The Wrong Kind of Money (50 page)

But other than eat, what exactly does Miss Hannah
do
in there? Sometimes Edith has glimpsed Miss Hannah at her big desk poring over what appear to be long columns of figures. Proofs of Ingraham's ads are always brought to her for final approval and initialing. What else? Meanwhile, Edith Ackerman always knows exactly what she will be expected to do when summoned to “help out” in Miss Hannah's office. She will be asked to do all the little things that Jonesy and Jonesy's assistant don't like to do. When Miss Hannah's buzzer sounds, Edith will be expected to leap to her feet, seize a steno pad and pencil, and rush into Miss Hannah's room. Often the order will simply be “Open that window,” or “Turn up the thermostat.” Obviously, a woman in Miss Hannah's position cannot be expected to place her own telephone calls—though Mr. Noah has no problem doing this—and so the order could be “Get me Mr. So-and-so.” And Edith will be expected to have memorized all the frequently called numbers so she will not have to take the time to look them up, or run them through the telephone's electronic memory bank.

Then there is the important matter of Miss Hannah's Venetian blinds. When she visits her office, Miss Hannah likes the morning sunlight from the east, and so the blinds must be tilted to catch that. But as the sun moves westward, it can shine in Miss Hannah's eyes, and so the blinds must be tilted the other way. Of course, since the sun moves north in spring and south in the fall, the offending sunlight falls upon Miss Hannah's eyes at a slightly different time each day. And so an elaborate chart has been worked out, listing the precise dates and times for the Tipping of the Blinds ceremony. This is performed daily, whether Miss Hannah is there or not. After all, who knows when she may suddenly appear? If the blinds are in the wrong position, there is hell to pay.

No matter what time Miss Hannah arrives, she always leaves the office at precisely five o'clock, and in a great hurry, as though she had a train to catch, which she does not. Mr. Nelson, her driver, is always waiting for her with the car outside the building's entrance, in a space especially designated “No Parking” just for her. As the hour for her departure approaches, another ritual must be observed. At four-thirty Edith will tap on her door and say, “Four-thirty, Miss Hannah.” A nod. Then, fifteen minutes later, she will announce, “Four forty-five, Miss Hannah.” After the second announcement, announcements are made at five-minute intervals. “Four-fifty, Miss Hannah … Four fifty-five, Miss Hannah.” Why these reminders are necessary, Edith Ackerman hasn't the remotest idea. Miss Hannah wears a wrist-watch. There is an electric clock on her desk, and another with chimes on the mantel over her fireplace. But the announcements must be made, or heads will roll. Can't the old battle-ax tell time?

With the five o'clock announcement, Miss Hannah will heave her large frame out of her chair and make her way to the coat closet. There Edith will stand waiting to help her into her coat, a heavy mink at this time of year. If it is raining, or looks as though it might, Edith will hand her an umbrella. Then she will hand her her reticule and gloves. Miss Hannah usually wears a hat to work, and because Miss Hannah's hands will now be full, Edith will help her on with the mink hat, securing it to the silver-blue hair with a hatpin. Edith has often thought of ramming that long hatpin right through Miss Hannah's eardrums. Last of all, if Miss Hannah was wearing them today, Edith will help her into her mink-trimmed boots, easing Miss Hannah's feet into them one at a time, while Miss Hannah leans on Edith's shoulder for support, then zipping them up.

Then, without a word of thanks for any of this, Miss Hannah will stride down the corridor toward her elevator, while employees clear a path for her, murmuring, “Good night, Miss Hannah … Good night, Miss Hannah.…”

Meanwhile, though very little seems to be happening inside Miss Hannah's office when she is there, Jonesy and her assistant always make it a point to be consumed with almost frantic industry—Jonesy clicking bossily about in her spike heels, issuing instructions in her reedy voice. When Miss Hannah is closeted in her inner sanctum, an atmosphere of perpetual harassment hangs over the outer office like a mushroom cloud. They are always frowning, those two, too harried and preoccupied to talk as, wearing earphones, they transcribe dictation tapes, place and receive urgent telephone calls, initial important documents and memoranda, and fling confidential pieces of paper from their In boxes into their Out boxes, simultaneously pressing buttons to summon bonded messengers. The urgency and energy of these two ladies is exhausting just to be around on days like this. So vital to the company is the work being done here today that Edith knows she will have a headache by the time she leaves for home tonight. On days like this, this office is run like a crisis center, a war room with an emergency a minute. Working for Mr. Noah is altogether different, sheer joy.

Edith Ackerman has been with Ingraham almost longer than anyone else, though not always as Mr. Noah's secretary, of course. Heavens, she can remember when Mr. Noah was just a little boy. The standing joke is that Edith has lasted with the company as long as she has because she knows where lots of corporate skeletons are buried. Edith does nothing to discourage this notion, but actually she knows of hardly any corporate skeletons at all. She has made it a point not to know of skeletons. She remembers old Mr. Jules, of course. Mr. Jules was something of a tyrant, too, but somehow that was all right. Mr. Jules was a man. In Edith's book, a male tyrant is acceptable, while a female tyrant is just a pain in the kazoo. She knows there's a double standard here, but that is what she believes. She has a right to what she thinks.

She remembers some troubled times for the company. She remembers a time, toward the end of the war, when there was almost a major scandal involving price fixing. But Edith is not even sure what price fixing means. She knows that liquor prices vary widely from state to state, and in some states from county to county, and in some towns from store to store. What Ingraham did was to figure their pricing backward from retail. The liquor store owner needed to make a fair margin of profit, and so did the wholesaler, and what was left over went to Ingraham. It seemed a fair enough arrangement to Edith. But there was a Louisville retailer who took the company to court, charging price fixing. She remembers how skillfully Mr. Jules handled it in the end.

He called two of his vice-presidents into his office. “Eddie and Charlie,” he said, “somebody's going to have to sit for this. The Kentucky attorney general isn't going to let us off unless somebody sits. It's going to be one of you. Which one of you is it going to be?”

The two men eyed each other uneasily. “Flip a coin?” one of them said.

“Now, look at it this way,” Mr. Jules said. “Charlie is thirty-nine, married, with three kids. The oldest enters Penn State in the fall. Eddie, you're twenty-seven, no wife, no kids.”

“A fiancée,” Eddie muttered, looking at his shoes.

“Which one of you do you think it should be?”

“I guess me,” Eddie said at last.

Now that, Edith thinks, is the way to run a company. It was only, she was assured, a white-collar crime, which was like no crime at all. Eddie's sentence was only two years. His prison was more like a country club, and every week Mr. Jules sent him a box of homemade brownies. In nine months' time, with good behavior, Eddie was out, and back at work at Ingraham's with an increase in salary. There was no publicity. Would Miss Hannah ever be able to solve a problem as neatly as that? Edith thinks not.

Edith also remembers Miss Bathy. Now,
there
was a woman who was a delight to work for, as different from her older sister as night from day. If Miss Hannah is the Wicked Witch of the West, Miss Bathy was Glinda, the Good Witch. Everybody loved Miss Bathy. She was as pretty to look at as she was fun to be with, always a smile for everyone. Miss Bathy was considered to be the company's advertising genius. To Edith, Ingraham's advertising no longer has the special flair it had when Miss Bathy handled it.

Edith remembers the famous “Men of Eminence” campaign, for instance. In that series famous scientists, educators, authors, concert artists, doctors, captains of industry, and even a U.S. senator and a Supreme Court judge were persuaded to pose for photographs showing them enjoying a glass of V.S.O.P. The copy stressed that these distinguished gentlemen were not being paid for their endorsements. Instead, a contribution of one thousand dollars was being paid by Ingraham to their favorite charities, though Edith happens to know that, in the case of one college president, his favorite charity had been his son-in-law's bank account. Then there was Miss Bathy's “Gracious Living” series. In that one the message was that, by serving V.S.O.P., a host or hostess could greatly improve his or her social status. It was this series that had been the first in history to show a woman pouring, and even sipping, a cocktail. Everyone had quaked in fear over those ads, sure that there would be a public outcry over this, and that the government would step in and force them to cancel the campaign. But, as Miss Bathy predicted, nothing of the sort happened, though sales figures for the brand soared. Those Gracious Living ads, it was said at the time, changed American liquor advertising forevermore, as everyone in the industry scrambled to copy Ingraham.

Edith has heard all the rumors about there being a “relationship” between Miss Bathy and Mr. Jules. She doesn't believe a word of any of it. Whenever she saw Mr. Jules and Miss Bathy together, their relationship was all business, and nothing but. Miss Bathy also supplied another important service to the company. There were plenty of times when certain corporate skulls had to be cracked together. Mr. Jules and Miss Hannah handled this unpleasant work, and then Miss Bathy applied the bandages, the soothing poultices, the healing compresses of cotton gauze, the comforting words, the boxes of homemade brownies. After a dose of Miss Bathy's tender, loving care, the violent dressing-down from Mr. Jules—who often hurled heavy objects in the direction of people who brought him unwelcome news—never seemed quite so bad.

Mr. Noah fulfills that function now. Miss Bathy retired after Mr. Noah joined the company. Edith has heard it said that Mr. Noah and his aunt do not get on. What may have caused this, Edith does not know. It is none of her business, and she has never asked.

In addition to her job and Kitty, her Siamese, there is only one other light in the life of Edith Ackerman, and that is the woman she calls the Little Girl. The Little Girl is fifty-three years old now, but Edith has always called her that, though her given name is Tillie. The Little Girl is her niece, and Edith has had her since 1949, when she was eight, and Edith's brother was shot down in Korea, and the Little Girl's mother didn't want to keep her. The little girl is feebleminded. Oh, Edith knows this is not a term one is supposed to use anymore. Today she would probably be described as learning disabled, or intellectually challenged, but whatever you call it, the Little Girl's mental age is that of a five- or six-year-old.

She must be watched very carefully. During the day the Little Girl attends a special school for others like her, and at the end of the day, Edith picks her up and takes her home to her apartment in Kew Gardens, where the Little Girl has the spare bedroom. For the most part, she is sweet and gentle-natured. She plays endlessly with Kitty. But there are times when she wants to be sexually active, and then she must be restrained.

The Little Girl is also diabetic. Edith gives her her insulin injections, tests her urine, weighs her food, and supervises her exercise on the stair-climbing machine. But this morning she had some sort of seizure. Her bed was drenched with sweat, her neck was twisted at an awkward angle, she was making incomprehensible gurgling sounds in her throat, and she seemed in danger of slipping into a coma. Her blood-sugar count had shot up for some reason, and Edith quickly gave her a shot. After that she seemed to improve, but Edith decided not to send her to her school today. Instead, a neighbor had agreed to come in and take care of her. For all the worry she is, Edith loves the Little Girl very much, and frets about her night and day.

Now the buzzer sounds, and Edith Ackerman springs to her feet, seizes her steno pad and pencil, and rushes to the double doors.

“Yes, Miss Hannah?”

Miss Hannah sits crouched behind her big desk, many pieces of paper spread out in front of her. Without looking up, she says, “What time is it?”

Edith consults the clock on the mantel. “Ten-eighteen, Miss Hannah,” she says.

“I want you to call my son in Atlantic City,” she says. “He may be in a meeting, and if he is, don't bring him out. Just leave a message for him. Tell him I want to see him at my house tonight, first thing, when he gets back to New York.”

“That may be quite late, Miss Hannah.”

“It doesn't matter. I'll be up.”

“He'll have luggage, Miss Hannah. He may want to drop that off at River House before—”

“No. I want to see him at One thousand Park
before
he goes home. I want to see him first
thing,
the minute he gets back to the city. My doorman can watch his luggage.”

“Yes, Miss Hannah.”

“Make sure he gets that message. It's very important.”

“Yes, Miss Hannah.”

Edith starts to withdraw.

“Oh, and one other thing,” she says.

“Yes, Miss Hannah?”

“Phone my daughter-in-law and tell her I'd like her to join me for lunch.”

“Yes, Miss Hannah. Will you be eating here at the office, Miss Hannah, or would you like me to call for a reservation?”

“We'll be lunching at my apartment. Twelve-thirty.”

“Yes, Miss Hannah. By the way, Miss Hannah, that Mr. William Luckman called again.”

“Keep telling him what I told you to tell him. That I am not available. I was not impressed with that young man. He spells trouble, if you ask me. I don't wish to speak with him.”