Chapter Six

The Lenten season had begun in the St. Rochelle mansion. To the cook, it meant shopping the stalls for a glorious variety of seafood fresh from the Gulf, rather than purchasing the roast of beef or thick chops of pork. To Roxie, Lent meant no sweet rolls for breakfast or candy treats. To her mother’s mah-jongg club, it meant that refreshments would consist of thin-sliced cucumber sandwiches or fat dumplings from one of the Chinese restaurants in town, not tiny petits four cakes, to go with their green tea. For Laurence St. Rochelle, Lent meant drinking much more discreetly, and for his child, Rosamond, it meant accepting the inevitable course her life would take.

Rosamond confessed to an indiscretion on Mardi Gras, had been given absolution, and wore her ashes all of Wednesday. The days ahead looked just as gray as the smudge on her forehead. As if she possessed the gift of self-prophecy, Roz had real cramps and her monthlies by Thursday. She stayed in bed until Sunday when her mother demanded she recover enough for Mass and dinner because Mr. Boylan would be joining them.

During the open dancing at the Rex ball, Roz had let Buster monopolize every set. A glare from Burke discouraged cutting in from any of the other boys, who went to dance with young women not yet taken. Of course, Mr. Boylan was coming for Sunday dinner. He and Rosamond were accepted as a couple now. Papa would thump Burke’s back in greeting and take him to the smoking room for a cigar and a nip after dining. She was glad she’d made Papa so happy if not herself.

Uncle Gilbert joined them for the meal. Roz asked if he had been able to enjoy Mardi Gras. “No,” he replied. He could not face his dear Harriet’s favorite day without her. He had stayed at the hospital and given the day off to young Landry.

“And did Dr. Landry have a good carnival celebration?”

“I should say so. He asked me to dress some rather deep scratches on his back when he returned, and I don’t believe he got them in a fight. He’s a fine doctor, but you understand, Rosamond, he’s not our kind. Your parents want the best for you, the very best.”

“Oh, I’m full to the brim with understanding, Uncle.”

“Don’t look so glum. Your nineteenth birthday is only a week away, and I believe there will be cake and a party, Lent or no Lent. I know your father and Burke are concocting some sort of surprise. I believe it might involve something on the racy side. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Racy, sure. I can tell you I am sick to death of being Goody Two-Shoes.”

Uncle Gilbert looked around to make sure her mama was elsewhere. “Next Friday night, Burke is going to fight an exhibition match at Holland House against one of the Italian lightweight contenders. We’ve arranged for you to view the match from a discreet spot on the balcony. If you want, I’ll even place a bet for you in the back room. Don’t pretend you aren’t interested. I can see a light in your eyes. Don’t let on I’ve told you.”

“Oh, Uncle Gil, I’m the best at keeping secrets.”

****

When Friday night arrived, Laurence and Gilbert announced they were taking the birthday girl for dinner at the Holland House, but no one else was invited. Burke would meet them. He and Roz could dance to the band afterwards.

“As if I would intrude. They have those dreadful boxing matches on Friday nights. You will keep Rosamond apart from that crowd, Laurence,” her mother said, her dark eyes full of disapproval.

“Absolutely, my dear,” her husband replied, and the two men, snickering like small boys, put Roz in the touring car and tooled off to the environs of City Park.

A mass of men already swarmed about the temporary ring. A handful of women in gaudy dresses hung on to the arms of big bettors, and small boys ran their selections to Beansy Fauria in the back room. As an amateur and unknown, Burke “Buster” Boylan would fight first against Kid Pesci, the Italian boy from the French Market. Pesci was a lightweight and known to be lightning quick. Bets were on him for the most part, except for the desperate hoping for a long shot and a big payoff.

Roz sat behind the louvered section of the balcony. She wasn’t alone. Some respectable wives sat with her, keeping an eye on their spouses below. A rowdy group of heavily painted females, possibly prostitutes, sat out in the open area. Both groups ignored the others as if a physical wall stood between them.

Buster and the Kid entered the ring from opposite corners. Clearly, Buster was no lightweight. Slipping out of his robe, he flexed the heavy muscles of his biceps and stretched on the ropes. Every wave of his blond hair sat in place, and his chest was as naked as if he had shaved it. Across from him, the Italian kid jogged and jabbed, warming his muscles.

One of the whores leaned over the balcony and called out to Burke. “Oh pretty boy, you send up a note to Flora if you want your boo-boos kissed afterwards.”

Burke looked her way and grinned.

“Oooh, he’s got killer eyes,” Flora told her companions. “Let’s see what you can do with those great big muscles, Killer.”

The referee announced the rules. The bell rang. The Kid came out fast pummeling Buster with light punches. Burke absorbed the blows as if they were nothing and kept his guard up. Then, he swung wide and hard, and the Kid got in a quick hit to the face that split a lip. Buster roared and put in a punch just below the belt, hiding it from the referee with the bulk of his body. A few men on the far side of the ring booed, but no one seemed too disturbed. Round One ended.

In Burke’s corner, Artie Delamare offered a water bottle and a cloth to blot Buster’s lip. The second round went much the same with the Kid dancing and jabbing, and Buster going for the big knockout. He glanced a blow off the side of the Kid’s face and sent a trickle of blood dribbling from Pesci’s nose. By the end of Round Two, the heavier man was clearly tiring while the Kid still looked fresh.

Round Three began. The air stank with the odor of sweat and blood that reminded Roz of the bullfights she and Aunt Harriet had seen in Madrid. She found herself up off her chair and rooting for Buster. The whores, all except Flora, cheered for the Kid. “Hit him, hit him. Knock ’im out.”

The fighters went into a clinch. Buster whispered something to his opponent, a reminder that the wop had been paid well to take a dive in the third. This was only an exhibition match. Who cared, really, with the payoff bigger than the prize? Still, the Kid danced and jabbed. Buster’s face grew red with anger and exertion while the Kid grinned and led him around the ring like a bear with a ring in his nose. Then, a feint, a slip on the sweat-soaked canvas, and the Kid’s arms opened wide. Buster drew back and smashed a gloved fist into the wop’s jaw. The Kid flopped on the mat like a freshly caught mackerel and lay still. Buster drew back a foot as if he were about to kick Pesci in the ribs, but the referee pulled him to the center of the ring, grabbed Burke’s arms and raised them over his head in the traditional pose of victory.

Bettors groaned over their losses and put down more money on the next bout. Artie Delamare went to stuff his winnings in his pants pocket. Rosamond St. Rochelle raced down the staircase and found Buster, still gloved and wearing a robe over his shoulders, in the hallway. She rose on her toes and kissed him on the lips, taking in the salty taste of sweat and blood. Burke engulfed her with both arms, smashing Rosamond tight against his slick chest.

This could work out, she thought. Buster was dangerous and unpredictable, not as dull and stuffy as most men of her class. He could be taught to be more subtle in making love, less bearish and clumsy. If she had to marry as her parents wished, might as well be Burke. Papa would be so pleased.

“Now, now, your mother would say you are creating a scene, Rosamond. Let the man clean up and dress. Burke, I’d be pleased to buy you the biggest steak they’ve got and a shrimp cocktail for starters. I won enough on you to pay for the meal.” Laurence clapped Buster on the shoulder and led Rosamond away.

Burke heard her saying, “I’d like a Manhattan, Papa.” Sure, tonight she could have one. In the years ahead, he would cure Rosamond of sluttish habits so her behavior matched her Madonna-like beauty. Her old man had been right. Show Rosie the goods she’d be getting, and all her indifference would fade. College girls liked a display of the manly arts. So did whores.

****

Saturday afternoon was a different matter. Pastel streamers hung from the dining room chandelier and a big frosted cake with pink sugar roses cascading down its sides sat on the table. Madame St. Rochelle had invited the girls of Rosamond’s court to attend the party as well as some of her bluestocking friends from Newcomb. Burke and Artie brought their fraternity brothers from Tulane, and of course, all the family was invited to celebrate Rosamond’s nineteenth birthday soiree.

Madame St. Rochelle rejoiced that she had engaged the snowball man to set up in front of the house. For the last week in March, the weather had turned unseasonably hot. Waiting for the old colored man to shave the ice from his block and pour on the flavoring of choice kept the smaller children outside with their sticky treats. Inside, the ice melted in the bowls of chilled shrimp and had to be replenished. She fretted that the chicken salad sandwiches might turn, but everyone seemed to be having a lovely time.

Odette and Odile continually refilled glasses with lemonade and cold, sweet tea. The men took their drinks into the smoking room and came out looking happier. There was an instance when Madame spied Hazel DuLac, one of the maids of the court, taking a small flask from her garter and spiking the beverages of all the girls sitting with her on the front gallery, Rosamond included. She would have to speak to Hazel’s mother, but for the moment, all the guests appeared very gay and lively.

Emmaline St. Rochelle called to her daughter to come cut the cake and begin opening a small mountain of presents. Rosamond, looking rosy in a many layered pink silk crepe frock and a long string of pearls, exclaimed over the scarves and artificial flowers her friends gave her to accessorize her dresses. The girls from Newcomb had gone in together for a large box of art supplies. Papa got a kiss for the new wristwatch and Mama a hug for the diamond bar pin to be used to keep her bodice closed.

Of course, one tasteless joker slipped in a silver flask engraved with “Roz.” Madame suspected that dreadful Artie Delamare, and she wasn’t pleased when her daughter turned her back, slipped the flask in her garter, and asked if anyone could tell she wore it. Buster, who stood very nearby, frowned. Emmaline St. Rochelle said a silent prayer that nothing would make the young man change his mind at the last minute. But no, Burke Boylan called for everyone’s attention. He had one last gift to present.

Taking Rosamond’s hand and flipping open a ring box with his other, he asked, “Dearest Rosie, will you be my wife?”

For a moment, Roz looked stunned, then stared desperately over the gathering of friends to the doorway as if she expected a dark, caped stranger to come rushing in to carry her away. Artie said later when he razzed Buster about giving up his freedom that his intended had been looking for an escape route. The comment earned him a cuff on the jaw that left a bruise.

Roz stared down at the ring. “It’s lovely,” she said. A large diamond shone in the center of a most fashionable art deco setting. Smaller stones were channeled along the band and around the geometric design. Her girlfriends chanted, “Answer him, answer him!” She could see her father bursting with approval and her mother gloating over her snagging Genevieve Renard Boylan’s son.

Finally, Roz looked at Buster. “I suppose I must marry you, Burke Boylan. Everyone thinks it’s the thing to do.”

She gave him a small smile, and he returned it with one of his big, smothering kisses. On cue, Artie went into the parlor and struck up the Wedding March on the piano. The newly engaged couple was pushed apart by the surge of young women who wanted to see the ring up close. Burke went to hulk by the piano where Roz’s little sister languished over his friend who had sworn to play only love ballads for the rest of the afternoon.

“That’s over with. For a minute there, I thought she was actually going to turn me down after I went to all the trouble to humble myself before Father to get the money for that ring. Now, I just have to get the St. Rochelles to set a date fairly soon, and I’ll be living in clover.”

“You’ll be an old married man with a wife you probably can’t handle,” Artie joked.

“There’s no one I can’t handle.” Burke gave Artie a shove from the piano bench that landed him on the floor in mid-stanza.

Roxie glared at her sister’s fiancé. “I don’t like you, Buster.”

“Then, it’s a good thing you’re not the one I’m marrying, brat.” Burke yanked her pigtails hard enough to smart and took himself off to the smoking room.

****

When the guests had gone and only family remained, the engaged couple sat with the bride’s parents to discuss the wedding date. Burke pushed for June when he would most likely have passed his bar exams and be ready to set up a practice.

“As I promised you, sir, I’m staying right here in the Crescent City. I won’t be carrying your daughter off to Philly,” Buster swore.

“There’s a lot of work the bank can send your way, son. With business booming, mortgage closures alone could make you rich. I’ll see to it.”

Emmaline, however, objected to a date only two months off. “People will think, well, they will think you had to marry in haste. That won’t do. July and August are much too hot for festivities, and the best people will be at their summer homes. Perhaps, October at the earliest. The weather is usually very pleasant then, but that gives us only six months to plan.”

“The first week in September. I won’t wait any longer to make Rosie my bride. The way I feel, accidents could happen. We might even have to elope.”

Madame St. Rochelle seemed horrified. Her husband assured her, “He’s joking, my dear, but I don’t see why they shouldn’t marry in September. We could have the reception at the Jung. It’s air-conditioned, you know, and very elegant.”

“Yes, the Jung might do. If I engage Madame Plauché immediately to design the wedding dress, we might have enough time. Wouldn’t it be fine to use your queen’s cape as an altar cloth, Rosamond? I must speak to the priest at the cathedral tomorrow about reserving a date.”

“Whatever you think would be right, Mama.” Rosamond put her hand in Burke’s, and he gave it a crushing squeeze.