Red Letter Days

by Sarah-Jane Stratford

  Hank narrowed his eyes but she could see a faint blush. “Anyway, word is she’s bought some scripts from fellows on the blacklist. You could contact her.”

  A married woman with children, running her own studio. Phoebe couldn’t comprehend it. “Do you think she knows they’re blacklisted?”

  “That’s the point. She’s a New York lefty herself. You know, the type who cares.”

  Phoebe ran her fingers over Hannah’s name. There was no shortage of New York lefties who weren’t sticking their necks out to help anyone on the blacklist. Being in London must make it easier to take that risk, but it was still really something. She wondered what this Hannah Wolfson was like.

  “I’ll tell you this,” Hank said expansively, pointing his cigarette at her for emphasis. “If you’re still at it when I get that next job, the good one, I’m bringing you on, blacklist or no blacklist. That’s how we can break this thing, you know.”

  Phoebe’s spirits skyrocketed. It was like being in school, when she was the only one who knew the answer.

  “Hank, that’s it! If you do that now, if you tell Mr. Kelvin you’re determined to keep me, and with my name, he’ll have to agree, he can’t afford to lose you. He’s the type to play the hero angle. It’ll be great for a small network like Adelphi, saying they’re bucking the blacklist ’cause I’m okay. Sure, some sponsors will run, but there’s always others who like to back a renegade. People will see the money, they’ll see the Soviets aren’t coming in with tanks, and then the blacklist will be broken by Howdy Doody time!”

  Hank was shaking his head. “Phoebe, sweetheart, I’m in no position to do that now, you know that. You have to stay reasonable.”

  “But . . . but if . . .” She recognized his smile—the smile of a man about to pat a very silly girl on the head. “Right,” she managed to say. “Of course. I understand.” She did too. She understood that it was a hell of a lot easier to stay reasonable when everything you’d built up for years hadn’t just been taken away from you, and there was nothing you could do to fight back.

  “Good girl,” he said, and slid over a fat brown envelope. Puzzled, she started to open it.

  “Not here!” he yelped. “Wait till you get home, dummy.”

  “How very clandestine,” she marveled. “Though I must say, if you’re trying to keep yourself out of the soup and me looking innocent, this isn’t the best course.”

  “You really can’t keep your trap shut, can you?” Hank was actually raging at her. “I bet you mouthed off to the wrong person once and that’s how you got yourself into this mess.” He smacked the envelope. “Take it before I change my mind. It’s only because of your Mona anyway.”

  Her heart chilled. He truly thought she had done something to deserve this. Phoebe tucked the envelope into her bag, wishing she had the courage to throw it in his face, wishing she didn’t need his gift or his favor. But she did.

  When they left the restaurant, Hank took Phoebe into the patisserie next door and ordered a dozen pastries. “Some nice breakfasts for a few days,” he said, handing her the pretty pink box wrapped with white string.

  “Thank you, Hank,” she said. Her voice was stiff, but the thanks real.

  He pumped her hand again. “Listen, honey, I always liked your work, but you oughta just get yourself married. I’ve never known a woman who wasn’t happier when she was married.”

  Phoebe was tempted to ask how many women he actually knew, but only smiled and let him wring her hand till he felt he’d done the right thing. Now more than ever, her reputation mattered. She may be blacklisted, but she had to maintain a good name.

  * * *

  • • •

  Phoebe trudged home, wishing there was someplace else she had to be, something else she had to do. The pink box bumped rhythmically against her knee. She remembered being seven years old and understanding—sort of—just how serious Mona’s condition was. Horatio took her to Gertel’s Bakery and let her choose a dozen pastries. They didn’t make her happier about Mona, but she treasured them anyway.

  Perry Street was full of the usual denizens, pursuing art or anger or sex. Several acquaintances hailed Phoebe, and she vaguely registered their offense when she ignored them. She knew she should double her efforts to cultivate people—sneak her way to a job. But she didn’t have the energy. Even the thought of climbing the steps to her building’s front door made her tired.

  Jimmy was in Mrs. Pocatelli’s garden again. “Hey, Adler!” he yelled. “The fellow called, said I should come in for a meeting! Ain’t that a beaut? You keen to celebrate? Maybe you and Anne—”

  “Not right now, Jimmy, thanks,” she said.

  “Aw, come on, cut a guy a break, huh? How’s about a cigarette, at least?”

  “Sounds good, go get me one and I’ll smoke it.”

  “Boy, Adler, what’s eating you?”

  He actually looked petulant. As she entertained lurid thoughts about the pruning shears in his hand, a vaguely familiar man with a green hat worn low over a handsome nose crossed her line of vision. He walked up to them purposefully.

  “You’re Phoebe Adler?”

  She hesitated. The tiniest beginning of a thought entered her mind—the idea that a stranger seeking to confirm her identity might be a whole new menace.

  “Boy, Adler, why does everyone want you all the time?” Jimmy demanded.

  The man half smiled and thrust a pink envelope in Phoebe’s hands.

  “Phoebe Adler, you’ve been served. You’re to report to the House Un-American Activities Committee for questioning on the date indicated.” Both his tone and face were entirely without expression, and he moved quickly, disappearing almost before he completed the sentence.

  Jimmy jerked away from Phoebe. “Adler!” he hollered. “You’re a pinko!”

  “I’m not—” Phoebe began, but the shadow of Mrs. Pocatelli loomed over her. Phoebe turned to see the landlady, the tendrils of her gray wig quivering as she glared at Phoebe.

  “A Red!” she boomed. “A Red has been living in my apartment house! You dirty little minx, you made me trust you, filthy creature!”

  Windows opened, heads peered out. Half the people enjoying this show would, if asked, insist they hated HUAC, the FBI, and all those seeking so aggressively to curtail every freedom and ideal on which the country had been founded. Plenty were likely in danger of the FBI themselves, but no one breathed a syllable of support for Phoebe.

  I wouldn’t either, would I? You can’t risk looking like a sympathizer.

  She despised them all anyway.

  “You’ll be out of my house this time next week, you hear?” Mrs. Pocatelli screamed, pointing a gnarled finger at Phoebe. “And you’ll thank me for not tossing you out tonight.”

  Anne was in the doorway. Phoebe knew her friend was about to defend her, to say something that would compromise her own reputation and safety. Phoebe didn’t dare shake her head with so many eyes on her, but Anne caught her eye and knew. She stood, radiating silent, impotent rage.

  “I think it’s against the law to evict me on those grounds,” Phoebe told Mrs. Pocatelli. Not that she had any idea, but she couldn’t bear not to say something. She couldn’t bear anyone seeing her fear. She couldn’t bear them enjoying it.

  “Talk to a lawyer, then, but you’ll see, my lawyer will say I’m allowed to keep my house clean of Commies,” Mrs. Pocatelli snapped.

  “I sure hope that fellow I’m meeting doesn’t know I got referred to him by a stinking Red,” Jimmy said. Phoebe wondered if he meant it or was angling for her apartment.

  “Sheesh, ‘innocent till proven guilty’ really is yesterday’s news, isn’t it?” she snapped. She wanted to say that a person’s politics was nothing to be guilty about, but didn’t dare add fat to the fire.

  She marched up the stairs. As she reached the front door, something soft and squish
y pelted her on the back of the neck. She started and turned, dropping her bag and the pastry box. Another missile caught her square in the face. Tomatoes. Bright red ones. Dripping down, staining her best suit. She sensed a scuffle at her feet—two neighborhood dogs must have virtually sprung from under the steps to find the dropped box of pastries and tear it open. Normally, the specter of Mrs. Pocatelli was enough to keep the animals away, but even the dogs sensed open season.

  Phoebe picked up her bag and shouted in the direction of the hurled tomatoes, “Lucky you, being able to waste food. Remember this when they come for you!”

  She ran past Anne up to her apartment. It wasn’t a sanctuary anymore, but she was damned if any of her persecutors were going to see her vomit up her delicious, expensive meal.

  * * *

  • • •

  Anne woke Phoebe up a few hours later.

  “I got the stains out,” she said, handing Phoebe a cup of hot cocoa mixed with bourbon. “One thing about good wool, it’s hard to ruin. Glad that scum didn’t have a blueberry pie, though.”

  “No one on Perry Street would waste a blueberry pie,” Phoebe muttered. “Besides, they wanted to throw something red. Subtle. Probably a failed poet retraining to go into banking.”

  “Here, smoke some of this.” Anne handed Phoebe a rolled cigarette. Reefer. If Mrs. Pocatelli recognized the smell, she would skip eviction and just order Anne and Phoebe hanged.

  Phoebe inhaled. The combination of booze, cocoa, drugs, and Anne’s friendship steadied her. She took another hit and reached for the dreaded envelope.

  The document was a stark form letter. BY AUTHORITY OF THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA was typed across the top. Her name written in a firm backhand after “TO.” She skimmed the rest, allowing phrases like “you are hereby commanded” and “31 October” to wash straight through her.

  “I suppose if I have to go to DC, autumn wouldn’t be such a bad time,” Phoebe said, letting the page drop. She hadn’t expected this so soon. Maybe that was how they got people now. If it all happens fast, you don’t have time to prepare, to master the tricks of survival. “Maybe this is good?” she ventured. “I go for the interview, I make it clear I’m perfectly innocent, and my name is cleared?”

  Anne didn’t need to do more than look sad, and Phoebe’s hope swelled and subsided in the same breath. No one got out that easily. There was only one step to freedom now. Phoebe had to be willing to trade another person’s name for her own.

  So really, it wasn’t any question at all.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Anne’s booked the passage for me,” Phoebe whispered to Mona. “It should be all right. Hank still got me paid for the last script and gave me two hundred bucks cash besides. It’s either friendship or a guilty conscience, you pick.”

  “That louse,” Mona decided. “May he develop a chronic itch in a hard-to-reach place.”

  Phoebe smiled faintly, struggling not to feel the minutes slipping away. She could see Horatio Adler looming over her, arms folded, demanding to know what she was doing, leaving Mona and New York. Leaving her blood and her birthright.

  She and Mona were in the sanitarium’s conservatory, a cold, glass-encased room, guaranteed to be empty on a day that was, conveniently, pouring rain.

  “Miss Adler, in the conservatory, with the rope,” Phoebe said.

  “The rope that’s going to pull you to safety,” Mona answered. “May as well start getting used to this weather. Though England’s having a heat wave, can you believe it?”

  Phoebe was going to London. She’d decided not to mail Hannah a script, but rather take the chance of delivering it in person. Her funds were likely to disappear more quickly than she could imagine. Best to save pennies where she could.

  “You’re only doing what a lot of others have done,” Mona said proudly. “I’ve read all about it, and overheard the Three Polios listening to that excrescence Hedda Hopper on the radio, carrying on about ‘cowardly Runaway Reds’—like her mudslinging wasn’t half of what drove them off. The blacklist is ridiculous. I’ll bet once you start writing stuff for British television that wipes the American stuff’s eyes, the big shots in Hollywood will call the whole thing off and that’ll be that.”

  “Why aren’t you running the world?” Phoebe wanted to know.

  “No one’s ready for another leader in a wheelchair,” Mona said with a shrug. “Now, promise you won’t come home too soon.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Mona tugged at Phoebe until they were nearly nose to nose.

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll miss you every second. You’re my life, Phoebe-kins. But as my life, it’s your duty to live. That was always our deal. You’re not going to renege now, are you?” Phoebe didn’t answer, and Mona pinched her ear hard.

  “Ow!” Phoebe yelped. “Sheesh, for someone who’s supposed to be so frail, you’ve sure got an iron grip.”

  Mona didn’t smile. “You have to explore, Phoebe. You have to see the world for me. And for the love of Pete, will you please at least go on a good date and then write me the sort of details that would be banned in Boston?”

  “I’m on the run from the government, I’ve got no friends abroad, limited cash, almost no options to maintain my career, and my sister commands me to date.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Because doesn’t all that make me a very attractive package?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Mona advised. “You’re smart, funny, and beautiful. What man doesn’t want that?”

  “The kind who are put off by smart and funny and think a beauty shouldn’t wear glasses and should be able to control her hair.”

  Mona snorted. “British men will be more sensible, you’ll see.”

  Phoebe sighed. There seemed a cosmic absurdity to Mona’s getting all the family beauty, while Phoebe, who rarely even sneezed, was the one whose looks were usually labeled “interesting.” Maybe prettiness made Brookside love Mona so much. She was a classic tragic beauty, with golden-blond curls and wide blue eyes. The effect wasn’t even spoiled when she opened her mouth and swore like a sailor.

  She could have set the world on fire.

  Phoebe shook the thought away. It was hard enough not crying, and Mona hated tears almost as much as she hated anyone who didn’t find Phoebe beautiful. Phoebe didn’t worry about her looks, but she yearned for a life of glamour. An elegant room she could walk into and be part of a glittering circle. She’d thought she was getting close. Now she had no idea where she was going.

  “Aw, sister, stop looking so sad,” Mona said, tangling her fingers in a lock of Phoebe’s hair.

  “I’m scared,” Phoebe blurted out, feeling like a five-year-old. “What if I get caught before I even get on the ship? What if I make it there and can’t find a place to live, or any work? What if nobody likes me?”

  Mona rubbed Phoebe’s head. “You’ll make it. You were always the luckiest Adler. You’ll land on your feet. I promise. And anyone who doesn’t like you isn’t worth knowing.”

  Phoebe closed her eyes and rested her head on her sister’s lap till she was sure the threat of tears had subsided.

  “All right, pull it together,” Mona said at last, and the huskiness in her voice gave away her own emotion. “It’s time for you to go. Now listen, don’t slobber over me or look sentimental, that’s the sort of thing that gets noticed. Everything is normal, okay? Just be yourself.”

  Phoebe slowly wheeled Mona back to the dayroom. “All right, all right, I’ll arrange motorbike lessons,” she said as soon as she was sure they could be heard. “But no lifting purses from little old ladies, you hear?”

  “Spoil my fun, why don’t you?”

  Phoebe hugged her sister, inhaling her deeply. “See you in a few days, sis-terror.”

  “A few days after the end of the blacklist,” Mona whispered.


  It took all her self-control to saunter from the room in her usual gait.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Adler,” the head nurse, Nurse Brewster, said cheerfully. “Mona’s our favorite, we take the best care of her.”

  If Mona heard that, she would say Nurse Brewster said that to all the relatives, but even Mona knew the staff really liked her, and not just because she was a living experiment. Phoebe trusted Nurse Brewster, though not enough to say anything now. She would leave money and a note for Anne to deliver next week when Phoebe, if she truly was the luckiest Adler, would be on a ship, steaming over the sea.

  * * *

  • • •

  She felt eyes everywhere she went now. Was it the man with the green hat? Someone else? She hoped Anne was right and she was just imagining it. She hoped she looked like a timid mouse who would never dream of doing what she was about to do.

  Anne opened the wardrobe Phoebe had lined with primrose wallpaper and filled with cedar chips. “Don’t take more than you can manage,” Anne advised as casually as if they were discussing dinner plans. “I’ll scrape up some dough to send the rest once you’re settled. Take the warmest stuff, London’s damp.”

  For all her practicality, Anne couldn’t hide the fever in her eyes. Like Mona, she saw it as an adventure. Phoebe scowled in resentment, but couldn’t entirely resist the dark glamour of it all. She was no longer just a low-level writer trying to branch out from a grubby little TV show no one watched. She was a woman the government had marked as dangerous. She was being watched, followed. She was on the run. She was the stuff of movies.

  Though, in a movie, she could pack a huge wardrobe into a tiny case. Instead, she could only manage her suitcase, handbag, and typewriter. The rest of her things would have to wait, who knew how long.

  They worked methodically, laying things on the bed. Despite what Mona said about the current heat wave, London would be cold and damp most of the time. Phoebe packed her favorite knit sweaters and flecked wool skirt. A second blouse and her two summer dresses. The good suit would of course be her travel outfit. Hanging next to it was her plum dress. Plum for its color, plum for its status. The first cocktail dress she ever purchased; the first purchase that told the world, and herself, that she was on the rise. No more Klein’s department store for her, this beauty was from Bonwit Teller. She fingered the silk, remembering the plush and hush of Bonwit’s. The rustle as the dress settled around her. Gazing at her reflection in a three-way mirror. The saleslady’s warm compliments. The string of fantasy wending its way through the places she would go wearing this dress, being seen, being somebody. There was no question. The dress was traveling with her.