by Julie Hyzy
Through my open window I caught the unmistakable scent of burning wood, which, coupled with the poofy white clouds in an otherwise clear sky, suddenly made it feel like fall. The time of the year I liked best with its sweaters in subdued colors and caramel apples with nuts—curling up with a favorite author’s book at night, the breezy wind rattling my old windows. Knowing I was safe inside.
Life didn’t get much better than that.
But right now, hands gripped on the steering wheel so tight my knuckles were white, I knew I was anywhere but safe. I stifled a little shudder, more from nerves than cold.
I had Lisa Knowles’ address and phone number on a small scrap of paper, even though I memorized them both. Her home was nearby, but I wanted to verify the street before I got any closer. I wiggled the note out of my back pocket with effort. My jeans were a little too tight, my shirt a little too low-cut. I’d pulled these clothes out of the far reaches of my closet searching for just the right look. I couldn’t believe they still fit.
And I couldn’t believe I was about to apply for a job as a prostitute.
“Heaven help me,” I said aloud.
The wind whipped up again, sending a blast into my car, mussing my hair. Not that it mattered. I was going for the out-of-work young woman look. And I hoped my meager acting skills would carry me through.
With a quick look in the rear-view mirror, I put the car in drive, and headed for my interview.
* * * * *
I turned right onto Shade Lane, deep into the brand-new subdivision. Young trees, set at precise intervals, lined the parkways of the homes set far back from the street. The numbers were easy, single and double digits, which had to be tough for emergency teams if they ever got called out here. How the hell do you find Six Shade Lane out in the middle of nowhere? If it hadn’t been for Sophie’s explicit directions, I’d have been lost.
While Lisa Knowles’ home wasn’t the most opulent residence on the expansive, curvy street, it had a unique look. The home was done completely in white brick, with all sorts of detail work at the structure’s corners and above the windows. The bricklayers had spent lots of time designing the curves and patterns, and that hadn’t come cheap. It was a two story home with a backyard that sloped away from the house, offering a walkout basement. I caught a glimpse of a white vinyl fence and the edge of a sparkling in-ground pool as I pulled to the curb. Still open, even this late in the season. It must be heated.
A horseshoe-shaped driveway wound past a four-car garage. We were talking some big bucks, here. Not bad for the owner of a lone hair salon that never had any customers.
What set this home apart from the others was the color combination. The rest of the neighborhood made do with cream color, brown, or the obvious favorite, red brick. And all had coordinating roofs of either shingle or tile. Tile roofs equaled big bucks. Even I knew that.
The bright white brick of Lisa’s home was topped with an equally bright pink tile roof. I’d love to know what her neighbors said about it behind her back. It resembled a garish birthday cake and I wondered if she’d had it designed that way because scantily clad women popped out of it so often. Personally, I didn’t think I’d like living next to a pink and white house. Just looking at it gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Showtime, I told myself. Quelling the nervous energy that made my stomach jiggle and my breath come faster, I pressed the doorbell and bit my lip, too late remembering the double dose of red that I’d caked on my mouth before I left. Lipstick has an unmistakable flavor, one I detest. I wished I had a stick of gum.
With all this grandeur, I expected a maid or butler to attend the door. But the chimes that had rung so loudly that I could hear them, were answered by Lisa herself.
She in no way fit the mental picture I’d conjured up.
I put her in her early forties, maybe even older. She had clear, tanned skin, and brown eyes that drooped a little in the center. Pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, her dark hair, streaked with red and gray, was curly and thinning. She was a big girl, a head taller than me and probably fifty pounds heavier. Czech, I thought, or maybe Russian.
She tilted her head, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, striving for “friendly,” but I could tell she was busy formulating assessments already.
“Alex?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. Are you Lisa?” I asked, with a look I hoped telegraphed both young and eager. On a good day, I could pass for mid-twenties and I worried that there was an upper age limit on the girls she’d hire.
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes raking me from head to toe and back again. “Come on in.”
She wore a stretchy dress of deep red in an African pattern. Rows of minuscule beige animal silhouettes started at the low gathered neckline, growing in size until a parade of hand-height giraffes marched across the calf-length hemline. Her bare feet sported purple polished nails and she wore a silver toe ring with attached charm that jingled as she walked.
She led me through the marble-floored hallway with a soaring staircase that headed up into an expansive second floor loft. To the right of the hall was an enormous living room with white leather furniture accessorized in an Oriental motif.
I kept listening for sounds of others in the massive structure. But heard nothing. No sign of husband, kids, or even an annoying little dog. Maybe these digs were hers alone.
The dining room sat on the left of the hall. It too, was decorated with a Japanese theme. Lisa, however, was a brisk walker, I didn’t get much time for the kind of scrutinizing observation I like best.
“If you come back here again, I’d appreciate if you’d use the alternate entrance.” She turned toward me and smiled. This was not a happy woman. “Did you see that door, set back next to the garage?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’m surprised Helena didn’t tell you about that. She’s been here often enough.” Tiny frown and then the insincere smile returned. “Don’t worry, though. It’s okay … this time.”
“Sorry,” I said, already beginning to feel like the hired help.
She ignored my apology, wending her way to a sizeable office area that, by my estimation, sat directly behind the garage. She passed through open double pocket doors, turning to slide them shut behind me once I stepped into the room. It gave me a moment to make my own assessments. Lisa Knowles was either a clean freak or she kept a maid on retainer. The place was spotless. Even this office, her work area, was pristine.
This room had two entrances. The one we’d used, and an outside door, which I figured must have been the entrance she mentioned. I never would have noticed it from the street.
Furnished like any typical office, the room was spacious enough to handle the massive desk and accompanying chairs, a wall full of filing cabinets and a meager bookcase full of accounting textbooks. I caught sight of only one novel, a well-worn copy of a paperback titled Sandra. I sat down in the chair where she gestured.
She sat behind the desk and I felt her eyes on me again. Assessing me. Shrewd. This woman had an intense air about her. I’d have to be cautious.
Behind her, a bright picture window had been painted with bold sweeps of color. The faux stained-glass had a religious feel to it and while it provided privacy for her, it did nothing to keep the afternoon sun from shining directly into my face, effectively blinding me. She must have sensed my discomfort, but she didn’t offer to pull down the shade.
I switched seats. It helped. Lisa appeared amused.
“Your name is Alexandrine Szatjemski?”
I nodded, “Yes.”
“Helena tells me you’re looking for employment. She gave me a call, suggesting I interview you right away.” Lisa’s voice matched her body to perfection. Low and raspy, she sounded like a heavy smoker, but she didn’t look like one, and I neither smelled, nor saw, any evidence of cigarettes in her home. “But when I started to ask her about your qualifications, she really had no idea about anything. How long have you two known each other?”
I gave a nervous, self-effacing laugh. “Not long. I really just met her. I’m actually a friend of Sophie’s. Sophie Breczyk?”
Lisa nodded. I thought I saw one eye squint, just a bit.
“Well,” I said, launching into the spiel I’d rehearsed, “I just got fired about a week ago and I don’t know what to do. Sophie’s always been good to me and she always seems to be able to make things work, you know?” I widened my eyes, trying to look like I’d given the matter deep thought. “She’s always got—not a lot of money—but enough. And she’s helped me out some. So, I thought maybe, if there were any openings where she was, I could give that a try. And I wanted to ask her to kind of introduce me and all, but then …”
I purposely let the sentence hang.
Lisa raised her eyebrows, but stayed silent.
“This whole thing happened with her poor brother and now Sophie’s all broken up—not that I blame her—” I shook my head and shot her a sincere expression, then grimaced, for effect. “But I got a bunch of bills and I don’t know how I’m going to keep my head up if I don’t find something soon. You know?”
When she nodded again this time, I sensed she’d accepted the story. At least in a grudging way, so far.
Lisa picked up a pen and played with it a moment before pulling out papers from her desk drawer. From the manner in which she held it, this was one heavy pen. Gold and silver designs snaked up and down the barrel and they formed a picture, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t tell what it was.
In a way, I was surprised at her hands. Long-fingered and smooth, their nails were manicured and polished in a shade that matched her toes. I’d originally put her in her early forties, but her hands were young and supple.
Of their own accord, my eyes shot back to her face for a reassessment. Perhaps she and I were closer in age than I thought. Could be her line of work that added the lines and wrinkles.
“I like to take notes, if you don’t mind,” Lisa said, with a smile devoid of warmth. All business this woman.
“No, no, not at all,” I said, thinking that I’d better be careful to remember everything I told her.
“Spell your name for me, please.” Her hand was poised above the sheet. Was she trying to check me out? I chose to use my undercover name, my parents’ original last name Szatjemski, the one that never showed up on Midwest Focus’s rolling credits.
“Czy mowi pan po polsku?” she asked
I hesitated. The question in Polish surprised me, but in a split-second decision I feigned confusion, with a shrug. I could tell by her pronunciation that she was probably as fluent as I was. It would be smarter not to let on that I understood, just yet. My chances of learning anything significant might be better that way.
“Was that Polish?” I asked, biting my lip to convey concern that my answer wouldn’t meet with her approval. “I don’t understand it,” I lied. “Well, a couple of words and phrases is all.”
She nodded, regarding me closely. “You don’t look Polish.”
“I guess I take after my mom.”
From what I could tell, looking at it upside down, she was recording her notes on a form. Neat blank sections with bold print titles. I could see the top section, where my personal information ought to go. She looked ready to start a question and answer session, when I asked, “Is that the job application? Do you want me to fill it out for you? Make it easier?”
“No. I prefer to get information on you first. Make my decision. Then, if we come to an agreement and it looks as though we could have a good working relationship, I’ll make sure that section’s completed.”
“Okay.”
“Phone number?”
I was ready for this. “I don’t have a home phone. Little problem there.” I shot her an embarrassed grin, “Okay, they shut it off.” I dug out and held up my cell phone. “But this is paid up till the end of the month.”
As I gave her the number, she jotted it down, nodding. “Where did you work before? You said you were fired?”
“Yeah.” I tried to both look and sound regretful. Sticking with the truth as much as possible, I said, “I used to work at Midwest Focus.”
“The television news show?” Her eyes widened and I felt the walls go up again.
“Uh-huh,” I said, trying for nonchalant.
“What did you do there?” There was that squint again.
“Well …” I bit my lip, “I used to tell everybody I was a secretary there, but …”
“But?”
“But really, I was just kind of a gofer person. They told me that if I worked out, maybe I’d get to be one of the assistants, someday.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Just over a year.”
“Who was your immediate supervisor?”
“A girl named Jordan Harvey.”
Lisa took notes with a sinuous motion. Even upside down I could tell that she had flawless handwriting. Clear, even, and strong. She looked up at me and asked, “Jak sie pisze?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” She shot me a lips-only smile. Testing. “Spell her name for me please.”
I did. Jordan, fully apprised of my antics here today, would have my story ready for anyone who might call to check on my employment. Everything from a starting date to my skimpy salary and reasons for dismissal. I just better remember not to apply for any credit cards over the next few days. All calls regarding my recent tenure at the station were to be referred to Jordan. With the tale we concocted, my credit rating would fall through the floor.
“Why were you let go? Downsizing?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Do you have a cosmetology license?”
“No, but Helena says I should apply for shampoo girl.”
“How much schooling have you had?”
“I took a couple college classes after high school. But that was kind of a long time ago.”
“What did you study?”
“This and that. You know, general stuff. I didn’t know what I wanted to do yet.”
“What do you want to do?”
I tried to look sheepish. “I still don’t know yet?”
“Have you ever worked in a beauty shop before?”
“No.”
Lisa stopped writing, leaned back in her chair, holding the expensive pen up by her lips. “Then what makes you want to work in one now?”
I was ready for this one. “At this point I’ll take anything.” I took a deep breath and shook my head. “I’m telling you, I can spend money faster than I make it and I got bills up the wazoo.”
A long moment passed where she said nothing but merely tapped the fancy pen against the desk top, considering. “Most of the girls I hire are recent immigrants,” she said.
“Yeah. It’s gotta be hard for these girls to leave home for a big city like Chicago. I’m from downstate, myself. Sophie says that Father Bruno set her up with you. She says he helped her get out of Poland and into the job market here. She’s forever grateful to the guy.”
Lisa reacted to the mention of Father Bruno’s name with a flicker of interest. Almost imperceptible, but it was there. “You know him, too?” she asked.
“Sophie introduced us.”
I was here to assess this Lisa, to get information on her organization. According to Sophie, she guarded the truth about the salon’s clientele from Father Bruno. But I wanted to see for myself.
Her hiring me as a shampoo girl would be a bonus and would provide opportunity for further investigation, but I needed to maximize this interview, now. So, I pressed further. “How did you ever get hooked up with him, anyway?”
I watched wariness slip over her eyes, like a veil. “Why?”
She’d answered a question with a question. Fencing maneuvers. I shrugged again and made light of it. “I don’t know. Just curious. Father Bruno doesn’t look like the type to come walking into your salon for a haircut.”
“And you don’t seem the type to take a minimum
wage job.”
I shrugged. “It’s been a tough year.”
“So … what is this?” she asked.
I held my breath. Maybe my acting skills had failed me, after all. She shook her head, and leaned forward to rest her bare elbows on the desk. “Are you just looking for something to hold you over till a real job comes along?”
“Listen,” I said, working to let the breath of relief that whooshed out of me sound like a sigh of frustration, “if I can make a pretty good buck, I’m gonna be happy. Alls I want is the kind of job so I can make enough to get back on my feet.”
“Helena was right. Shampoo girl is about the best I can offer. There’s not a lot of money in that.”
“Sophie says that lots of girls start out shampooing, but they work their way up. If I try real hard, maybe I could move up … or something. You know, have more … responsibility?” I tried to put just the right spin on the word.
Tiny squint. Both eyes this time. “What did Sophie tell you about some of the responsibilities the girls have?”
Here it was. Sophie had made me promise not to let Lisa know that she’d spilled the beans. Though I prepared myself ahead of time for a question like this one, I still felt my mind doing a nervous tap dance inside my head. “You know,” I said drawing the words out, “not too much. Even though I asked her a couple of times. She told me that you were a really nice boss and really fair. She said that, over time, you’d decide if I was good for the place or not. And if you thought I was, you’d find a place for me. I thought that sounded pretty good. Kind of like a tryout period.”
The shift in her attitude was subtle. She laid the pen down and squinted at me one last time. “I like to take a picture during the interview, if you don’t mind. Helps me remember who’s who. I have a lot of girls I interview, you realize. This is a cutthroat business sometimes.”
“Sure.” I shrugged.
She pulled out a Polaroid camera from another drawer and asked me to stand against the far wall. Totally blank wall—no décor whatsoever. I bet every picture was taken against this very background. Had Milla stood here, just like I was doing now? Smiling for the camera and dreaming of a better life?
