“Oh, Mrs. Wheeler,” Betty said, blinking back tears. “I never imagined such a delightful surprise. For once I – well, I don’t know what to say!” Betty dabbed at her cheeks with a lace handkerchief from her purse. Her heart was singing.
“We would have held this little ceremony earlier,” Mrs. Wheeler said, “but we felt it rather inappropriate timing with your recent automobile accident and that unfortunate mishap with your son. I trust he is well again now?”
“Oh, yes, fully recovered, thank you.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. As much as we appreciate your devotion to your work, I do worry about keeping our ladies from their families when they’re most needed. Our children are our most precious treasures, aren’t they? A mother can spread herself too thin, especially in these busy, modern times. Do take some time out for yourself too, dear - we aren’t superheroes, after all!”
Betty smiled in quiet delight at the unintended irony of her words. But, perhaps it was time to slow down a little. “I will, Mrs. Wheeler. But as we like to say, there’s always time to take time off for beauty too!” The other representatives laughed.
The little party broke into cheerful clusters to enjoy the platters of food and tea that had been laid out on the boardroom table. Betty chatted to several of the ladies before noticing something was amiss. A tall, long-faced woman was nervously watching her, hands clasped, and wearing a somewhat forced smile on her face. It was one of the company’s senior account managers, Maud Franklin. At that moment, she had the appearance of someone who had swallowed a rather large fly and was unsure whether to spit it out or pretend nothing was wrong. With a furtive look to the other women in the room, now occupied with cake and conversation, she stepped over and touched Betty’s arm, then ushered her to the window so they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Mrs. Jones,” the woman began, apparently having decided to come out with it. Betty bit her tongue and fixed a disarmingly naïve smile on her face. Betty knew that Maud Franklin oversaw her personal sales ledger, and although the woman had no authority to question her clientele, she could read the woman’s disfavor as clear as day. “I don’t mean to cause any ill-will of course,” Maud said, “especially with today’s celebration and all, but as the supervisor managing your sales ledger for inventory purposes, well, I must bend your ear for just a moment.” She hesitated. “I’ll admit you have a certain flair for selling cosmetics, Mrs. Jones, but –” the woman exhaled in a sudden flurry of words, “– a monthly order of Heavenly Moisturizing Cream for a half-dozen bordello’s in East Harlem? Heaven’s above, my dear! That’s not the kind of clientele we want to be associated with. What’s next?” she lowered her voice to a hiss, “Greasers and dope fiends?” She leant back, her lips pursed in disapproval. “If Mrs. Wheeler knew about this –”
“Goodness, I didn’t take you as one to discriminate against sporting girls, Mrs. Franklin,” Betty said, in feigned surprise. “Surely all women deserve to look lovely, even those with less favorable working opportunities?”
“We are a proud company, Mrs. Jones, with quality products. Our customers expect a certain decorum and savoir faire by our representatives!”
Betty looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. You are quite right, of course. I’ve been awfully remiss.”
Maud stepped back, looking slightly mollified. “Well, I’m glad you see my point of –”
“You’ve inspired me, Mrs. Franklin,” Betty interjected, beaming. “Given their difficult circumstances, I think they really do deserve a little more attention than most, a little savoir faire on my part, as you so eloquently put it. Perhaps I should offer these ladies a special discounted rate to accommodate their meagre wages. The Madam’s take half every night, you know, and it’s not always easy work, as you might imagine. I’m sure many of the women have little mouths at home to feed that could do with those savings. I’ll discuss it with Mrs. Wheeler straight away, she’s always had a charitable heart. I imagine that’s why she’s such a wonderful ambassador for our beloved company.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s what I –” Maud stammered.
Betty leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Franklin, for your délicatesse in this matter. I’m so glad you brought it to my attention. What a thoughtful woman you are!” Betty patted her on the arm in a bolstering show of affection. She inclined her head slightly before she stepped away. “One little thing though, as a fellow proud representative of our brand, I must give you a spot of advice. I don’t mean to cause any ill-will though, of course –”
“Advice?” Maud repeated, astonished.
“Oh yes,” Betty said, looking as sincere and contrite as she could. “You see, the foundation you’re wearing is a shade too dark. You’re a winter hue Mrs. Franklin, so you really must be sure not to overstate your complexion with the wrong blend. Try a crimson lipstick to brighten up your tone instead, it will detract from the many imperfections of your skin. I believe there’s a lovely shade in our latest catalog.”
Maud’s mouth fell open.
“And one last thing, you might like to consider one of our own products for your scent, I’d recognize a Dior perfume anywhere.” Betty flashed her a charming smile. “I think I’ll have some of that lovely spice cake now, if you don’t mind.” Betty walked away, her head held high.
“Love is the sweetest thing,
Kiss me all through the spring,
As the days grow longer and never end,
We’ll dance on a cloud, always together!”
Betty tucked the crisp white sheets expertly under Nancy’s brand-new mattress and sang gaily to the song piping through the radio. She was as light on her feet as ever. Georgie and Nancy’s old mattresses had been finally retired to the junkyard. Without the thousands of dollars of stolen cash inside to bolster them, they’d been left somewhat deflated. Besides, she felt it was high time for some fresh new beginnings. Betty spun happily, tossing Nancy’s pillow onto the bed and smoothing the covers, then picked up her daughters washing basket, sidestepping Figaro, who was curled up sleeping near the dresser. Dancing her way to the utility room, she tumbled the soiled clothes into the washing machine and set it on.
“Sponge cake, my darlings!” Betty called, whirling to the kitchen to pick up a platter of sweets and a jug of homemade lemonade. She stepped out onto the front porch, where George sat reading his newspaper, smoke from his pipe curling away into the breeze.
“Good gravy!” George exclaimed, folding his paper onto his lap. “Two days in a row?”
“Nancy made this one, darling. Icing and all. She made a roast for dinner, too. Isn’t she clever? It was quite an adventure, wasn’t it, Nancy, dear?” Betty winked at her daughter, who was sitting on the porch with little Georgie, playing marbles. Nancy grinned back.
“The best adventure,” Nancy’s reply came into Betty’s mind. She hadn’t opened her mouth.
“And more adventures to come, dear.” Betty replied silently. “Did you remember to save the waste fats for Mr. Timms, the butcher? The war office says they need them to make explosives. We must all do our part for the boys at the front.”
“I scraped them into the bucket, like you said,” came Nancy’s silent reply.
“Well done, sweetheart.”
Since Betty had begun training her daughter to use the gifts she could no longer hold back, the girl’s behavior had greatly settled. She was an avid student. Betty wondered if, one day, Nancy might surpass her own abilities.
George looked quizzically between the two of them at their extended silence, then raised an eyebrow.
“That’s rather unfair, don’t you think?” he said.
“I was just complimenting Nancy on her cooking skills, darling,” Betty said. “It’s good practice for her.” She shot a quick look at her youngest, but Georgie was happily distracted playing on the porch floor.
“Mmm,” grumbled George, warily. Although he was now aware of Betty’s mind-reading ability – her telepath
ic connection to Nancy after they escaped St. Augustine’s was impossible to explain otherwise – he was still unnerved by it. Betty had since given him endless assurances that she not only had never read his own mind, but never intended to. Given their recent escapades, he’d taken it as well as could be expected.
Picking up her silver handled cake knife, Betty gently cut through Nancy’s sponge. Her wrist movements were as inconspicuous as possible, endeavoring not to trigger any memories from George, whose amnesia of her skills with a blade seemed to have held – so far. It was inevitable that he would remember, of course, and Betty was ready to talk about it. She’d already explained the truth of her childhood, and family to him, and their reconciliation was progressing. It would take time though, and Betty didn’t want to push him past his capacity to cope. The day would come soon enough.
“Georgie?”
“Cake!” the little boy cried, jumping to his feet in a scatter of marbles.
Betty served the cake and lemonade, humming happily along to the radio, which crackled through the open window. The newspaper, still folded on George’s lap, caught her eye.
“What’s this, dear?” she asked, leaning over him. She lifted the paper and unfolded it. A bold headline practically leapt off the front page.
“Disgraced Mayor Scrapped from Race.”
A black and white photograph of Mayor Sutherland emblazoned the cover. He was bound in handcuffs on the steps of City Hall, surrounded by an entourage of reporters and police. A wave of satisfaction swept over Betty.
“Not quite the butter-and-egg man anymore, is he?” George said, darkly. “And to think, that all that time he was taking money from Pinzolo and turning a blind eye to what was going on with those orphans. He seemed such a decent fellow!”
“You just never know, do you?” Betty said.
“He’ll be put away for a long time for this,” George said. “Blackmail. Collusion. Misuse of public funds. When Pinzolo goes down, he’ll take Sutherland right along with him.”
“I certainly hope so,” Betty sighed. “It will be a long and complicated road to get there though. I certainly hope Jacob is up for it.”
George shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well. I imagine if anyone can keep them locked up, it’s him. He’s clearly the right man for the job.” He cleared his throat. “Look here, jitterbug, you’ll get a tickle out of this.” He leafed through a few pages to find what he was looking for. George held the paper up, showing her a short article. “That woman we met at your Charity Ball, Sutherland’s wife, it seems her husband’s public disgrace has put a bit of a fire under her. Given her a bit of gumption. She’s starting a literacy group to help those orphans. Reading to them and such. What do you think of that?”
“I knew she had it in her!” Betty exclaimed, delighted. “Well, I’ll just have to talk to the church social committee about raising some money to buy books for their school library. There are plenty of children there to read them!”
“What a swell idea,” George said. “You’ve got such a big heart, jitterbug.”
George lay the paper aside and Betty pulled up a chair beside him at the table, helping herself to some cake and lemonade. The children ate and then ran down to the grass to play. George gave Betty a contented wink.
“We’re alright, aren’t we, love?” he said.
“Perfectly,” Betty replied.
For the longest time, they sat, a scene of domestic bliss, watching the children play. It was nearly lunchtime when a Ford delivery truck pulled into the driveway with a screech. A man got out and walked toward them.
“Hello, Cliff,” Betty said, as the man drew close. A sinking feeling was growing in the pit of her stomach. “It’s not a postal day, is it?”
“Sorry Betty, George,” he said, tipping his hat to Betty. He passed a letter to George, who rose to his feet. “Official delivery today.” He stepped back, looking concerned. “I’ll leave you with it, then. Best of luck.”
“Oh no,” Betty cried, miserably. Her heart was racing. As the post master drove away, George ripped open the letter. It was a telegram. The official insignia declared it to be from the United States War Office. With a tremulous voice, George read it aloud.
“ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION
The President of the United States”
“To GEORGE W. JONES
You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States and to report to Fort Hamilton on October 5th, 1943 at 6.30am for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station.”
Betty’s knees collapsed under her, and she fell into her chair.
“The lottery! You’ve been drafted.”
George stood, rigid and blank-faced, holding the telegram. His hand was shaking. He seemed to be having an internal struggle, and as Betty watched him with tears in her eyes, she felt more helpless than ever before.
“So I have,” her husband finally said. “And there’s no getting out of it. I must play my part, as we all have to.” He looked up at her, resolutely. His mouth was a hard line. All at once, George seemed both stronger and more defenseless than ever before. “I’ll manage, Betty. It’s time I protected you, for a change. I’m not afraid.”
“Well, I am!” Betty cried. She fell into his arms in a flood of tears.
An age seemed to pass as they stood together, sheltered from the afternoon sun, commiserating. Eventually, George placed his finger under Betty’s chin and lifted it gently, so she could meet his eyes.
“Be ready when the brave, new world is ready for you,” he recited. “Isn’t that right, jitterbug? Besides, I’ll have three months of training before they ship me out anywhere. And I’ll still be home for Christmas.”
“But it’s not enough –”
“Then we’ll have to make it enough. Dry your eyes now, I can’t bear to see the prettiest kitten in New York City looking so glum.”
Betty dried her eyes, determined not to make it any harder for him than it already was. Her husband hadn’t the fortitude of a soldier, but like so many other men, he had been thrust into a future that was both unfair, and terribly dangerous. The injustice flamed Betty’s heart and her mind whirred into action.
There must be a solution to this devastating turn of events, she simply needed to determine it. Suddenly, so much needed her attention.
Donald Pinzolo and his threat to Adina, the key witness to his crimes.
The unknown government agency that seemed to be tracking her every move.
And now this. George was no fighter. Not like he would need to be. Not like she was.
He would need her protection. Whether he knew it or not.
Another deadline. Urgency threatened to overcome her.
Betty’s thoughts fell back to her little celebration at the Avon head office only the week before. Her life then, had seemed so utterly rebalanced. Surrounded by the women who had given her empowerment. The brand that so perfectly embodied the future she desired. The lipsticks, the perfumes, the posters on the wall.
A flash caught her mind. An image. It was a poster in the Avon board room, displayed among others on the wall. An advertisement of corporate support for the war-effort. Patriotic. Beautiful. The very essence of selfless devotion. The poster was of a young woman wearing a white, long-sleeved dress and starched nurses cap, with a royal blue cape flying out behind her. “The Fair and the Brave” the poster had declared “– join the American Red Cross effort today!”
Not quite a soldier, but certainly a necessity on the front line. And I’ve always been rather partial to capes, she mused.
Was there some way forward then, in which she might yet fight to keep George safe? Betty tucked the thought away in her mind for another day. George was right. For now, they still had much to be grateful for. She must embrace the time they had together. Keeping her chin up and hands busy was the best course of action. George needed her, the children needed her, and Betty’s beloved work was waiting patiently in an alligator-skin cosmetic case by the fr
ont door.
Life, it seemed, planned to bustle her along as always. And Betty was up to the task.
A woman’s work, really was, never done.
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Hayley Camille is the author of The Chronicles of Ivy Carter Science Fiction series and award winning Avon Calling! Crime series, as well as The Ultimate Players Guide to Skylanders gaming guides for kids.
Avon Calling! Season One Page 39
