But Maureen could never miss an opportunity to show Chelsea she was doing well. She didn’t exactly think poorly of Chelsea for her blood being slightly less blue than Maureen’s. The Sullivans were established in their own right, and few could remember a time that they weren’t a prominent New Orleans family. Only the oldest families would even have the clout or daring to point out that the Sullivans started with nothing; came from nothing. Maureen would defend Chelsea and the Sullivans to anyone… but at the same time, privately, she needed girls like Chelsea to remember who they were when they were standing next to a Deschanel.
So she invited her for lunch at Galatoire’s, which she knew would immediately send the message that Maureen’s professional endeavors were more than paying off. She didn’t just come from money. She was capable of making it on her own.
Chelsea had just turned eighteen, and, to the horror of her parents, was both enrolled in community college—her grades hadn’t been enough for university—and dating a young man named Mason Landry, who had no money, no family prestige, and nothing to bring to the table. His family were laborers from the Irish Channel. Not even Lace Curtain Irish, as Mama would say.
And Chelsea was positively delighted at all the pearl-clutching this produced at home. Maureen, who often couldn’t decide whether she was mildly put off by Chelsea’s anachronistic leather-and-lace act or in awe of it, was excited by Chelsea’s lack of fear.
“And you don’t worry they’ll write you out of the will for this?” Maureen asked. She sipped her martini, as if she wasn’t a few weeks shy of legal consumption. The waiter had carded Chelsea first and assumed Maureen was also legal, and served them both, to Maureen’s great relief.
Chelsea shrugged. She tugged at the shoulders of her frilly blouse. “And so what if they do? I was never going to law school. Even if my grades had been better, there was no way.”
A Sullivan opting out of the family law firm was like an angel disavowing heaven. Maureen had the good sense to look scandalized, though she loved this as much as she loved her own acts of rebellion over the years. “And you’re engaged now?”
Chelsea wiggled her fingers, as if she was wearing a four-carat diamond and not a tiny little gold band.
Maureen finished off her drink and rolled the olive around over her tongue. “Does anyone else know?”
“They all know I’m dating him, but my parents and Colin, and even Rory, think I’ll grow out of it.” She rolled her eyes and popped a mint in her mouth. “Patrick is also dating a nobody. You know Isabella Livingston?”
Maureen shook her head.
“Might as well be a Landry, for all my parents are concerned. But she’s smarter. He met her in college. She’s on a full scholarship to Tulane. You know how few of those they give out?”
“Yeah, nuts,” Maureen said, though she knew nothing about scholarships, or any handouts.
“So he knows, but I’m keeping his secret and he’s keeping mine. I think he knows he’ll never be a Colin, or a Rory, even if he is toeing the family line and heading to law school next year.”
“He’s marrying her, too?”
Chelsea leaned back in her seat, nodding. “Yeah, but he cares more about the fam than I do. He’ll wait until after law school and hide behind that good news to keep them off his back. As for us… we’ll probably elope next week.”
Maureen’s eyes widened. “No way!”
Chelsea tilted her head to the side with a light nod, as if bored. “Don’t look so scandalized, Maureen. Not all of us want to marry a prince.”
“But what will people say, do you think?”
Chelsea leaned in with a gleam in her eyes. “After what you told me about your boss, I don’t know if anything I can do would ever top that.”
Maureen waved her hand, to lower her voice. “I didn’t tell you that so you could shame me! Besides… he’s clearly interested in me. He’s playing a game.”
Chelsea blinked hard. “He wants to fuck you, Maureen. As all men do.”
As many men have. “Maybe I’ll let him.”
Chelsea chewed the rest of her mint and swallowed with a face full of amusement. “You let him do that, and it’s done. He wants the chase, is all. Old men need excitement in their lives, and it’s not exciting once the cow gives up the milk for nothing.”
“What do you know about it?”
Her friend grinned. “Don’t give it to him, Maureen. Keep him wanting it.” She checked her watch. “Oh, and those bitches at the office? Time to show them who you are. You’ve let them jerk you around for too long, but you could’ve had them for breakfast and still made it to Galatoire’s for lunch.”
* * *
Chelsea’s words about the women followed Maureen all the way back to the office. She’d let the office biddies deride her for months, and they had to know who she was. They were nobodies, probably from Gentilly or something, and she was a princess of the Garden District. She didn’t even have to work at all! And when she was married, her husband would surely insist she focus on more important things, such as raising his children and hosting charity events. Events these women would never be able to buy themselves into.
Even this short, but careful, consideration of the audacity of these women sent Maureen into a simmering rage.
As luck would have it, they were all smoking in a huddle outside the office when she returned. Normally, she’d panic and hide around the corner until they were finished, but today, she felt emboldened, and she marched right past them.
“How much you wanna bet he’s done the measurement trick on her by now?” one of them muttered to the others, and Maureen’s confidence melted right back into anger.
“What did you say about me?”
The woman blew her smoke out through her laugh. Her free hand pressed to her belly, as if that would help. “We’re just taking bets on how far along you are compared to the girls who came before.”
“And why should I care about the girls who came before?”
The women exchanged cruel looks. Another said, “Here’s a different way of looking at it. We’re just wondering how much longer you’ll be around.”
“As long as I feel like it.”
“More like, once Mr. Blanchard is done playing his games with you.”
“Is it my fault if the other girls couldn’t handle themselves appropriately with their boss?” Maureen challenged.
“He handled them all quite nicely. And don’t think we haven’t seen your timecards.”
Maureen clutched her purse tight to her body. She had many things on her side, but somehow none of them fazed any of these shrill busybodies. They weren’t intimated by her money, her looks, her youth. They seemed past all such considerations, in a way that should have been maddening but was to Maureen, at least for a brief moment, freeing.
“Mr. Blanchard appreciates the work I do. He likes when I work late hours, because he can see how dedicated I am to making his business successful,” Maureen defended and realized she’d walked right into the next comment to follow.
“I’ll just bet.” They all laughed and stubbed out their cigarettes in perfect unison.
“I don’t know who these other girls were, or why you seem to think them leaving was any of your business, but I am not them. I’m Maureen Amelia Deschanel, and I don’t need this job the way they did.” She leaned in and narrowed her eyes. “The way y’all do, seeing as you don’t have husbands or businesses of your own, aside from picking on younger, prettier girls who work twice as hard. So pick your jowls up off the concrete and mind your own damn business, and I’ll mind mine.”
* * *
The women ignored her the rest of the day. She thought, maybe, she caught them whispering about her, but either she’d scared them earlier, which didn’t seem too likely, or they had the good sense to understand she wasn’t going to trifle with their nonsense any longer. Maureen couldn’t fathom why Edouard kept them around at all, for how little work they actually did each day. Were they his spinster
aunts or something?
They clocked out in silence and disappeared at 5:30 on the dot. Maureen, tired from both her whirlwind lunch with an old friend and her confrontation with the women earlier, decided to leave at a decent hour and waited ten minutes before packing her purse together and heading after them.
She was also tired because she hadn’t had an early night since before that first time, when she’d stayed so late she thought for sure Mr. Blanchard would fire her. Each night he’d pulled her into the office, with much of the same. For an architect, he wasn’t terribly creative, and most nights he just watched her. He was ugly and old, but it didn’t stop the whole thing from being maddening, and most nights she went home and pleasured herself until she passed out, only mildly relieved of the tension from the hours of doing his odd bidding.
Maureen made it halfway to the exit before Mr. Blanchard appeared at his office door. “Miss Deschanel.”
She turned. “Yes?”
“It’s early yet.”
“Oh… well, I… is it?”
Mr. Blanchard pressed his lips tight, and he looked terribly cross. So much so that she was certain she’d fudged one of his briefs, or something equally horrifying. “I need your help with something.”
Maureen dropped her purse to her side. “Of course, I’m happy to help with anything you need, Mr. Blanchard. Do I need to fix something?”
His mouth twitched, and then he disappeared inside his office, which she assumed meant she was expected to do the same.
Maureen dropped her purse just outside the door and stepped inside. He reached around her and closed, then locked, the door.
He’d never done that before. She assumed there was no need, seeing as this was his business, and by the time they were alone together each night everyone else had already gone home to their families. The strangeness of this new choice launched a pit of curious fear deep in her belly.
Mr. Blanchard’s hands landed on her shoulders and pressed down. She didn’t understand at first, until he increased the pressure and forced her onto her knees. She complied without further resistance and looked up.
His hands mechanically moved to his belt, which he swiftly loosened and tossed behind him. Next came the button, the zipper, and then his pants were pooled at his ankles.
His erection pressed against the inside of his briefs, trapped.
“Take it out,” he commanded.
The thrill that passed through Maureen was comprised of many nights, over many months, of awaiting a moment that she would have never sought had this man not groomed her for this very thing. She swallowed hard and reached forward, but he swatted her hand away and said, “With your mouth.”
The throb between her legs started with a vengeance. She almost laughed at the absurdity of the request, but she showed only acquiescence as she used her teeth to peel aside the small fold of fabric. His cock sprang forward and almost hit her in the face, but she caught it deftly between her lips and took him all the way into her mouth.
Edouard groaned. He was Edouard now, even if he’d never let her call him such a thing. But she remembered the night Mr. Evers told her he wasn’t her teacher anymore, and so she should call him Peter… and was tonight any different, with Edouard?
Maureen had less experience in this particular act of sex, but she had seen some of the movies Huck thought he’d hid well in his room, and knew that to really draw out the pleasure, you needed to take long strokes and look up, so he could see the pleasure in your eyes as you pleasured him. At one point he did look down, and the sight of her made his knees buckle.
He said something to her, but she couldn’t hear him, so he said it again, more forcefully, almost angry, “Get up. Get up, get up!”
Maureen stumbled back to her feet. He was cross with her again, and she had no idea why. Was she no good at this? Had she mis-stepped?
In a frenzy, he spun her around and pressed her so hard against the desk that her cheek felt bruised. With one hand he pinned her down at the neck, and with the other he parted her panties to the side and shoved his cock inside of her. His thrusts were so forceful and furious in speed and intensity that she saw brilliant flashes of light appear before his eyes every time he made internal contact, and she wondered if it was possible to die this way.
Maureen tried to hold back her anguish. His pace quickened, and he slammed harder into her. Her face slid over the stack of paperwork he’d pressed it to, and she reached wildly for purchase, for something to brace herself from what no longer felt like the thing she’d ached for all these months, but instead a violent assault born of a rage she hadn’t earned and never asked for.
He cried out, like a lion addressing his pride, as he came inside of her. He didn’t extricate himself immediately, and then, moments later, he shuddered and spasmed, releasing a second orgasm into her. She didn’t know what had happened. She couldn’t ask.
A wet pop sounded as he removed himself. The hand choking her from behind disappeared and Maureen gasped into the stack of papers. She wanted to move, but she couldn’t. She could barely breathe.
The familiar sound of fabric told her his pants were again on. The metal buckle snapping back together completed the task. She heard him turn, and then, pause, and turn back. He reached forward and ran one thumb over her ass.
Then he left.
His departure didn’t release her from her paralysis. Maureen breathed hard into the desk and the thick paper. The cool air from the swamp cooler passed over her exposed skin, reminding her to get up, get up, get up, but that wasn’t what she wanted to hear, not those words, not ever again.
Where did he go? He couldn’t have left altogether. He was always the last to leave, as he was the only one with a key to lock up. Perhaps he’d gone to the bathroom, to give her a chance to clean up?
No, she thought. If he’d gone to the bathroom it was because he was not a man who enjoyed facing the women he chose to sample. In all their encounters, he’d always had her faced anywhere but toward him. Maureen understood very little about very much, but she knew this was a way of dehumanizing her; or genericizing her. She was not special to him. She was like all the others, just as those horrible women had said she was.
A terrible sob rose up within her. It was so powerful she found her courage and peeled herself up off the desk. Remnants of his violence trickled down her leg, and she realized she couldn’t look, because she didn’t know if what she’d find would be come, or blood, and she couldn’t handle the answer.
She searched his desk for a box of tissues and, pulling two, she wiped down the inside of her legs without looking. She’d never know, and that was better.
Maureen peeked out his office door and scanned the office. He was nowhere to be found, but she suspected he was hiding from her. Or hiding from himself. It didn’t matter.
She couldn’t come back here, and that tore her heart. This job was her one and only escape from the things that had tormented her all her life and now this, too, was a torment.
Not that it mattered. She expected the call would come soon that her services here were no longer welcome.
Maureen pressed down the swelling sob. She wouldn’t cry. There weren’t tears anymore, and what good were they anyway? Tears amplified and gave confirmation to the pain. They did nothing to relieve it.
She disappeared out the door of the office that had promised her freedom and instead given her exactly what she’d been running from.
Ten
What Are We?
Elizabeth rushed from one side of her room to the other, searching for any signs of drug paraphernalia. She’d been as careful with her secret as she thought possible, but sometimes the drugs took her even further away, and when that happened, she couldn’t be certain she’d taken the same care. But she was still learning, how much was too little, how much was too much. Once she found the sweet spot, the experimentation would be over, and so would the risk of leaving a pill bottle or singed tinfoil in the wrong place.
Elizabeth t
ook her promise to Connor seriously, even if she’d clearly broken it. She had no more desire to become a drug addict than he to see her become one. But this experimentation would allow her to find the safe amount needed to get her through the worst of her visions. She could quit at any time and start again whenever the visions were particularly bad. She thought of them as flare-ups, and the visions were especially potent when she was in the middle of one.
She reacted to everything differently. Her mother’s opioid prescription she’d had for years, for her back, was an especially convenient test. One pill was enough in the beginning, though it made Elizabeth’s stomach turn, and her body itch all over. Eventually, one did nothing, so she switched to two, but the agony of the relentless itching was almost worse than the visions, so she squandered some of the pills away, just in case.
The heroin in the marijuana was also great at the start, but by the time she’d been at it a few weeks, the effects were lessened, and she eventually went back to the kid who’d given her that and asked what else he might have. Only a couple years older than her, he’d shot her that annoying older brother look and shaken his head as he dug into the inside of his jacket. Look, you don’t want to be one of those junkies with track marks. I’ll show you how to smoke it, and you need to stick with that. Anything more, and you’re crossing a line you can’t come back from.
Yeah, yeah, she’d said. This kid was a junkie himself, and acting like a concerned parent didn’t change that. They all had their demons that brought them to such points.
Besides, she was just testing. That was all.
And then… and then, once she was sure she had the right amount, the safest drug—or as safe as any drug can be—she’d come up with a plan for how and when to use it in order to keep the visions at bay forever.
Nineteen Seventy-Four Page 9