Welcome to Julian Mercer's Writing Portfolio

Lacy

Most afternoons, I’d end up in the stacks at Tulane, in a little library facing St. Charles and Audubon Park.

In 1979, it was a small but wonderful place, unused and unappreciated, full of rare and exotic texts.

The library overlooked Audubon Park with views of ancient live oaks dripping with Spanish moss.

The St. Charles streetcar lazily passes on its way somewhere and back, its route determined by a track established by others, fated to repeat its voyage (as beautiful as it seems) again and again, never able to break free and find a path of its own making.

Seated on a chair of smooth, faded mahogany, I perused a worn volume of The Rise and Fall of the Confederacy, signed by Jefferson Davis.

There could be no better place in the entire world, I thought to myself.

Working amongst the stacks, carefully studying each spine as if she were reading the contents of the book itself, she was the essence of Southern beauty, frail and refined.

Her jet-black hair gently fell just below the nape of her neck, and her tight, gaunt features constrained a not-so-subtle sensuality.

Who knows what draws us to people?

In Lacy’s case, indeed, her physique and feminine ways were a catalyst.

Still, her attention to the texts in the library belied something more: a curiosity about the unknown, new ideas, thoughts, and concepts, a mind curious about all it encountered.

It is my sincerest hope that this yearning for knowledge I observed, as much as my vision of her, was a fulfillment of some illusory and mystical vision of the Old South, and was the source of my attraction.

I can’t recall much.

Though shy by nature, I resolved to make an introduction, so, waiting until Lacy was out of the librarian’s line of sight, I approached from behind and said: “Miss?”

Startled, she quickly turned toward me, our faces but inches apart.

“Yes?” she said. “How can I help you, Sir?”

“You can have coffee with me when you’re off,” I replied.

Lacy smiled half-cocked as if she knew what was coming all along.

At liberty to look me over thoroughly as if with permission granted by my words, she saw a man twenty-two years of age, average height, fine black hair, and a slender build, with heavy eyebrows and piercing hazel green eyes.

I wore tan corduroy pants, a tweed sports coat with large brown elbow patches, tan dime loafers, and mismatched socks.

After a thoughtful look that seemed to last far longer than it must have, a grand surprise that changed my life came my way as she said in a soft but clear and strong voice: “Okay. I’m off in an hour. Can you wait?”

“Absolutely, I can,” I said, tasting victory, and returned to my mahogany chair.

Finally, Lacy beckoned me, and I followed her down the long wooden plank stairs that led to St Charles Avenue.

Sheltering oaks canopied the boulevard as the evening light mixed with the whir of the steel streetcar wheels rubbing against ancient tracks buried deep in the green neutral ground.

The hiss of electricity, popping and sparking as it passed through the wires above the trolley tracks, threw off a chaotic hum as Lacy and I walked slowly, our bodies close.

“How about the Camilla Grill? Would that be okay?” I asked.

“That’s perfect and quick; I need to be heading home soon,” Lacy replied.

“Forgive me, but I don’t even know your name?” I asked.

“Lacy. And yours?” she said.

“Justin. Justin Larkin,” I answered.

“You’re not from here. I can’t tell you where you are from,” Lacy said.

“California, Los Angeles. I’m here studying at Tulane.”

“I knew right away you weren’t from here. California, what a wonderful place. I’ve never been there, but it’s a wonderful place; I just know it is! One day, I’ll be there as sure as I am standing right now. And when I get there, I’m never coming back. It’s not that I haven’t traveled; I’ve been to many places. Daddy took me to all the capitals of Europe, and we’ve been to South America and all the islands, but in my own country, I’ve never left the South.

As far as Daddy is concerned, the United States ends at the Mason-Dixon Line.”

Her words fell from delicate lips, so beautifully formed.

The language trickled down like honey. I was enthralled.

While she busily admired California as a place so free and open, I was felled by the mere sound of her voice, the mystery and romanticism it summoned.

Everything I admired about the South was contained in her voice, her words, and her ways. Why anyone would want to leave a place that gave birth to such beauty bewildered me.

The Camilla Grill was packed, but as luck would have it, there were two seats at the end of the counter. An older black gentleman, neatly attired in white with a black tie, approached.

“What can I get y’all folks today?” he declared, sporting a counterfeit smile.

“Just coffee, chicory. That’s all I want. Thank you,” said Lacy.

As she turned to me on the counter chair, our shoulders touched for the very first time, sending strange sensations down the length of my torso.

“The same for me. Two coffees,” I said and smiled. I’d have matched her order had it been for a cup of mud.

The waiter reached under the counter and pulled up two cups and saucers, the industrial white kind, and placed one in front of me and the other in front of Lacy.

From the same hidden space, he produced a steaming pot of coffee and poured it to where the black just touched the rims.

Lacy picked up her cup, looked kindly at me, and softly said,

“Why did you come down here to study anyway, Mr. Larkin? It’s so hot and humid, and California has great universities.”

“Call me Justin,” I said.

“Oh sure, thank you, Justin,” she replied.

“Yes, that may be so, but there’s no culture there. It’s full of nothingness, as if the people look through you as if you’re invisible. They don’t care,” I said.

“Oh, I’d love that. Here, everyone cares; everyone knows your business or wants to. It’s like you’re never alone,” she said.

Lacy again daintily lifted her cup to her lips.

“Justin, now what are you doing? Are you just looking at me like that? Is there something on my face? You’re staring at me so.” Lacy rubbed her face, thinking maybe something was smudged.

Then she pulled a small mirror from her purse and opened it.

“Not at all,” I said. “Sorry, I was just looking, noticing how beautiful you were.”

“Oh, do tell, but that’s a very kind thing to say, and… may I say I find you very handsome yourself,” she said.

“But external beauty is a blessing from above, and certainly you’ve been blessed, but what’s inside is even more compelling and important… it was your attentiveness to the books.

The books that you were shelving in the library.

“That demonstrated that what is on the outside, see, is a mere reflection of a more real something inside. An inner wealth.”

Lacy began to blush, and I continued.

“I couldn’t help but notice it took you several minutes to shelve a single book. It seems you were putting them on the racks with a real reluctance, as if you wanted to stop right there and read the entire tome.”

Lacy giggled and replied, “My god, you’re very observant. I do love books.

Sometimes, I see a title, and I want to pick it up and go outside and just sit under a tree and read till the cows come home, but Ms. Trudeau, the librarian, no, she wouldn’t have that at all.

The fact is, if it weren’t for Doctor Rankin, I wouldn’t have this job.

Ms. Trudeau says I’m the slowest assistant she’s ever had, and she as much as told me she’d have my head if it weren’t for ‘certain parties.’ Fact is, I don’t really give a care what she thinks.

Imagine! A librarian who doesn’t like books! It’s appalling. In my view, she’s simply a file clerk, a slave to the Dewey Decimal System with no regard for what’s inside. It’s as if the library were just a collection of files in a cabinet.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I could never figure it out, but I always had a disdain for librarians. Bookstore owners always impressed me more. It seemed like they loved their collections,” I replied.

I gave her a long and pensive look, then continued, 

“I must confess something, Miss. The main reason I’ve been returning to this library is you. It’s a wonderful place with a wonderful collection of Southern classics, but many libraries are on campus, and this is among the smallest. That said, the other libraries have neither views of you nor of Audubon Park.”

“Oh dear,” Lacy said, blushing again.

“I’ve been watching you for weeks, and today, I finally got the courage to speak to you,” I said.

“Oh, Justin, you think I didn’t notice you? At first, I thought, what an odd collection of volumes you left strewn across the table where you always sit. Such a random array. I must confess that at first, they made no sense to me at all, but then, on closer inspection, I had to admit they were well-chosen… indicative of a truly thoughtful person. Each evening when you left, I checked out the volumes you left and spent the entire night poring over them. I wanted to know who you were, and what better way to find out about a person than through the volumes they choose? I think I really know you, Justin. It’s such an odd thing, but it’s true,” Lacy says.

“And what do you know?” I inquired.

“I know you are a lover of history and an admirer of the South, a very unusual thing for a Yankee. I think even Daddy would approve of that. You’re a romantic, no doubt, a lover of lost causes, perhaps to a fault. I would say you see with your mind, often something that is not there, or something that was there once, but that’s gone. I never met anyone like that in my life. You’re a very interesting person, I must say, but I also must say it’s time to go now. I need to go home. Do you live far?”

“In the Quarter on the 1200 Block of Bourbon. And what about you?

Do you live nearby?”

“On Pine Street, a few blocks from here.”

“Can I walk you there?”

“That would be exceedingly kind, thank you. It’s just a five-minute walk, right behind Newcomb College. It’s such a beautiful night for a walk. I love these balmy nights. Don’t you?

“Yes,” I said, nodding in agreement.

Little did I know that our walk down this boulevard would completely alter my life.

This stroll down a tiny path between two Southern Colleges, this chance meeting among texts I had come so long and far to touch, would determine the rest of my days on this earth.

Like the chance combination of millions upon millions of atoms, time, and circumstance.

Was it chaos or destiny that put Lacy and me together in this place and time?

This was truly a question for the ages; in any case, there’s no doubt that our meeting would alter the universe's life, chaos of creation, replication, and destruction, the fusing of atoms that could not be torn asunder.

We left the Grill, which sits along Carrollton near the levee and walked back up St. Charles towards Pine Street and her home.

Staring at the streetlights, I was overcome with a feeling of warmth and satiety—not an overwhelming passion or lust, not an excitement or exhilaration, but rather a feeling of calm.

Lacy extended her right arm, and I held her close as we strolled down the deserted streets.

Streetlights reflected bright yellow on the cracked sidewalks; an occasional roach ambled lazily by as we reached Pine Street.

Tall trees formed a canopy over the tiny road.

Cars were parked on both sides, creating a narrow path. It’s a wonder anything could pass at all.

In the center of the block was a bright white house of sufficient but unimpressive scale, with a proper porch supported by two white columns.

Sitting on the porch, as if in a portrait, were a graying white man and woman occupying ancient but pristine rocking chairs, rocking one forward and one back, opposite but in harmony.

Staring wide-eyed at Pine Street bathed in twilight, they watched intently as we approached.

“Evening, Ms. Rankin, Professor. Beautiful evening,” Lacy said and smiled.

“Yes indeed,” replied the Professor.

“Yes, indeed,” echoed his wife.

Lacy spoke up again. “Ms. Rankin, Professor, this is Justin Larkin. He’s over at Tulane Graduate School and visiting with me a bit.”

Turning to me, Lacy continued, “Professor Rankin teaches at Tulane in the History Department.”

“Evening, Professor,” I said with as much respect and admiration as I could muster, and I meant it.

The old professor looked my way and spoke.

 “Well, young man, what are you studying?”

“Philosophy. Existential philosophy, mainly Sartre, Camus, and Heidegger,” I replied.

To assuage any concern on his part regarding our intentions, Lacy added, “Not to worry, Doctor Rankin. Justin is going to visit with me for a few minutes. He wants to pick up a book of poems.”

Lacy grabbed my hand firmly and led me away from the house, somehow sensing I was about to launch into a long dialogue with the professor, and she was right.

“Y’all have a nice evening,” she declared.

“Y’all have a pleasant evening, too, and Lacy, my Dear, I’ll be around if you need anything, Lacy, anything at all,” Dr. Rankin said.

“I‘ll be just fine. Y’all rest now. Good Evening,” she said.

Lacy led me around the porch to a gate off the levee side of the house. This gate led to a small backyard of lush elephant ears and greenish-blue Bermuda grass, surrounded by a faded silver hurricane fence, which added an air of seclusion.

A tiny wood-slat cottage covered in faded whitewash was parked inside this space like an overgrown dollhouse. We went up the three steps and inside, and she quietly shut the door.

Then she said softly, “Justin, they watch out for me. They know my family in Charleston. Jeff Rankin taught my father when he was at Tulane, if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it,” I said.

“He’s a sweet old man but overprotective,” Lacy added.

I couldn’t take this talking anymore, and neither could Lacy.

All I could see in my mind’s eye was her slender ass, her striking face, that gorgeous body with luscious breasts. I wanted to see and touch those things, and it was clear that Lacy had exactly the same idea about me.

So, on this hot summer night, in that little back cottage, with the sounds of the locusts in the background, we fell into a Southern embrace.

Exhausted, we lay naked in her single bed, our bodies compressed into this small space, not cramped but rather cozy and warm.

I gazed at her subtle frame, even more beautiful and perfect than I had imagined.

The songs of the locust and the scent of honeysuckle permeated the room. 

All that we lacked was a thunderstorm to cool us; the breeze from the open window was non-existent.

Even then, I found fault in the perfect.

That was a long time ago.

Over twenty years have passed, but I will never forget that evening, nor should I.

Yet until this moment, I had hardly thought about the first time Lacy and I met and how we were so immediately attracted to each other.

Lacy knew I was a graduate student at Tulane; heck, I handed her my Tulane ID at least three times when checking out books. She probably figured I’d be around a while.

Yet, unknown to Lacy, there was an issue with my academic status. I was quite sure that this would be my first and last semester at Tulane; the way I figured it, Tulane was going to toss me out.

But if Lacy had known this detail, I might not have been where I was at that moment, which was a good place, so I didn’t mention it.

As we lay in her bed, I was sure Professor Rankin would have me checked out in the morning.

Later that day, he would call Lacy’s father, his former student, and inform him that Lacy was hanging out with a degenerate from California, not a scholar.

Two hours passed, and the lights were still bright in the Rankin house.

Lacy whispered, 

“Justin, you’d better leave now and make some noise, so they know you’re leaving.”

I smiled with total understanding, pecked her on the cheek, and said, 

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

Descending the three steps, I walked out the side gate and gave it a good slam so the old professor would be sure to hear me leave.

Then I headed up Pine Street to St Charles, took the Trolley to Canal Street, and hoofed the mile or so to the 1200 block of Bourbon and my little second-story slave quarter apartment.

The next day, the phone rang.

 It was Lacy, and I was ready for the hammer to drop.

It had been a great night, and she was sweet, but the way I looked at it, I wouldn’t be seeing Lacy again. I richly deserved my fate. I should have been honest with her in the first place.

Lacy said, “Justin, Professor Rankin told my daddy that there had been an incident at the university involving you and a young female adjunct professor from Paris.”

“Yes,” I said. “There was an incident, and I’m probably not going to be able to return to Tulane after this semester.”

She didn’t seem too upset, and that surprised me a bit.

She asked me to stop by later in the afternoon. I wasn’t sure what she would say, but I owed her an explanation.

In any event, I wanted to see her again.

The instant I arrived at the house on Pine Street, Lacy appeared at the side gate, directed me to the Rankin Porch, and sat me down on a hanging swing situated between the rocking chairs and the window from which Dr. Rankin peered.

“Justin, whatever happened, I don’t care to know,” she said in a voice that echoed along the wooden porch.

She held me tight as we sat side by side, spooning and sparking in plain view of Old Doc Rankin.

Things were developing fast, and I felt that I was not really in control of the situation.

Lacy was obviously serious about what happened the previous night, and while it seemed spontaneous enough, I couldn’t banish the thought that it was somehow a planned event.

Lacy admitted she had read everything I had read that summer, and those books pretty much told my tale.

She may have known me better than I knew myself.

Upon reflection, it may well have been a case of the hunter being hunted.

A flash of dread overcame me, softening into a vague ennui that quickly disappeared: why worry?

I was returning to California at the end of the semester, and I figured this girl would not follow me there.

Over the next couple of months, Lacy and I were constantly together; the truth is, she couldn’t get enough of me, and somehow, other women got the scent – they always do, feast or famine if you ask me.

There were a couple of other affairs, but Lacy took up most of my time. I frequently stopped by her cottage to “read poetry.”

Dr. Rankin took to letting his dog, Eve, run free in the yard, a mean, scruffy-looking German Shepard that barked furiously each time I approached. I’m sure that bastard left him in the yard to fuck with me.

Lacy had no control over that dog, and Doc Rankin would have to come out, get him, and bring him into the big house before I could leave the cottage. He would grab Eve by the scruff of the neck and yank her into the house. 

“Come on, Eve!  Eve, come,” he’d say as he pulled that mean bitch into the house, all the while barking up a storm, showing her evil and deadly teeth. 

That was one fucked up dog.

As soon as I entered Lacy’s’ cottage, that fuckin’ dog would be back in the yard, hollering its ass off.

When I was ready to leave, Lacy would have to walk out there and get Doc Rankin to take the dog into the house so I could get away.

A couple of times, that fucker let the dog go, faking like he thought I was gone, and I had to jump the fence to avoid her gnawing on my ass. I could see the son of a bitch, Rankin, smirking in the background.

“Sorry about that,” he’d say with a smile.

That was one evil son of a bitch, it turned out.

Unlike my time with Eve, my relationship with Lacy was supremely calm.

We were constantly on the phone, yet I can recollect little of what we spoke about.

Mostly I just talked, and she’d listen as if she was soaking up whatever I knew, sucking it out of me.

On the weekends, we’d take pleasant walks around the yacht harbor out by Lake Pontchartrain, and on Sunday afternoons, we’d go to City Park.

She’d pack the most beautiful lunches in a fine wicker basket with all fine utensils, napkins, and such.

Yes, just like in the movies.

I couldn’t take her to dinner or restaurants; I had no money and was mostly living on BLTs, which my friend Tom taught me how to cook.

I could tell you the recipe, but you can figure it out.

Lacy never complained.

I recall our first actual dinner date: I took her to the Church’s Chicken near the quarter.

It was in a black neighborhood off Elysian Fields opposite the Winn Dixie Supermarket.

I reckon we were the first white folks there in quite a while, or ever.

I pulled the Nissan through the drive-thru, and the black girl working there looked at us as if we were aliens.

I wasn’t from around there and had no idea that this was a black drive-thru; Lacy must have known, but she didn’t say a thing—she had that much class.

As we pulled out of the drive-thru and up Elysian Fields, I said,

 “Lacy, it was a bit scary there; I guess white people don’t go there much.”

“It’s fine, just fine,” she said.

“Well, I guess we can’t eat here; why don’t we just go over to my place in the quarter and eat the chicken?”

“Sure,” she replied, and I continued up Elysian Fields to the quarter and found a place to park the Nissan off Governor Nichols.

As I recall, it was a calm night.

The air was still warm as we walked the few blocks to my apartment, the streetlamps glimmering yellow. There was no traffic noise to interrupt our stroll.

That end of the quarter was quiet and still at night—a holdover from some old, quiet town in rural France.

I turned the key, which opened the large wooden door guarding the entrance to the garden and the big house. 

The house was separated from Bourbon Street by a huge cement wall topped with shards of colored cut glass.

Closing the big door tight, we walked through the sparsely lit atrium entry to a small garden in the rear.

The cement wall on our left was bordered by huge green trees that overhung the small garden. On the right, one story high was a wooden staircase covered by an enclosed hall—the entrance to the old slave quarters, now an apartment for white folks.

We went up the staircase; Lacy patiently waited in front of the door as I worked the key back and forth until the old lock clicked and the door squeaked open.

My apartment was small. It consisted of a main room that couldn’t have been much bigger than six by six feet and contained little more than a small sofa that converted into a bed at night.

Directly in front of the bed was a small kitchen, and down a hallway to the right of the kitchen was a bathroom.

It was a cozy place, with solid walls and storm windows opening to the wooden balcony overlooking the garden.

I also had an aluminum metal rocking chair that creaked against the green wood floorboards.

I was convinced Lacy would be thrilled by this place's quaintness, especially since she was so fond of her cottage uptown.

Instead, as I opened the door, she shrieked.

“I am not going in there!”

Surprised, I replied, “Why not? What’s wrong?”

“Justin, this place is filthy; there is no way I am going in! And how can you live like this?”

Sure, there were books all over the place and a little desk with my Olympic Manual Typewriter, some paper on the desk, more books piled on the sofa, and the kitchen had a few dishes in the sink, but I was a student, and a bachelor, it wasn’t like roaches were crawling around or anything (maybe a few).

Christ, there were even a couple of pictures on the wall!

Lacy stood at the door, craning her head toward the little kitchenette and then the sofa. “Do you have a broom?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, at which point Lacy entered with extreme trepidation, on tiptoes as if to limit contact with whatever filth so offended her.

I ran into the kitchen to retrieve the broom and handed it to her. She commenced to sweep without comment, her rapid and sustained motions driven as if by some spirit.

“Justin, do you have a vacuum?”

“No, but John Aldridge does. He lives around the corner on St. Anne. 

He’ll loan it to me, I’m sure.”

“Well, go now, get it; I’ll get started in here.”

“Um… Okay, I’ll be right back.”  Lacy didn’t respond; she just continued sweeping.

I ran the block to St. Anne and sprinted up the twenty stairs leading to John’s large and airy apartment on the corner of St. Anne and Bourbon, pounding his front door.

John answered, and before he could say one word, I said, “John, let me borrow your vacuum!”

“Sure, let me get it for you. Do you want to come in?”

“No, I am kinda in a rush; I’ll explain later; I just need the vacuum.”

John turned as I waited impatiently at the front door. Finally, he returned with the machine, which I thrust over my shoulder like a bazooka, holding it tightly with both hands.

“Thanks, man; I’ll bring it back tomorrow with some Chili Con Queso, dude. I have Campbell’s Cheese Soup and chips; you have Jalapenos, right?” I said on the run.

“Yes, I do. You are truly a gentleman and a scholar,” John called after me in his drawling Texas accent. 

I hauled my load down the stairwell three steps at a time, sweating, grunting, and worried that Lacy would leave.

Two Black guys approached as I hit St. Anne and was about to turn onto Bourbon.

One had a newsboy's cap turned sideways out of Bowery Boys, and the other was a nondescript guy with a dark face above rumpled clothes.

They approached quickly, from out of nowhere. There I was with this load on my back. 

The guy with the newsboy hat said, 

“Give me your money.” 

Not menacing, not angry, just direct.

In an instant, the dark-faced guy had his hands in my pockets and was pulling out wherever he could get. There I was with this huge blunt object on my shoulder, and I did nothing.

I thought to myself if I take a swing with John’s vacuum—there are two of them—they may take it and beat me to a pulp with the thing, but in a flash, they were gone anyway, and with the twenty bucks that was in my right front pocket, and there I stood in the middle of St. Anne Street with a vacuum on my back and my pockets vacuumed.

I was more surprised than upset. It happened so fast, but I had bigger fish to fry. I had to get back to Lacy. It was better not to mention this incident; there was no telling how she’d take it.

In my absence, Lacy cleaned the room, rearranged the furniture, and organized my papers. It looked fabulous.

“Justin, plug in the vacuum and let me make a pass,” she said as I entered the room.

“Jeez, Lacy, you didn’t have to do this; this place never looked this good!”

Lacy stopped in her tracks and looked at me. “Just please keep it this way. If I ever see it like it was when I come over, I won’t enter, I swear.”

“Not to worry, Lacy, you can count on me.

That was a lie. Lacy stopped by a number of times, and each time, it took more effort to cajole her to enter. At that point, she would commence cleaning, and I’d have to hightail it to St. Anne to get the vacuum. John finally offered to sell me the contraption for ten dollars, as he was tired of loaning it to me.

 I took him up on the offer.

Lacy stayed that night, and when I awoke, the table was set, and a vase with flowers was arranged on its top. On the stove, there was a breakfast of hot grits, biscuits in the oven, bacon, and eggs frying in my cast iron skillet, and the ancient percolator I bought at the flea market was singing a lovely tune.

Coffee and bacon scents wafted throughout the small space; it smelled like a home. “Where did you get this stuff?”  

I asked. “I took a walk in the morning and found a cute little store a few blocks down, and I got everything.”

Somehow, Lacy found two plates with the same pattern. They sat on the table with napkins folded beneath them, and the eggs, bacon, and grits were in separate bowls.

She even bought matching coffee cups, and this little cow was filled with half and half. When you lifted the cow by a tiny handle, the half and half came out of its mouth. Lacy picked it up and poured the thick white mixture into my cup.

“Isn’t this adorable?” she exclaimed.

“Yes, Lacy, it’s wonderful.”

To say I was impressed would be an understatement: memories of that breakfast linger for twenty-five years.

“What a wonderful breakfast,” I looked up and kissed her on the cheek, “This is beautiful, thank you so much.”

“I'm glad you like it. Now eat before it gets cold.”

A few weeks later, Lacy called and told me she was going home to visit her parents in Charleston. She asked me to come along. I’d never been there before and jumped at the chance.

The family house was on King Street.