by Lynn Austin
Cynthia was reluctant to reply. “His name is Howard—Howard Hayworth.”
“Not the same Hayworths who just bought the electronics plant?”
“Well, sort of. The factory is owned by Howard’s father. But what difference does it ma—”
“Cynthia! You didn’t tell me you were working for the owner’s son, much less dating him!”
“Why are you getting mad? You should be happy for me. Howard needed a secretary, and he picked me out of the typing pool. Now we’re dating. What’s the big deal?”
“You’re so nai ve! Can’t you see that he’s using you? Of course he picked you—you’re gorgeous. But you’d be a fool to trust a spoiled rich boy. Run, Cynthia! Run before you get hurt.”
“Not every rich man is another Rick Trent,” she said quietly. “Can’t you be happy for me?”
“I’ll be very happy for you when you tell this guy to get lost. I’m warning you for your own good—ditch him before you get hurt.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you about him,” Cynthia said angrily. “Just because you’ve stopped living, you think that everyone else should, too. You refused to go to business school with me, you gave up your dream to get an education and a career, and now you’ve stopped taking care of yourself. You dress sloppily, your hair is a mess, you work at a dead-end job. You seem to accept it as fact that you’re no good, that you’re not worthy of nice things or decent clothes. I know Rick did a terrible thing to you, but you’ve been depressed about it for much too long. I wish you would go back to the doctor, Ellie. Get some help!”
“For your information, it isn’t just depression. I’m ill. The doctors aren’t sure what it is yet, but I’m worn out all the time. I don’t have the energy to go to school. And I don’t feel like wasting my time and my money to get all dolled up just to impress a man. I’m trying to warn you for your own good not to trust this Hayworth creep, and you’re jumping all over me! Thanks a lot!” She stumbled into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Cynthia knew that she should apologize, but there wasn’t time. Besides, how dare Eleanor criticize Howard when she had never even met him? Cynthia put on her shoes and snatched up her purse, slamming the front door on her way out.
Cynthia was falling in love. Her night at the dinner dance with Howard was like a fairy tale: Cinderella waltzing with her handsome prince beneath glittering chandeliers, sipping champagne. The country club in Bensenville was the most elegant place Cynthia had ever been, the food exquisite, the orchestra sublime. And when Howard led her out onto the balcony beneath the stars and kissed her for the first time, she thought she had died and gone to heaven.
“You’re so beautiful, Cynthia,” he murmured in her ear. “How have I been lucky enough to find you?” She returned home from her date as if walking on air—and knew that she could never share one word of it with Eleanor.
On Monday the florist delivered a dozen red roses to their apartment.
Tears filled Cynthia’s eyes when she read the card: I can’t get you out of my mind—Howard. But when Cynthia looked up, she saw Eleanor shaking her head, frowning.
“Please be happy for me, Ellie. I don’t want this to come between us.”
“How can I be happy when I know you’re going to get hurt?”
“Howard isn’t Rick Trent.”
Eleanor exhaled angrily, then snatched up a letter from off the table.
“Listen, my brother wants to come visit me. Is it okay if he stays with us for a few days?”
Cynthia didn’t know why Eleanor had changed the subject, but she was grateful. “Of course! You don’t even have to ask.” Eleanor seemed to have a close relationship with her brother, and Cynthia hoped he could help lift her out of her depression.
“Promise me one thing, though,” Eleanor said. “I don’t want Leonard to know about Rick.”
“You mean, you never told him you got married?”
Eleanor shook her head. “And I don’t want you blabbing the news. Promise?”
“Don’t you think it might help if you talked to your brother about—” “No! You don’t know Leonard like I do. He would kill Rick and his father. And as much as I’d like to see them both die a horrible death, I don’t want Leonard to get the electric chair. Just… Please, don’t tell him about any of it.”
“I won’t. But… you seem to be so close to Leonard—you wrote to him all during the war. Why didn’t you ever tell him you were married?”
Eleanor shrugged. “I just didn’t.”
Cynthia took her roses into the kitchen to put them in water. She had lived with Eleanor for more than three years, and she still didn’t understand her at all.
A week later Leonard arrived, and he wasn’t alone. He brought along his war buddy, Donald Gallagher. The odd-looking, mismatched pair reminded Cynthia of Mutt and Jeff. Leonard was tall and thin and darkhaired— and so perpetually melancholy that Cynthia quickly gave up hope that he would cheer Eleanor’s depression. Donald was the opposite: a short, sturdy, happy-go-lucky fellow with reddish-brown hair and freckles. He reminded Cynthia of the film star Mickey Rooney.
She was certain they wouldn’t stay long once they saw how tiny the apartment was and how crowded it seemed with the four of them squeezed inside. There was no place for two extra people to sleep. But the two men quickly made themselves at home as if there was room to spare. Two days after they arrived, they hauled a mattress up the steps from who knows where, so Donald could sleep on the living room floor. Leonard slept on the sofa. Their bulging knapsacks and duffel bags overflowed all over the place, and they mooched three meals a day without ever offering to help cook or pay for the food. Neither man cleaned up after himself, leaving whiskers and shaving cream in the bathroom sink, wet towels on the floor, and beer bottles all over the place. Eleanor, who had once been the neater of the two roommates, didn’t seem to notice.
By the end of the second week, Cynthia was ready to scream. She made meatloaf and mashed potatoes for supper one night, then took control of the conversation as soon as everyone was seated. “So, Donald, what are your plans now that the war is over?”
“The sky’s the limit!” He grinned. “I want what everybody wants: a new house, a new car—the American Dream.”
“That’s great,” she said. “How are you planning to go about it? I hear they’re offering money to GIs who want to go to college. Have you thought about going back to school?”
“Nah, that’s not for me. Leonard’s the intellectual type, not me.” He picked another slice of meatloaf off the platter with his fingers, then licked them.
“Donald and you have a lot in common, Cynthia,” Eleanor said. “He grew up on a farm just like you did. And you’re both chasing after the American Dream—except you’re out to marry a rich man, right, Cynthia?”
Eleanor’s tone had a nasty edge to it. Cynthia bit her tongue to keep from lashing back. First she had to get rid of these two bums, then she could try to repair her relationship with Eleanor. She pasted on a smile.
“Well, if you’re looking to marry a rich woman, Donald, you’d better move out of Riverside. There aren’t too many wealthy prospects around here.”
Donald laughed. “My friend Leonard would never forgive me if I married a rich woman. He hates the upper class, right, Leonard?”
Leonard nodded and helped himself to the last of the mashed potatoes. Cynthia felt herself losing patience.
“So, will you both be looking for jobs around here, then?” she asked.
“I’m looking for investment opportunities,” Donald said with a grin. “I won myself a nice little nest egg playing poker during the war, and I’m looking for opportunities to increase my winnings.”
“Really? By playing poker?” She tried not to look skeptical.
“Even better. I know a guy who can put a bet on a horse at Belmont for me whenever I want. I’m just waiting for a sure thing.” Cynthia had wondered why their apartment was knee-deep in newspapers. Evidently Donald had been fo
llowing the horse races, waiting for a sure thing.
“Isn’t offtrack betting illegal?” she asked.
“It’s just a hobby of mine,” he said with a shrug. “You need to lighten up, Cindy.”
“Oh, don’t ever call her Cindy,” Eleanor said with mock horror. “It reminds her of the farm. She likes to be known as Cynthia. And she always plays by the rules. You would have thought I was breaking one of the Ten Commandments when I wanted to heat up a lousy can of soup in our old apartment. It took me weeks to convince her it wasn’t a grave sin.”
“Well, when she sees all the dough I’ll be making at the track, she’ll be convinced. How about you, sweetheart?” he said to Eleanor. “You have any money you’d like to invest? I can set you up with my bookie.”
“Maybe…” Eleanor said, smiling slightly. “I’ll let you know.”
Cynthia thought of the five thousand dollars in war bonds that Rick had sent Eleanor and shuddered. As far as she knew, Eleanor hadn’t sent them back. They were probably stuffed into one of her bureau drawers along with the annulment papers.
“How about you, Leonard?” Cynthia asked, refusing to give up. “What are your immediate plans?” He leaned back in his chair with a frown, making a steeple with his long fingers, as if about to give a serious lecture.
“America is heading in the wrong direction,” he began. “Instead of embarking on a materialistic quest, we need to address the grievous inequities that have developed between the social classes. I have been studying Marxist theory, and I believe that it’s time for America’s proletariat to rise up and claim what is rightfully theirs. This nation was built on their sweat and labor, yet they haven’t been allowed their fair share of the wealth, and…”
There was more, but Cynthia tuned it out. The situation was worse than she’d thought. She was hosting two deadbeats—one a gambler and the other a Communist—and neither of them seemed to have any concrete plans for their futures.
Eleanor loved her brother, and he was very good to her, but Donald Gallagher had attached himself to Leonard like a stamp to a letter, and Cynthia couldn’t host one without the other. It was hard to tell someone like Donald to get lost because he was so naturally good-natured. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. But he was a professional leech, who had latched onto a good thing in Leonard Bartlett, and he knew enough to hang on to the smarter man’s coattails.
It was also clear as time passed that Donald was falling for Eleanor.
He would pick flowers for her out of backyard gardens and present them to her with his boyish grin. He took her to the racetrack on her day off and showed her a good time. And he followed her around like a lovesick puppy, telling her she had eyes like topaz and other silly stuff like that.
Eleanor seemed flattered by his adoration, as if she couldn’t believe anyone would love her—as if Donald Gallagher was all that she deserved.
And he was as unlike Rick Trent as any man could possibly be. Eleanor had always had a heart for pitiful bumpkins like Donald. Cynthia remembered how she’d danced with the homely, awkward GI the night she’d met Rick, telling Cynthia that she thought country boys were sweet. Eleanor couldn’t be foolish enough to get involved with Donald, could she?
But between Cynthia’s hectic days at work and her romantic evenings with Howard, she didn’t have many opportunities to confront Eleanor about their long-term guests. Especially since the men were always underfoot whenever she did have time to talk.
Cynthia knew that she was falling deeper and deeper in love with Howard and he with her. She was tired of meeting him on the street in front of the Valley Food Market for their dates and wanted to invite him up to her apartment, but she didn’t dare with the two loafers hanging around. It didn’t look good to be sharing an apartment with two strange men. Besides, she was afraid they’d attack Howard for committing the unforgivable crime of being rich.
After three months had passed and the two freeloaders still showed no sign of leaving, Cynthia went to the diner one evening to talk with Eleanor. She chose a stool in Eleanor’s station and ordered a root beer float, then asked, “Can we talk a minute?”
Eleanor filled a tall glass with root beer, plopped in two scoops of vanilla ice cream, stuck a straw into it and said, “Sure. What’s up?” She looked like a boxer with his gloves raised.
“Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it straight out— Leonard and Donald need to find their own place. It’s been three months. We have no privacy, the place is a slum, and they’re eating us out of house and home. It’s time, Eleanor. They’re nice guys—but it’s time they went their own way.”
“Where are they supposed to go without any money?”
Cynthia poked at the ice cream with her spoon. “Have they even looked for jobs?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course they’ve looked for jobs. It isn’t easy to find work, you know. Why don’t you ask your hotshot boyfriend to get them a job in his factory?”
The thought of Leonard and Donald crossing paths with Howard Hayworth gave Cynthia the shivers. She wanted them out of Riverside and out of her life, not working for her boyfriend’s company. Leonard hadn’t lifted Eleanor’s spirits any more than Cynthia had all these months. In fact, his Communist ravings seemed to fuel Eleanor’s hatred of rich people. Cynthia drew a long sip of root beer, weighing her options.
“If I help them get jobs at the plant, do you promise they’ll get their own place?”
“Of course! What are you implying, Cynthia?”
“Nothing! I’m just feeling squashed that’s all. It’s making me irritable. I have to tiptoe around in my own kitchen every morning before work while they’re snoring like two chainsaws. Some days I can’t even get the front door open because Donald’s mattress is blocking the way. I want my privacy back.”
“Why don’t you just admit that you don’t like them?”
Cynthia pushed her glass away and stood. “I have nothing against either one of them,” she said, gritting her teeth. “But even Saint Peter and Moses would get on my nerves if they slept in my living room for three months. I’ll ask if there are any openings at the factory.” She pulled a dollar out of her purse and slapped it onto the counter.
Cynthia hated asking Howard for a favor, but it paid off. A week after Leonard and Donald were hired at Hayworth Electronics, they rented a run-down house across the river in a dumpy part of town. The house was for sale, but the owner allowed the two men to rent it with the understanding that they would vacate when a buyer came along. Cynthia couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would ever buy it, so it seemed like an answer to prayer—except that Leonard and Donald still hung around her apartment, mooching food all the time. She found herself wishing she could be rid of all of them, including gloomy Eleanor.
Cynthia was sitting at her desk one afternoon at work, typing a letter, when Howard buzzed her over the intercom. “Could I see you in my office for a moment, Miss Weaver?” he asked.
“Of course, Mr. Hayworth.” She couldn’t suppress a smile. They addressed each other very formally at work and had never told anyone that they were dating, but Cynthia knew that anyone with a pair of eyes could see that they were in love. Howard called her into his office at least once a day so he could kiss her, and she would emerge with her lipstick smeared and her hair mussed. She figured that was why he was calling her now, and she pictured him waiting near the door to take her into his arms. But when she entered his office he was seated behind his desk, his expression serious. He motioned for her to sit down.
“Howard, what’s wrong?”
“It’s about your two friends… Bartlett and Gallagher.” He fiddled with his fountain pen, twirling it between his fingers. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m going to have to fire them at the end of this week. They knew they’d be on probation for the first six months, then a decision would be made whether to hire them permanently or not. I wanted to give you a heads up—they’re going to be fired
.”
“Oh, no,” Cynthia groaned. She imagined them moving back into her apartment, camping in her tiny living room, and tears sprang to her eyes. Howard rushed around his desk to take her hands in his.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia, but it has to be done. I don’t know how to tell you this, but someone has been stealing items out of the locker room, and all the evidence points to Gallagher. And he has been warned more than once about running his betting pools on factory property. He doesn’t listen. Leonard Bartlett is a whole different kettle of fish. He’s been creating havoc by trying to organize a worker’s union among our employees. We think our workers get a very fair deal here, and the last thing we need is a union agitator stirring up a hornet’s nest. … Sweetheart, please don’t cry. I know they’re your friends—”
“They’re not my friends, Howard. That’s not why I’m crying.” She wiped her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara. “They’re my roommate’s friends, and this news will crush her. But I know you’re right, they are troublemakers. And I’m glad you told me.”
He pulled her to her feet and into his arms. “You have such a tender heart, Cynthia. I love you so much—” He kissed her before she could tell him that she loved him, too.
Cynthia had expected Eleanor to be upset by the news that Leonard and Donald had been fired, but she wasn’t prepared for the bitterness of her fury. Long after midnight, after the two men had finally gone home, Eleanor still paced the floor, raging at the unfairness of it all. Cynthia knew that the real target of Eleanor’s hatred was Rick Trent and his father, but it hurt her to hear so much venom being spewed at the man she loved—and at herself for loving him.
“I’ve had enough, Eleanor,” she finally said. “Good night. I’m going to bed.”
“How can you still love Howard Hayworth after what he did to two good, kindhearted men?”
“Listen, I didn’t want to say anything in front of Donald, but the reason he got fired was because he’s been stealing from people’s lockers.”
“That’s a lie!”
