread in her hand.

He winked at her, gave something of a half-smile and was gone.

Setting the food down, Odette staggered to a nearby divan and collapsed onto it.

Watching the Jackson Nieces dancing and laughing to the ragtime still playing, and hearing the Jackson Men cajole and curse at each other as a game of Chess began, Odette realized she was caught between two worlds, but not fully in either.

She was a servant, but not quite in the same realm as Mavis or that terrible Elsie, never really treated as just 'the help'. She was also (secretly) Mr. Michael Jackson's sweetheart but couldn't be free and public with it just yet although Odette wasn't stupid.

She knew everyone whom had seen her at Mass that morning had been tipped right off and that the rumor mills had to be running rampant right that afternoon!

Dr. TJ was already hip to what his uncle was up to and didn't even try to play along for the sense of decency.

And then...

Odette stared at Cornelia, gleefully dancing The Charleston while her cousins cheered her on, kicking and spinning.

As the child bent to do the Wobble Knees bit, Odette inhaled sharply.

Even that child had an idea about her great-uncle and Odette though she was too young to have pointed it out as eloquently as her uncle had, but she did posses more tact, than him at least.

Was her relationship with Michael Jackson really just an open secret at this point and the only person who thought it was still well hidden was Michael Jackson himself?

Odette Dufrense didn't know what to do.

If it were up to her, she'd have been shouting it from every corner of Juniper Peak while telling the townsfolk what she thought of them. Where they could go and how fast to get there.

But she had to maintain her decorum; she was still very new to this place—only a week since she'd arrived.

She was still very much a stranger in a strange land.

She couldn't spoil things—it wasn't her 'secret' to tell.

It was Michael's.

And he called all of the shots.

Three Hours Later

The expansive, two story library of Rosewyck Manor staged a peaceful scene: Michael Jackson and his nephew Taj, locked in a battle of wits, the men both leaning in their chairs, studying the marble chessboard, each plotting his next move. Michael Jackson rubbing thoughtfully at the dimple in is chin, whilst Taj, eyes huge behind the lenses of his glasses stamped out his cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with about twenty spent butts.

Michael Jackson had declared he was going to “beat his ass” and had been doing so since the pair had seated themselves, as evidenced by the stack of bills next to his ashtray where only one butt had been extinguished.

So far, Michael Jackson had won no less than a hundred dollars—five dollars a throw—and Taj kept demanding rematches until he won, or went broke.

Dr. Taryll Jackson, enjoying the bloodbath had seated himself on the arm of his brother's chair and had several times, tried to whisper to help him only to be shoved off onto the floor, Dr. Taj decrying in aggravated Spanish: “Callate! Se lo que estoy haciendo!”

(Shut up! I know what the hell I'm doing!)

Yes, losing. That's what he was doing—losing.

A few feet away, the Nieces, resting on their knees upon plump pillows to shield them from the hardwood floor, were clustered around an inlaid coffee table, attempting to put a jigsaw puzzle together. They were whispering peaceably to one another and every so often would break out in peals of childish giggles.

Missing from the scene was Dr. TJ Jackson.

While he had been well on his way to working his uncle's last good nerve, as he seemed to possess an undeniable knack for, he hadn't yet been tossed out into the snow face-first.

From where she lounged on a plump divan slightly behind her Mr. Jackson's seat, she could see him in the front parlor, hanging around the Victrola.

After a selection of ragtime and jazz standards, the music had returned to classical pieces, as Michael said it was his “thinking music”.

Dr. TJ came up with a sleeve on which had been stamped “The Very Best of Franz Liszt” and was removing the record.

The needle was placed in the groove and soon the sounds of a delicate, sweeping piano composition was filling the two rooms, he came sauntering back.

“...Checkmate!”

“Goddamn it all to Hell—again?”

“Again!”

Dr. Taj Jackson was crumpling in his seat as he dug in his coat pocket, coming up again with the black leather wallet with his name stitched on it, another fiver going into the pile growing beside his relative.

“Taj, stop challenging Uncle Michael, before you have to hand over the deed to your house!” Dr. Taryll chortled, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it across an unused divan nearby.

“One more game...one more!” Dr. Taj demanded pounding a fist on the tabletop as Michael began rearranging the pieces to start anew.

“Papa...” One of the twins appeared at his side suddenly,

“Not now, Tommie! I'm doing something!” Dr. Taj sneered without so much as a sideways glance. How he was able to identify her just by voice was a wonder.

“But Papa...” Slim arms went around his neck and she pecked at his reddened cheek. “I have to ask—if Teddie and I are to present our artworks at the contest, we need new dresses. Mama said so.”

“You can have a dress! Pick out anything you want!” Dr. Taj went to place a hand on a Pawn, and thinking better of it, left it alone.

“Oh, Papa! Mama thinks we should have our dresses made. Corny had lovely ones made for school by Monsieur Armand! We'd like dresses to be made but we need your permission first, Sir!”

“Mama said so!” Teddie chimed in with a nod snatching a puzzle piece from Cornelia who pinched her shoulder harshly in return.

“Ouch God-dang it!!”

Dr. Taj sighed and turned to his daughter.

“When is the contest, Thomasina? Custom-made clothing takes time.”

Odette had started to read her magazine's interesting article about film star Olive Borden's latest reducing diet, but her head came up at Dr. Taj's response.

There was no concern, no worry for the monetary price of two bespoke frocks, only how much time there was for them to be created. How wonderful it must have been to not be hampered by such matters.

“It's on the sixteenth! That's a Saturday. And it's in the evening, so we don't have to miss our piano lessons--”

“Honey...” He removed his glasses and pinched at the bridge of his nose, stressed. “That's less than two weeks away. How will you have your Uncle Michael sit for you, have time to paint on a canvas and go back and forth for fittings? You and your sister will just have to make do something very nice from one of the stores.”

“Oh, Papa!” A tiny foot was stamped in protest and a finger wagged at her in reproach.

“It's an art contest, not a beauty contest! What you have on shouldn't matter unless you strap yourself to the canvas! Tommie...I'm already going in on the St. Valentine's party you children are having at school, paying a share for cake and candy and punch and since that long-winded head of the Parent Association insisted upon live music, a small band. Plus you already have new red velvet dresses for that! It's too soon! Now if you'd asked a week ago, something may have been done. But with school, your lessons and things, it can't be done. Now go do your puzzle. I've got to play Chess.”

Pouting Thomasina turned and mumbled darkly,

“Uncle Michael's been whipping your ass since we've been here!”

“What did you say, Thomasina Delores?”

“Nothing Papa! Just clearing my throat, Sir!”

She scampered back to her sister and cousins whom were all chuckling, and dropped down onto her pillow.

“You must think our little girls are all frightfully spoiled...”

This was whispered into Odette's ear, and she nearly jumped with a start.

Turning, she saw that Dr. TJ was at her side, leaning over the curving back of the couch.

“No...” She looked to the children comparing puzzle pieces and bickering softly, as they tried to complete their puzzle, “...just...it seems they don't have much to worry about. Nothing too serious, that is.”

The children she knew worried about where their next meal came from and if they were to be beaten bloody that day. Not asking for a new dress when they likely already had a closet full unworn.

“Neither do you...” A strand of her hair was playfully wound around long brown fingers. “...you're a maid, but I haven't seen you do anything since I've been here. Just decorating this divan and reading film magazines. Is that what my uncle pays you to do—just decorate the area around him?”

Dropping her hair, her passed around the end of the couch and sat beside her, a bit too closely for comfort, one leg crossing over the other.

“I do work...” Odette made a concerted effort to keep her voice at its lowest volume, to avoid drawing Michael's attention and ire. “...I cook and clean and...”

“You certainly don't look like a maid.” Dr. TJ again spoke over her. “Wearing that dress, silk stockings, and your face painted like that...you look more like the Lady of the House instead of a worker in it. Although...”

He was toying with her hair again.

“I don't doubt it'll be long before you are the Lady of the House. You seem just the type my uncle prefers. Your features...you look just like all the statues and things he has all over the place. Built like every statue in here. Curves for days...”

“I'm trying to read...” She indicated the magazine spread on her lap, and found it in Dr. TJ's hand, him having snatched the magazine and was tucking it behind himself.

“You don't run this damn house, yet.” He was smiling at her in that lethal manner. “You're still a servant and I'm a guest and you have to answer to me.”

He leaned closer.

“So tell me, are you sleeping with my uncle--”

“Odette.”

Her head popped up and she saw Michael had twisted in his chair, eyeing them; behind him, Doctors Taj and Taryll also watching faces contorting.

TJ cleared his throat and leaned away from her, tossing his wild curls.

“Sir?”

“Run up to my office and get some of my cigarettes from the case on my desk, please. I've run out.” Michael was speaking but his pink lips didn't move.

“Yes, Sir!”

Odette all but ran from the room, thankful to be out from under the lecherous glare of Dr. TJ Jackson.

“...she hasn't done anything for three hours! He's got her sitting there like she's part of the family! I just know Mr. Jackson is behind that little girl like an ant after sugar! You see how he's got her dressed and all painted up!”

On the steps, Odette paused.

That was Elsie carrying on again.

Through the open pocket doors, she could see her and Mavis looking through a box of colored candles, laying out white ones to light to cast a glow on the table during dinner.

“And so what if he is?” Mavis stopped and had her hands planted on her hips, tired. “He's forty-five-years-old! A grown man is entitled to court whomever he wants, Elsie! I've already told you, I don't care what happens! I happen to like Odette and think she's a sweet girl. You're the only one in this house who has a problem with her—and I don't know why the Hell why! But I'm tired of hearing about it. It's all you've been on about since we got back from church and I'm sick of it. Shut up, Elsie, damn it!”

Mavis had started for the door, sashaying around her coworker but spun back at the last second.

“I'd like to see Mr. Jackson married. Or at least courting, whether its Odette or some other girl. But Odette is quite comely, people notice. I saw them noticing at Mass today. If Mr. Jackson doesn't snatch her up, he'd have to be a fool not to, someone else will. This house needs some new life in it. A wife, children. New life. I'm old, you're old too Elsie--”

“Oh!”

“--and Odette is young and new. And this house needs it. Now get out my face!”

As Mavis came stomping out into the front hall to compose herself, and Odette flew up the steps and out of sight onto the second level, making a mental note to bring it up to her Mr. Jackson that no one was believing his flimsy charade any more.

She didn't so much mind it if the others on staff did know, it was the people outside whom worried her the most. She knew they all had ideas after their display that morning.

Dr. TJ Jackson also worried her.

He wasn't like his brothers, politely ignoring the elephant in the room at all times.

TJ Jackson was trying to harness and ride said elephant like a circus performer.

He seemed to relish being able to see his Uncle for what he was doing and didn't mind calling him out on it, to Michael's constant consternation.

Odette Dufrense didn't really like TJ Jackson, for his unsavory reputation and being a black sheep of an otherwise lily-white and respectable family.

(It never entered her mind that Taryll and Taj may have also been keeping mistresses, but were more discreet about their endeavors.)

And he made her nervous.

She didn't like the way he always seemed to be staring at her.

It was different from how Michael looked at her.

Michael looked with admiration; TJ looked with...hunger.

And she didn't even want to think of the inquiry he'd made before Michael had interrupted him.

How very rude and uncouth to ask such a question, especially with children in earshot—his own daughter!

On the landing, she regarded the portrait of Katherine Jackson.

Just what did she think of her wayward grandson?

Trying to push the sordid topic from her mind, Odette opened the door to her Mr. Jackson's office and crossed to the desk where she lifted the lid of the ornate box and removed about a dozen cigarettes—she knew the smaller case Michael was using that day held up to twenty.

With a fist full of the finest Turkish-blend tobacco she turned to head back to the library.

And stopped.

Leaning in the open frame, blocking her way, was Dr. TJ.

Had he taken to following her?

A finger wagged at her.

“I wasn't through talking to you.” He stated, hands going into his pockets.

“You sounded through to me—Mr. Jackson wants his cigarettes...”

Tossing her head, Odette started to try to squeeze past him, and found his hands circling her waist pushing her back into the office.

“I wanted...” He trailed off, his fingertips plying the space above her hips. “You're not wearing a corset.”

“I...I don't need one...I'm too thin.” Odette admitted cautiously, and pulled away from his hold. “I...I have to gain some weight...”

Undeterred, he sauntered forward.

“I've listened to my brothers discussing you...your medical history. To say you were practically starved—for years—you look good. Very good.”

His eyes were tracing her body again.

Is that all he saw? A body? Is that why he liked his wife and Mei-Ling, how they filled out a dress and nothing else?

Didn't he care about their minds or personalities or interests at all?

“T-thank you.” She stared down the cancer sticks in her suddenly trembling hands.

There was an aura about Dr. TJ Jackson, something oozed from him that frightened her.

“All I've heard in the last week is your name.” He was idly twiddling his thumbs. “Odette this, Odette that...the girl from Louisiana...right before I came up, my daughter and her cousins were discussing you. Arguing actually.”

“Arguing?” In spite of herself, Odette let her guard down and looked up into his chiseled, handsome face. “What about?”

There was a beauty mark on his cheek.

“Oh, they say you look like you could be a movie star, but can't decide what type of movies. The twins think you could be a dramatic actress, like Gloria Swanson, while Jessie and Corny think you'd be better suited for comedies, like Marion Davies...”

Shifting from one foot to the next, Odette suggested boldly,

“Well that's two for drama and two for comedy. Why don't you cast the deciding vote, Dr. Jackson—what type of film do you think I'd be best at?”

Grey eyes met golden-brown ones and the heavy brows came together in deep thought a moment.

“Hmmm... what type of films...” Dr. TJ paced around her, taking her in from all angles before facing her once more.

“With your features...dark hair, pale skin, light eyes...I think you'd be best suited for an entirely different genre. You'd be perfect for 'Stag Films'.”

“Stag Films?” Odette's head tilted as she'd never heard of such a genre before. “What...what kind of film is that?”

He was smiling so warmly, so genuinely at her, she figured it had to be something nice.

“Oh...I can't really explain it all that well. But it's a smaller, more niche type of motion picture. Very artistic. You should ask Uncle Michael; he'll be able to fully explain it to you—much better than I can. I know he's seen plenty of those films. In another life, I bet he could even direct them.”

Moving around her, he proceeded to the desk, where he took a cigarette and lit it with the red and gold lighter.

“Go ask Michael.” He repeated, smoke flowing from his nostrils.

“Okay...” Slightly uncertain, Odette agreed and skeptically took her leave.

Just outside the door, the glanced back and saw him putting the receiver of the phone to his ear.

“..hey, Operator? Ring up Zhang's Gourmet Chinese Cuisine in Toronto for me, will ya?”

He was calling That Woman!

Shaking her head Odette made her way back down to the first level.

She passed the dining room where Gus and Mavis stood laughing together, with him helping her select candles, Elsie nowhere to be seen.

In the library, she found that Michael had left the Chessboard—Doctors Taj and Taryll were now playing each other—and had moved to the divan where his nieces had been assembling the puzzle.

The girls were gathered around him, listening intently as he had been telling them a story about their grandfather.

“...and then Tito tried to play Joseph's beloved guitar, and wouldn't you know it, one of the strings had the audacity to break!”

He grinned happily up at her as she held the cigarettes out to him.

“Thank you, Odette--”

“Did Grand-Pops get in trouble? A whipping?” Jessilynn questioned breathlessly, and it was clear the children had been clinging to his every word, as shown by the adoring glow in all of their faces.

“I bet he did!”

“My Papa says Grandpa Joe is a tough man!”

“He scares my Mama!”

“Aunt Amelia's the biggest wimp I ever did see, not a drop of gumption to her!”

“You take that back Jessilynn Jackson or I'll slug you!”

“You lay one finger on me, Cornelia and I'll break all ten for you! Don't forget I broke your thumb last year!”

“I'll tell my Papa!”

“Go ahead and tell Uncle Taryll! I'd knock your teeth out, but my Papa would just put them all back in your dang head since he's a dentist!”

Seeing the expression of disarray on the visage so dear to him Michael held up a hand to silence the chatter.

“What is it, Odette? You look as though you've got something on your mind.”

“Well, yes...” Twisting her hands in front of herself, she heard the words leave her mouth,

“Mr. Jackson, what's a Stag Film?”

The smile on Michael Jackson's face vanished, pinkish lips forming a straight line. His chest expanded with a deep breath,

Across the room, the board game halted, Doctors Taj and Taryll, pivoting in their chairs,looking absolutely aghast.

Taryll's mouth hung open, and Taj snatched his spectacles off, flinging them onto the table.

Even the air in the room shifted.

Something was wrong.

She'd said something wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Before she could ask, Michael demanded, veins popping out on his neck,

“Who told you about a Stag Film?”

He rose up swiftly, so swiftly, one of the twins at his side was thrown to the floor, but luckily landed on a pillow.

Hands gripped her shoulders so tightly her knees buckled,

“Mr. Jackson!”

“Who told you about a Stag Film, Odette—answer me!” He repeated, dark eyes going larger than she'd ever seen.

Wincing, she managed to gasp,

“Dr. TJ! TJ! He....he said I's be perfect for that kind of film--”

“Jesus Tapdancing Christ—my brother told you THAT?”

That had come from Dr. Taj, now also on his feet.

“Tito Joe told you....you should be in Stag Films? He said that to your face?” Michael was rapidly going scarlet, the color leeching its way from from his neck to his hairline.

“Have I done something wrong? Did I say something bad?” Odette's head was swimming as behind their Uncle, the little girls were slowly trickling away and towards the far wall to put a safe distance between themselves and him. The twin on the floor crawling away. All sullen and going pale. Eyes shifting rapidly between each of the four adults.

Michael Jackson went completely erect, letting go of her, fists balling at his sides.

“Where is he?” He breathed the question.

“You office--”

Michael was stalking away, pausing near the door of the library and picking up a particularly girthy tome. He weighed it in his hand and clutching it, proceeded speedily through the living room.

“Michael!” Dr. Taj went running after him as Taryll slowly climbed to his feet.

“Dr. Taryll...” Odette rushed to him, grabbing his arm. “...what did I say? What's wrong? What did I do?”

“Um...” He mumbled, and noticed the children. “Girls, go to the kitchen and ask Gus how much longer dinner will be—I'm starved.”

“Papa--”

“DO AS I SAY—NOW!” He all but shouted and the girls went sprinting like scared mice.

“What?” Odette was tugging at his shirt sleeve and watched as he grew crimson also.

“Do...do you know what a Stag Film is Odette?” He asked and was pulling on her, indicating they follow his uncle and brother.

“No—or I'd have never asked! I swear! I've never even heard of it before today!”

“Damn it, I hate to be the to be the one to say it...but...” He gulped loudly and was holding her hands in his own larger ones.

“A Stag Film is a type of...ahem...Pornography.”

Taryll Jackson was met with silence, grey eyes continuing to gaze up at him, with it clear she had no idea what that word meant.

“Dear God...” He was raw with embarrassment and burbled a bit more. “I've never had to explain this to a girl before, Sweet Jesus in the Holy Manger!”

He pulled the dotted square from his breast pocket and dabbed at his suddenly damp forehead.

“It's....it's...Odette, could you not look at me please? Your eyes could cut steel!”

When the eyes dropped to her shoes, he managed to complete his thought, to her horror.

“A Stag Film is a type of movie, usually it comes out during a fella's bachelor party. Last time I saw one was during my buddy Jimmy's party—ahem! It's usually a woman—or a group of them—undressing or...or doing something...you know...:

His voice dropped so Odette had to physically lean against him to hear him,

“...sexual.”

A gasp unlike any other popped from Odette's mouth.

She was mortified!

TJ Jackson had told her...she was suited to...show herself on film?

In the nude? Doing unspeakable things? For anyone to see?

The very thought sickened her!

“OH!” Odette ached all over suddenly and braced against him.

She'd been insulted, plenty by Madame Lenoir, but never before had anyone said anything so hurtful about her.

To insinuate that she was like women who peddled their flesh to the highest bidder. Why she hadn't even kissed a man until that very week!

“I'm....I'm a Christian...I'd never do such a thing!” She whimpered, eyes stinging with tears, into his bosom and felt him patting at her back, as he helped her through the parlor and into the front hall.

“Never...”

“It's alright. It's okay. Don't get upset, Odette. It's not true, I know it's not true. We all do. You're a good Catholic girl. We know it! TJ's a dumbass and just said that to get a rise out of you and Michael--”

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs when a voice shouted,

“Uncle Michael—NO!”

Then there was a tremendous THUMP!, followed by silence.

“Aw shit!” Taryll gasped and hand in hand with Odette, they bounded up the stairs, as Mavis came to the doorway of the dining room, staring up in wonder.

Skidding into the office, they found Dr. Taj trying to contain his uncle on the chaise, physically sitting in his lap and wrestling with him, Michael Jackson purple-faced and struggling while grunting hoarsely in a language Odette didn't understand.

“Nein! Nein! Taj,get off me! Dumbkoff! Tariano, get your ass off me! Let me at him so I can slap the taste out his big mouth! Nein! Ich wein ihm den verdammten kiefer brechen!”

(I want to break his goddamn jaw!)

“English Michael! Speak English! I don't know German!” Dr. Taj pleaded trying to push his arms to his sides, Michael managing to grab one of his ears and twisting it painfully.

“Ow! Leggo my ear! Stop!”

“Get off me, Taj!”

“My ear!”

“Get off me now or you'll be the one-ear havingest bastard in Toronto!”

A few feet away, TJ Jackson was sprawled, half on the Persian rug, half on the hardwood floor. Unmoving.

Out cold.

The large book that had been plucked from the shelf—Homer's The Iliad—had been destroyed, its pages scattered in close proximity to Dr. Jackson, the spine and cover of the book on the other end of the room.

“Taj! What happened?” Taryll let go of Odette and was dropping to his knees at his sibling's side. “Odette, close that door!”

“Michael threw that book and knocked the shit out of TJ—what does it look like!”Taj snarled continuing to battle with him.

“Get off me Taj! Move! Get off! Damn it!”

“I can't let you up! You'll go to jail! I refuse to let you be arrested and paraded through this town like a common criminal! CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”

Shutting the door and leaning against it, Odette was frozen.

Her heart was beating out of her chest.

“Who the Hell does he think he is?” In a burst of strength, Michael Jackson threw Taj off him and onto the floor with a moan. “Got all the nerve God ever put on Earth to fix that flap of his to say such a thing to Odette! And tell her to come ask me about it—in front of the children! His own damn daughter!”

He started towards the shallowly breathing body, where Taryll was hurriedly assessing for vitals, his physician's instincts taking over.

“He's breathing, pulse is kind of weak, must have taken a helluva lick! Was that noise I heard, him hitting the floor?”

“No!” Michael took a step and found Taj bodily wrapped around his leg. “That was the sound of the goddamn book hitting him!”

Odette's jaw fell to her heaving chest in awe.

“Where did it hit him?” Taryll was crouching over TJ, poking around his face, searching for any broken facial and/or cranial bones.

“In his face! I was aiming for that big mouth! I missed but damned if I didn't nail him anyway!” Michael pumped a triumphant fist into the air.

“TJ! TJ! Come on, man! Bro! Bro, wake up!”Taryll was lightly slapping at his face.

“He's down for the count—shit!” Taryll began loosening his brother's tie, and then his shirt collar. “Tito Joe! Bro, come on! I wanted my lamb chops tonight! I left my bag at home—Taj do you have your bag? I need some smelling salts!”

Taj, still hugged to his Uncle's leg shook his head wildly.

As the three began to disagree on the best way to rouse their sleeping sibling, “Well how the hell am I supposed to bring him around?”

“Slap him!”

“I can't slap him! He might have a concussion!”

“Good!”

“Uncle Michael—shut up!”

Odette smiled devilishly.

She had an idea....

Straightening, in her most eloquent voice, she announced,

“Welcome to Rosewyck Manor, Miss Zhang.”

Three heads spun in her direction, staring as though she'd lost all of her mind.

Then there was noise.

“What in Hell? Mei-Ling, I told you to never, ever come to my Uncle's house!Under no circumstance are you supposed to come to Rosewyck! Have you lost your damn mind, why I--”

On the floor Dr. TJ Jackson shot upright, and threw Taryll off balance

“Mei-Ling?—oooh my head!” He shouted, hand flying to his forehead, face crumpling in agony.

“What hit me?”

“A Greek classic.” Taryll sneered and was pushing him back to the floor. “Lay back down! Shut your face and be still! Mouth's got your ass in enough trouble as it is! You got mollywhopped good and I gotta make sure your stupid ass doesn't have a concussion! You fool!”

“I was joking!” Dr. TJ insisted, but did concede and went supine.

“It wasn't funny! It was not funny, Tito Joe and you know it!” Michael Jackson was shaking his head so violently, his hair was flying upwards at a ninety-degree angle from his face.

He tried to take a step and his head dropped, noting that Taj was still seated on one of his tasseled loafers, still hugged to his leg.

“Tariano get off me, before I kick you in the liver!” He threatened and instantly, Taj released him and was climbing to stand in his own brown penny loafers.

A long finger singled out TJ, Taryll's head on his chest listening to his heartbeat manually, without the help of a stethoscope.

“You're on my last damn nerve, TJ! You've been working my nerves since you set foot in here. Now I've tried to be pleasant for Jessilynn's sake.”

Odette, still at the door was indicated,

“You've been harassing her since you've met her! You're lucky I didn't do worse to you for telling her she should be in those...despicable kinds of pictures...”

He shook with fury, going redder than ever...

“The only reason I didn't do worse, was because your brothers are doctors and would have saved your sorry ass! Before the night goes down, you're going to apologize to Odette, or I'll see to it you never darken the door of Rosewyck again...and I mean it! I don't care if you are my big brother's baby boy—you're not going to come into my house disrespecting women, and talking to them any kind of way. That may work in Toronto, and amuse that cheap gal you have on the side, but NOT IN MY HOUSE! Victoire, move!”

With that last bitter, icy statement, Michael Jackson was stomping towards the door, which Odette hastened to open for him.

He stopped a few paces in the hall.

Fingers snapped with an ear-splitting POP!, and he pointed to the spot on the floor beside himself.

A motion which she speedily obeyed and was at his side, at once.

He told those left behind,

“I'll be in the Library. Get TJ straight. Can't bear the sight of him now...”

Michael started, then stopped again.

“And I want that book replaced!”