Rules of Civility (19 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

La Belle Époque

At 5:45 on Friday the twenty-fourth, all the desks in the secretarial pool were empty but for mine. I was just finishing a countersuit to be typed in triplicate, getting ready to mope my way home, when out of the corner of my eye I saw Charlotte Sykes approaching from the washrooms. She had changed into high heels and a tangerine-colored blouse that clashed with all her best intentions. She was gripping her purse in both hands. Here it comes, I thought.

—Hey Katherine. Are you working late?

Ever since I'd salvaged Charlotte's merger agreement from the subway, she'd been inviting me out: lunch at a diner, Shabbos with the family, a cigarette in the stairwell. She had even invited me for a dip at one of the massive new public pools built by Robert Moses where denizens of the outer boroughs could clamber about like crabs in a pot. So far, I had fended her off with ready-made excuses, but I didn't know how much longer I could hold out.

—Rosie and I were just about to head over to Brannigan's for a drink.

Over Charlotte's shoulder I could see Rosie studying her nails. Fully figured with a penchant for forgetting to button the top button of her blouse, you could just tell that if Rosie couldn't romance her way to the top of the Empire State Building, she was prepared to climb it like King Kong. But given the circumstances, maybe her presence wasn't all bad. She'd make it that much easier for me to extricate myself after a drink. And given my recent bout of self-pity, maybe a closer glimpse into the life of Charlotte Sykes was just what the doctor ordered.

—Sure, I said. Let me get my things.

I stood up and covered my typewriter. I picked up my purse. Then with a quiet but audible click, the red light over the Q came on.

Charlotte's expression was more baleful than mine.
Friday night at 5:45!
she seemed to be thinking.
What could she possibly want?
But that's not what I was thinking. I had been having a little trouble getting out of bed lately, and on two days in ten I had shuffled in at five past the hour.

—I'll meet you there, I said.

I stood, straightened my skirt and picked up my steno. When Miss Markham gave you an instruction, she expected you to take it down word for word, even if it was a reprimand. When I entered her office, she was finishing a letter. Without looking up, she gestured toward a chair and scribed away. I sat, straightened my skirt for the second time in as many minutes and in a show of deference flipped open my pad.

Miss Markham was probably in her early fifties, but she was not unattractive. She didn't wear reading glasses. Her chest was not without definition. And though she wore her hair in a bun, you could tell that it was surprisingly thick and long. At one point, she probably could have become the second wife of any senior partner at the firm.

She finished her letter with a professional flourish and returned the pen to its brass holder; it angled in the air like a spear that's hit its mark. She crossed her hands on the desk and looked me in the eye.

—Katherine. You won't be needing your steno.

I closed the pad and tucked it beside my right thigh as Miss Markham had taught us, thinking:
It's worse than I thought
.

—How long have you been with us?

—Almost four years.

—September 1934, if I recall?

—Yes. Monday the seventeenth.

Miss Markham smiled at the precision.

—I've asked you in to discuss your future here. As you may have heard, Pamela will be leaving us at summer's end.

—I hadn't heard.

—You don't gossip much with the other girls, do you Katherine?

—I'm not much one for gossip.

—To your credit. Nonetheless, you seem to get along well?

—It's not a difficult group with which to get along.

Another smile, this one for the appropriate placement of the preposition.

—I'm glad to hear that. We do make some effort to ensure a certain compatibility among the girls. At any rate, Pamela will be leaving. She is . . .

Miss Markham paused.

—With
chy-uld
.

She used two syllables to bring the word to life.

Such news may have merited celebration on the crowded blocks of Bed-Stuy where Pamela came of age, but it didn't merit celebration here. I tried to adopt the expression of one having just learned that her colleague has been caught with her hand in the till. Miss Markham went on.

—Your work is impeccable. Your knowledge of grammatical rule excellent. Your comportment with the partners exemplary.

—Thank you.

—Initially, it seemed as if your shorthand might not keep pace with your typing; but it has improved markedly.

—It was a goal of mine.

—A good one at that. I have noticed also that your knowledge of trust and estate law is beginning to approach that of some of the junior attorneys.

—I hope that doesn't strike you as presumptuous.

—Not in the least.

—I've found it helps me to serve the partners better if I understand the nature of their work.

—Just so.

Miss Markham paused again.

—Katherine, it is my judgment that you are
quintessentially
Quiggin. I have recommended that you be promoted to take Pamela's place as lead clerk.

(Pronounced
clark
.)

—As you know, the lead clerk is like the first violin in an orchestra. You will have more than your share of solos—or better said, you will have a more
appropriate
share of solos. But you will also have to serve as an exemplar. While I am the conductor of our little orchestra, I cannot have my eye on every girl at every hour and they will look to you for guidance. Needless to say, this advancement will come with the appropriate raise in pay, responsibilities, and professional status.

Miss Markham then paused and raised her eyebrows indicating that some comment from me was now welcome. So I thanked her with professional restraint and as she shook my hand, I thought to myself:
How quintessentially Quiggin; how nearly neighbor; how so simpatico.

 

Leaving the office, I walked downtown to the South Ferry stop so that I wouldn't have to pass the storefront of Brannigan's. A smell of spoiled shellfish drifted inland from the harbor as if the New York oysters, knowing perfectly well that no one was going to eat them in a month without an R, had thrown themselves onshore.

As I was getting on the train a lanky bumpkin dressed in overalls knocked my purse out of my hands while running from one car to the next; and as I bent to pick it up, my skirt tore a seam. So when I got off at my stop, I bought a pint of rye and a candle to stick on the cork.

Luckily, I drank half the bottle's contents at my kitchen table before taking off my shoes and stockings, because when I stood to scramble an egg, I bumped the table and spilled the rest over a flawed finesse. Cursing Jesus the way my uncle Roscoe would have—in verse—I mopped up the mess and then plopped down in my father's easy chair.

What was your favorite day of the year?
That was one of the beside-the-point questions that we posed to each other at the 21 Club back in January. The snowiest, Tinker had said. Any day that wasn't in Indiana, Eve had said. My answer? The summer solstice. June twenty-first. The longest day of the year.

It was a cute answer. At least, that's what I thought at the time. But on cooler reflection, it struck me that when you're asked your favorite day of the year, there's a certain hubris in giving
any
day in June as your answer. It suggests that the particulars of your life are so terrific, and your command over your station so secure, that all you could possibly hope for is additional daylight in which to celebrate your lot. But as the Greeks teach us, there is only one remedy for that sort of hubris. They called it
nemesis
. We call it getting what you deserve, or a finger in the eye, or comeuppance for short. And it comes with an appropriate raise in pay, responsibilities, and professional status.

There was a knock at the door.

I didn't even bother to ask who it was. I opened to find a Western Union kid bearing the first telegram of my life. It was posted from London:

Two weeks? If the postcard from Palm Beach was any indication, I wouldn't be seeing Tinker and Eve till Thanksgiving.

I lit a cigarette and reread the telegram. Given the context, some might wonder if by
FOR THE BOTH OF US
Eve meant her and Tinker, or her and me. Instinct told me it was the latter. And maybe she was on to something.

I got up and pulled Uncle Roscoe's footlocker from under my bed. At the very bottom, buried under my birth certificate and a rabbit's foot and the only surviving picture of my mother, was the envelope that Mr. Ross had given me. I spilled the remaining ten-dollar bills onto my bedcover. Turn the town upside down, the oracle had said, and the very next day that's exactly what I intended to do.

On the fifth floor of Bendel's there were more flowers than at a funeral.

I was standing in front of a rack of little black dresses. Cotton. Linen. Lace. Backless. Sleeveless. Black . . . black . . . black . . .

—Can I help you? someone asked for the fifth time since I'd entered the store.

I turned to find a woman in her midforties in a skirt suit and glasses standing at a respectful distance. She had lovely red hair tied back in a ponytail. It gave her the appearance of a starlet playing the part of a spinster.

—Do you have something a little more . . .
colorful
? I asked.

Mrs. O'Mara ushered me to a cushiony couch where she could ask me questions about my size, my coloring and my social schedule. Then she disappeared. When she returned she had two girls in tow, each with a selection of dresses flung over an arm. One by one Mrs. O'Mara introduced me to their virtues while I sipped coffee from a fine china cup. As I offered my impressions (too green, too long, too tepid) one of the girls took notes. It made me feel like I was an executive in the Bendel's boardroom signing off on the spring collection. There wasn't a hint in the air that money would soon be changing hands. Certainly not mine.

A professional saleswoman who knew her mark, Mrs. O'Mara saved the best for last: a white short-sleeved dress with baby blue polka dots and a matching hat.

—The dress is obviously fun, Mrs. O'Mara observed. But an educated, elegant fun.

—It's not too country?

—On the contrary. This dress was designed as fresh air for the city. For Rome, Paris, Milan. It's not for Connecticut. The country doesn't need a dress like this. We do.

Tilting my head, I betrayed a gleam of interest.

—Let's try it on, said Mrs. O'Mara.

It fit almost perfectly.

—Striking, she said.

—You think?

—I'm certain of it. And you don't have shoes on. It's one of the great tests of a dress. If it can look this elegant in bare feet, well then . . .

We were standing next to each other looking coolly in the mirror. I turned a little to one side lifting the heel of my right foot off the carpet. The hem shifted slightly around my knees. I tried to imagine myself barefoot on the Spanish Steps and almost succeeded.

—It's terrific, I admitted. But I can't help thinking how much better it would look on you, given the color of your hair.

—If I may be so bold, Miss Kontent, the color of my hair is available to you on the second floor.

Two hours later, with the red hair of the Irish, I took a taxi to the West Village to La Belle Époque. It was still a few years before French restaurants would be in vogue, but La Belle Époque had become a favorite among the expatriates whenever they repatriated. It was a small restaurant with upholstered banquettes and still lifes on the wall depicting objects from a country kitchen in the manner of Chardin.