by Fiona Davis
Oliver tucked into his stew. She did the same, embarrassed. She must have imagined the exchange.
Nadine took over the reins of the conversation. “Now, where are you from, Miss Darden?”
“Arizona.” She waited for the inevitable intake of breath. The American West might as well have been Australia, for how shocked most East Coast natives were at her having come all this way.
“You’ve come all this way! Gosh. What does your father do? Is he a cowboy?”
“He sells metals.”
Clara deliberately used the present tense instead of the past when speaking of her family’s fortunes—now their misfortunes. Her father’s fraudulent scheming was no longer any of Clara’s concern, nor of anyone else’s. Luckily, Nadine went on and on about her own father’s real estate business, more for Oliver’s benefit than Clara’s, as Clara quickly finished her meal.
She looked up at the clock. “I must go; the doors will be opening soon.”
But there was no slipping away. Nadine locked arms with Clara as they walked out of the restaurant, as if they’d been friends for years. To the left and right, ramps sloped back up to the concourse, framed by glorious marble arches, and a vaulted ceiling rose above their heads in a herringbone pattern. Clara had tried to duplicate the earth-and-sable tones of the tiles in one of her illustrations to be shown tonight.
“Wait, before we go, stand over there.” Oliver pointed to a spot where two of the arches met. “Face right into the corner and listen carefully.”
Clara had no time for games but watched as Nadine did as she was told. Oliver took up a spot at the opposite corner and mouthed something Clara couldn’t hear. Nadine giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Clara asked.
“You’ve got to try it. We’re in the Whispering Gallery.”
Begrudgingly, Clara took up Nadine’s position.
“Clara, Clara.”
The words drifted over her like a ghost. Oliver might as well have been standing close by, speaking right into her ear. She looked up, trying to figure out how the shape of the ceiling transmitted sound waves so effortlessly. She faced the corner again. “Recite a poem to me.”
For a moment, she wasn’t sure if he would. Then the disembodied voice returned.
That whisper takes the voice
Of a Spirit, speaking to me,
Close, but invisible,
And throws me under a spell.
She swore she could feel the heat of Oliver’s breath. They locked eyes as they met once again in the center of the space.
“Thomas Hardy. The poem’s called ‘In a Whispering Gallery,’” Oliver volunteered.
Nadine crossed her arms, indignant. “You didn’t recite verse to me.”
“I’ll regale you next time, I promise. For now, I must head to a poetry reading downtown and amass further inspiration.”
Clara shook hands and they took their leave, the poem still echoing in her head.
* * *
The mob of nattily dressed art lovers trying to squeeze their way through the gallery’s doorway had already backed up to the elevator by the time Clara and Nadine arrived. They toddled through, taking small steps so as not to get their toes crushed, until they were safely inside.
The Grand Central Art Galleries predated the school by two years, when a businessman turned artist named Walter Clark had enlisted the help of John Singer Sargent to convert part of the sixth floor into a massive exhibition space, a kind of artists’ cooperative where commissions were kept to a minimum. Clara stopped by at least once a week to see the latest works, and she encouraged her students to do the same. The rooms were rarely empty, as visitors to New York and everyday commuters continually drifted through.
Tonight, the room buzzed with energy. The faculty’s work would stay up for a week, before being replaced with the students’ work, a celebration of the school’s spring term and its growing prestige. Clara’s illustrations would be on the same walls that once displayed Sargent’s portraits. The thought made her giddy.
Located on the south side of the terminal, the Grand Central Art Galleries were four times as long as they were wide, a warren of rooms and hallways, twenty in all, that encouraged visitors to circulate in a counterclockwise manner without ever having to double back. Clara scanned the walls of the first gallery for her work, with no luck. In the middle of the space, the sculpture teacher stood beside a table featuring two nymphs, both nude, one standing on a turtle.
“Now, that’s unremarkable,” said Nadine.
Clara agreed but kept her mouth shut. They continued on, to where a group of students surveyed an oil of an ungainly horse. Towering above them all was the artist, an instructor for the life drawing and painting class.
Clara had seen him a few times before. A foreigner, he was known to sing loudly during his classes and even dance about at times. This evening, he stood to the side, listening with intensity as his acolytes buttered him up, every so often tossing his head in a futile effort to flick a thatch of hair out of his eyes. Indeed, he was more horselike than the horse in his painting.
“That’s my teacher. Mr. Zakarian.” Nadine sidled up next to him. Clara had seen women like her before, flinging themselves into the orbits of handsome or powerful men to fend off their own insecurities. Clara had no time for such nonsense.
Back to the task at hand. The air had become stifling as more people crammed in. She ventured into room after room before circling back, and still she didn’t see her illustrations.
A flash of panic seized her. Her job with Wanamaker was ending soon. They’d recently announced that they’d be using only in-house artists going forward. Her salary of seventy-five dollars a month from teaching covered her expenses, but not much more. And she could not count on the next term.
She wormed her way back one more time through the mazelike space. Nothing. Down one hallway, off to the right, was a door marked SALES OFFICE. She’d passed by it in her first go-round, assuming it to be a place for clerks to write up invoices. The door stood halfway open, the lights on. She peered inside.
It was more a closet than a room, with a scratched-up desk against one wall and a wooden file cabinet wedged into a corner.
There, above the desk, equally spaced apart and centered on the wall with great care, were her illustrations.
By the time she found Mr. Lorette, Clara’s limbs shook with rage. He was in an animated conversation with Mr. Zakarian while Mrs. Lorette looked on. Clara had met her in passing at one of the faculty get-togethers, awed by the puffy, out-of-date pompadour that perched on the woman’s head like a long-haired cat.
She inserted herself into the group. “Mr. Lorette, my illustrations have been hung in a back office. A back office!”
While Mr. Lorette sputtered at her rudeness, she continued on. “I am a faculty member of the School of Art, and yet my work has been placed in a cave where no one would think to go.”
“I am sorry, Miss Darden. We were in a tight spot, you see.” He paused. “Quite literally.”
As Mr. Lorette laughed at his own joke, Clara noticed the editor of Vogue headed for the exit. For certain, he’d never even seen her work.
Mr. Zakarian spoke up. “Where was her art hung?”
“Just off a main gallery,” said Mr. Lorette. “They are illustrations. We concluded they were more suited to an intimate environment.”
“Perhaps you could guarantee her a spot here in the first room next year, to make it up to her?” Mr. Zakarian held out his hand to Clara. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Mr. Levon Zakarian, one of your fellow teachers.”
She shook it without looking at him, her glare fixed on Mr. Lorette. “Next year it’ll be too late. It’s already too late.”
Unlike students such as Nadine, for whom the Grand Central School of Art was just a pit stop on the way to marital bliss, Clara had s
unk every ounce of energy into her career as an artist. Against her parents’ wishes, she’d arrived in New York, knowing no one, and done everything she could to make it as an illustrator. What made it worse was knowing she’d been given a shot that other artists would have been envious of—to teach at the Grand Central School of Art, to show her work at the galleries—only to see it vaporize.
Mr. Lorette shrugged. “I can’t seem to please anyone tonight. We will make it up to you; my deepest apologies, Miss Darden.” He turned to Mr. Zakarian. “Have you seen Edmund’s latest work? Come with me. I assure you it’ll give you something to think about.”
“I believe Miss Darden may give you something to think about, if you try to shake her off.” Mr. Zakarian wore a crooked smile. “I have an idea. Let’s take down one of mine, and we’ll replace it with her work. Get it right out there in the center.”
She didn’t need one of the faculty stars to swoop down and protect her. The very thought made her sick with embarrassment.
Unwilling to give Mr. Lorette any further satisfaction at her distress, Clara stormed out without uttering a reply.
CHAPTER TWO
New York City, November 1974
When Virginia signed with the Trimble Temp Agency, desperate to fill her empty days as well as her dwindling bank account, she’d expected to be sent to one of the fancy skyscrapers where lawyers conferred in hushed tones with their elegant, efficient secretaries. Not the dumpy train station that squatted like a toad beneath the New York skyline.
But she’d shown up at Grand Central at 9:20 the following morning and, as directed by the agency, taken the elevator near track 23 up to the seventh floor. A wooden door marked PENN CENTRAL IN-HOUSE LEGAL DEPT opened to a reception area where a pretty blonde with Joni Mitchell hair sat.
“I’m here from the Trimble Temp Agency.”
The receptionist motioned to the chairs along one wall. “Please take a seat. You can hang your coat in the closet.”
Not very fancy, this law office, with its oatmeal-colored carpeting and matching walls. But still as good a place as any to start a career. She liked to think she was changing with the times. The 1950s, when she got married and had her daughter, Ruby, were all about family. But the seventies, as Ruby liked to inform her, were about finding yourself. Of course, Ruby was more than busy finding herself these days, having withdrawn from Sarah Lawrence less than a month into her freshman year, telling Virginia she needed a breather. For now, Virginia had to admit she liked having her back in their apartment. Someone to take care of again. Fuss over.
She’d do the same with her new lawyer boss. Over time, she’d joke with his wife that they knew him better than he did himself, share a chuckle over the phone about how he’d forget his daughter’s birthday if they weren’t there to remind him. Just as she’d done with Chester’s legal secretary once upon a time. The tables had turned: She was now the secretary, no longer the wife, but what was life without a little shake-up? She sat up straighter and tried to believe it.
A woman around her own age, with tight curls and a rough voice, walked into the foyer. “Ms. Clay?”
“Yes.” She hated her married name but couldn’t imagine changing it back. After all, it’d been her identity for almost two decades. Still. Virginia Clay. Sounded like something you dug up in a quarry.
“Right. Follow me.”
The woman explained she was the head of human resources at Penn Central, the company that owned Grand Central Terminal, and that Virginia would be working for one of the lawyers whose secretary had left to have a baby. If all went well, Virginia had a chance of being hired full-time, once her contract with the temp agency was up.
“Have you worked for attorneys before?” asked the woman.
Virginia had already forgotten the woman’s name. She really needed to pay more attention, now that she was a part of the business world. “Yes, for a firm in Midtown.”
She’d said the same lie to the man who ran the temp agency, but she figured being married to a corporate lawyer for the past nineteen years was pretty much the same thing. He’d spent most weekends and evenings on the phone with clients and associates, and some of what she’d overheard must have seeped into her brain.
The woman led her to a desk with a typewriter and a fancy phone, with one of the plastic buttons lit up in red. “Mr. Huckle’s on the phone, so I won’t interrupt him to introduce you. He’ll be out when he needs something.”
Virginia tucked her purse into one of the lower drawers and explored the others, which contained pencils, pens, Wite-Out, and carbon paper, all the usual accoutrements of the modern secretary. Behind her was a big metal filing cabinet. As she rose to see what was inside, a man barreled out of one of the offices. He had movie-star eyes, a brilliant blue, and a thick head of hair. Not what she’d expected, and she tried not to gawk.
“You the new girl?” He eyed her, from her scuffed gray pumps to the top of her head. She tried not to squirm under his gaze. Earlier this year, she’d had her brown hair cut in what she hoped was a trendy shag, but without regular trims, it had curled into a bird’s nest.
Mr. Huckle’s gaze traveled back to her midsection and lingered there. Even if her nose was slightly too wide and her eyes deep-set, she’d always had a remarkable figure. Her waist stayed thin even after having Ruby, her chest double D’s. Single D, now, she’d remarked to Chester after the operation. He hadn’t laughed.
“How old are you?”
The question was unexpected. “I’m thirty-five.” Shaving off five years didn’t seem too egregious.
“Fine.” He took one last survey of her hips and motioned for her to follow him. “Come into my office. Bring your steno pad.”
The nameplate on the office door read DENNIS HUCKLE. She grabbed the steno pad from her desk and followed him in, her stomach queasy. Mr. Huckle began rattling off dictation, but she had to stop him almost immediately.
“In Ray?”
He looked at her as if she were mad. “What? Yes.”
“Is there a last name?”
He didn’t dress like the other attorneys she’d met before, at business dinners and off-site conferences. The top button of his shirt was undone, his striped tie loosened, exposing the strong tendons of his neck. But in-house lawyers probably didn’t need to impress the same way ones at white-shoe firms did. The client was already guaranteed. “This is a memo to files. There’s no last name.”
“Then who’s Ray?”
He leaned back, breathing like a dragon about to roar. “In re.” He spelled out the words. “It’s part of the subject line of a legal memorandum.”
“Right, sorry, I misheard. Never mind. Carry on.”
Back at her desk, she put a piece of clean white paper in the typewriter and looked down at her notepad. She’d tried her very best to keep up, but the squiggles meant nothing to her. Steno wasn’t something she’d ever learned, so she’d simply written the important words as quickly as possible and skipped the unimportant ones.
An hour later, Mr. Huckle came out of his office. “Where’s that memo?”
She yanked it out of the typewriter carriage and held it out to him, then sank back into her chair once his door was closed. She waited.
Thirty seconds later, she heard him screaming on the phone to someone. Kathleen. That was the human resources person’s name. At least now she knew. The woman tore down the hall and asked Virginia to follow her back to her office.
Virginia was already making excuses to tell the temp agency. The man was unreasonable, it wasn’t a good fit, personality-wise. She’d do better next time.
Kathleen sat behind her desk and folded her hands in front of her. “Mr. Huckle said you have no idea what you’re doing.”
Virginia shook her head. “I’m still catching up on my stenography, you see. Maybe if he spoke a little slower I could do it. I’m happy to try again.”
/>
“You’re wasting everyone’s time.” She looked Virginia straight on, but not with anger.
With pity.
Somehow, in her head, Virginia had imagined herself as one of those fancy secretaries in the temp agency ad, sporting a lithe figure and knowing smile that emanated capability and discretion. When in fact she was a middle-aged frump in a pilled sweater set, a laughingstock. Ever since the divorce was finalized a year earlier, she’d tried so hard to maintain control. To prove to Ruby that they’d be just fine, you wait and see. When in fact their world had been shattered by Chester’s desertion.
She didn’t want to think about that, but the images came flooding to mind anyway. Ruby popping out of her room, singing some bittersweet Donny Osmond song, while she and Chester stood at the kitchen counter like frozen statues, knowing they were about to rip her world to shreds. Ruby had instantly sensed something was wrong. “Did I do something?” she’d asked.
Then, as Chester explained the situation, that they were getting divorced, Virginia had watched her crumple. That was the right word, the only word. Crumple. Bit by bit, muscle by muscle, a puzzled agony had worked its way down her darling daughter’s face: Her forehead crinkled, her nose went red, her chin wobbled. The worst was trying to keep her own expression calm and capable, to show that this was just another day, nothing was wrong, we’d all be fine. Ruby’s eyes went pink and wet, and she ran out of the room, slamming her bedroom door shut.
They’d done that to her. Chester had done that to her. Virginia would never stop trying to fix it for Ruby. To make up for the devastation they’d wrought.
Now, Virginia tried to keep her own face from crumpling, but the effort only made it worse, and finally she let out a strangled, choking sound. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. My husband is a lawyer. My ex-husband, I mean. I thought I could handle it.”
Kathleen looked up. “You’re divorced?”
“Yes.”
A hushed moment passed, like in church right before the choir begins to sing. “Me, too.”
