The Secrets We Kept (17 page)

Sally didn’t come in the next day, or the day after that. Every time I stepped out of the elevator, I braced myself to see her; but still no Sally. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The typing pool took her absence as proof she had another role at the Agency. “Part-time receptionist my ass,” Norma said. I laughed with the rest of them, though I couldn’t help but wonder what they might say about me behind my back.

A week passed, but I still found myself thinking of her. Something about Sally Forrester lingered.

Another week passed and I’d given up on seeing her again. But when the elevator opened, there she was, seated at the reception desk doodling on a yellow steno pad. She waved hello and I faked a coughing fit to cover my reddening face.

I sat at my desk and went right to work, telling myself not to look in her direction. Even without looking, I could feel her presence all morning. When I got up to use the restroom, I was keenly aware how my body moved, how I held my head, what I looked like walking across SR. It was as if I was seeing myself through someone else’s gaze. Then it happened: she spoke to me. I thought she was speaking to someone else, but it was my name she’d called out.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were talking to me,” I said instead of saying hello.

“Are there many Irinas in SR?”

“I don’t think so. No. Maybe?”

“I’m teasing. Anyway, since I’m the new gal in town, I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch. You could give me the lay of the land.”

“I brought my lunch,” I said. “Tuna.”
Stop,
I told myself,
just stop.

“Eat it tomorrow.” She picked a piece of lint from the front of her fuzzy chartreuse sweater. “Show me what’s good around here.”

We walked in the direction of the White House, Sally leading the way although she’d been the one who’d asked me where to go. “I know a great deli nearby. A rarity in Washington, believe me,” she said. “They slice the ham paper thin and pile it six inches high. Only people from here know of it, and no one is actually
from
here. You know what I mean? Do you have to get back soon? It’s still a bit of a walk.”

“We have an hour for lunch, so we have about forty-five, maybe forty minutes left.”

“You think Company boys look at their watches during their liquid lunches?”

“No, but…” I paused a beat too long, and Sally turned on her heels as if heading back toward the office. “No,” I said. “Let’s go.”

She looped her arm through mine. “That’s the spirit.” I could feel the hot stares of men as we passed, and even a few women looked our way. I was with her. I liked being with her. My surroundings blurred as if we were no longer in the city—the endless car honking and bus screeching and jackhammers pummeling concrete ceased. It was noon on a Thursday, and the world slowed on its axis.

We passed a tour bus stopped at a light and I could hear the guide’s microphoned voice direct the attention of the passengers toward the famous Octagon House. Sally surprised me by waving to the tourists, who enthusiastically waved back. One took a picture of her. She put her hand behind her head to pose. “Still can’t get used to this city,” she said. “Everyone flocks to the seat of power.”

“Have you lived here long?”

“On and off.”

We turned down an alley off P Street I’d never noticed. Narrow brownstones with ivy-covered chimneys lined the street. Halloween was approaching, and the residents had decorated with cotton spider-webs spread across their hedges, paper black cats and skeletons with movable joints hung in the windows, and yet-to-be-carved pumpkins on their stoops. On the corner was the deli. Over the door hung a green-and-white-tiled sign:
FERRANTI’S
.

A bell tinkled as we opened the door. The owner, a man as long and thin as the dried sausages hanging from the deli’s ceiling, slapped a sack of semolina flour and a tiny cloud erupted from the bag. “Where have you been all my life?” he asked.

“Off somewhere waiting for a better line than that,” Sally said. The man kissed Sally on both cheeks with big, wet smacks.

“This is Paolo.”

“And who is this exquisite creature?” Paolo asked. It took me a moment to realize he was talking about me.

Sally playfully slapped away my extended hand. “What do I get if I tell you?”

Paolo held up a finger, then disappeared into the back room. He emerged holding two wooden chairs, which he placed in the small space between the front window and the shelves filled with canned tomatoes, glass jars of bright green olives, and stacks of packaged noodles.

“No table?” Sally asked.

“Patience.” He left and returned with a round table, just big enough to seat two. Like a magic trick, he reached behind his back and pulled out a small red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. He spread it over the table and gestured for us to take a seat.

“What, no candle?”

Paolo threw up his hands. “What else? Linen napkins? Salad forks?” He pointed to the ceiling. “Perhaps I should invest in a tiny chandelier?”

“That would be a start, but we’re actually getting our food to go. It’d be a sin to be inside on such a gorgeous fall day.”

He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye with the corner of his apron. “What a disappointment. But of course I understand.” He moved a wax-coated cheese wheel aside to get a better look out the window. “I’d be out there myself if I could. Actually, maybe I’ll close early and join you two ladies for a sandwich. Reflecting Pool? Tidal Basin?”

“Sorry, this is a business lunch.”

“Such is life.”

We ordered: turkey and Swiss on rye with a dill pickle plucked from a barrel for me, and an olive tapenade and some kind of meat I’d never heard of on a baguette for Sally. Paolo handed us our sandwiches in a brown paper bag. We said our goodbyes, and as we left, I turned back. “I’m Irina,” I said.

“Irina! Sally broke her deal with me, didn’t she? Such a beautiful name. I’ll see you back again with Sally soon?”

“Yes.”

We walked for another fifteen minutes, not thinking of the time left in our lunch hour. Sally stopped at the foot of an enormous building on Sixteenth I’d never noticed before. It looked like something out of ancient Egypt. Two giant sphinxes flanked the marble stairs leading up to a large brown door. “Museum?” I asked.

“House of the Temple. You know, Freemason secret society kinda stuff. I’m sure there’s a lot of funny hat wearing and chanting and candle lighting going on in there. Just ask a few of the men we work with. To me, these steps are just the perfect place to have some lunch and watch the world pass by.”

As we ate, I could feel myself becoming more comfortable, though still keenly aware of her presence. Sally finished her sandwich and wiped the corners of her mouth. She ate nearly twice as fast as I did. “How do you like the typing pool?”

“I like it. I think.”

She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a compact and red lipstick. She puckered her lips. “Any on my teeth?”

“Oh, no. It looks perfect.”

“So, you like it?”

“Red’s a great color on you.”

“I mean the Pool.”

“It’s a good job.”

“Do you like the typing or the other stuff better?”

A flash of heat traveled down my throat to my stomach. I looked at Sally with what I thought was a blank stare, though I must have looked nervous.

“Don’t worry,” she said, placing her hand on mine. She had the softest hands, her nails painted the same shade of red as her lips. “You and I are the same. Well, almost.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anderson told me when I joined back up. But he didn’t really have to tell me. I could tell from the moment we met that you were different.”

I looked from side to side, then behind us. “You carry messages too?”

“More of a message
sender.
” She squeezed my hand. “Us gals gotta stick together. There aren’t many of us. Right?”

“Right.”

The day after our lunch on the Temple steps, Anderson informed me that instead of my meeting with Teddy, as I’d been doing, Sally would continue my training. “Surprised?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, biting my lip to keep from smiling.

The day after that, Sally stood outside the Agency’s black iron gates, applying her red lipstick in the driver’s-side mirror of a pale yellow Studebaker. She looked impeccable in a tartan wool cape and long black calfskin gloves. She saw me approach in the mirror and turned, lipstick applied to only her bottom lip. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, kiddo,” she said and pressed her lips together. “Let’s go for a walk.”

As we made our way through Georgetown, Sally pointed out the stately homes of some of the Agency’s higher-ups. “Dulles lives up there,” she said, pointing to a red brick town house obscured by a wall of maple trees. “And that big white one with the black shutters across the way? That’s Wild Bill Donovan’s old house that the Grahams bought. Frank lives on the other side of Wisconsin. All of ’em spitting distance from each other.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just up the street.”

“To keep tabs on the men?”

She laughed. “Smart girl.”

We took a left into Dumbarton Oaks and walked the park’s winding path into the gardens. Descending the stone steps, Sally pulled on a dead wisteria vine hanging from the wooden arbor. “In the spring, this whole place smells absolutely delicious. I open my windows and hope for a breeze.”

We walked until we reached the swimming pool, which had been drained for the season. We sat on a bench across from an elderly man who was working on a crossword puzzle in his wheelchair, parked next to his milk-faced caretaker. Two young mothers wearing almost identical belted red princess coats smoked and chatted at the pool’s far end while their toddlers, a boy and a girl, tossed pebbles into the pool, screaming with glee when their stones reached the small puddle in the center. A pensive-looking young man sat in a black iron chair near the fountain at the pool’s head reading a copy of
The Hatchet.

“See that man over there?” Sally asked, without looking.

I nodded.

“What do you think his story is?”

“College student?”

“What else?”

“College student with a clip-on tie?”

“Nice eye. And what do you think that clip-on tie means?”

“He doesn’t know how to tie a real one?”

“And what does that mean?”

“He’s never been taught?”

“And?”

“He doesn’t have a father? Maybe he doesn’t come from money? He definitely doesn’t have a girlfriend or a mother close by to tell him that clip-ons look ridiculous. Perhaps he’s from out of town? On scholarship maybe?”

“Where?”

“Given our location? Georgetown. But given his choice of newspaper? I’d say George Washington.”

“Studying?”

I looked the man over: clip-on, cowlick, maroon sweater vest, dull brown leather shoes, smoking Pall Malls, legs crossed, his right foot turning slow circles. “Could be anything, really.”

“Philosophy.”

“How do you know?”

Sally pointed to his open leather knapsack and the book inside it: Kierkegaard.

“How did I miss that?”

“Obvious things are the hardest to spot.” Sally stretched her arms over her head to take off her cape, and the space between her blouse’s buttons parted to reveal black lace. “Wanna do another?”

I looked away. “Sure.”

I said the mothers were childhood friends who’d grown distant after marrying and having kids. “It’s the way they smile at each other,” I told Sally. “Like they’re forcing some previous connection.” The elderly man was a widower, clearly in love with his caretaker, who didn’t share his feelings. When a gardener appeared and carefully plucked leaves out of the fountain, I suggested he was a leftover from the days when the garden was owned by the Bliss family, perhaps the only household employee to have been kept on. “That explains his diligence,” I finished. Sally nodded approvingly.

Was this part of my training? If so, what exactly was Sally training me to do? It wasn’t as if we could confirm the stories I’d manifested for these strangers. So what did it matter? “How do we know if we’re right?” I asked when we’d gone through everyone.

“It’s not about being right. It’s about knowing enough to be able to quickly evaluate what kind of person someone is. People give away a lot more than they know. It’s so much more than how you dress, how you look. Anyone can put on a nice blue and white polka dot dress and clutch a Chanel, but that doesn’t mean she’s become a new person.” I blushed at the mention of my Mayflower outfit. “The change comes from inside and reflects every move, every gesture, every facial tic. You must adopt a certain understanding of who someone is in order to judge how he might act in different circumstances.” She looked right at me. “And how you might act if you had to really
become
someone new. Everything would change—how you hold your cigarette, how you laugh, how you might blush at the mention of a Chanel purse.” She poked my shoulder. “You understand what I’m telling you?”

“It starts from within,” I said.

“Exactly.”

Our training continued. Each day we’d meet after work, and during more long walks around the District, Sally would teach me everything she knew. Knowing what made herself stand out, she taught me how not to. She showed me what clothes drew the least attention. “They can’t be too old or too new, too bright or too dull.” On what hair color won’t provoke the male gaze: “You’d think blondes get the most attention, but it’s redheads. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t go platinum.” How to stand: “Not too straight, not too slouched.” How to eat: “Steak. Medium rare.” How to drink: “Tom Collins, extra lemon, extra ice. Won’t stain if you spill, and won’t get you too drunk.”