Secret City

by Julia Watts

  “You reckon Floyd Adkins told somebody government secrets?” Opal said.

  “I don’t think he’d know any secrets to tell,” Daddy said. “Nobody tells construction fellers nothing. All we get told is where to slap up another building.”

  “Maybe Floyd Adkins was a Jap spy,” Garnet said, her eyes skinny with suspicion.

  “I’d be right surprised if he was,” Daddy said. “Old Floyd never seemed like the sharpest tool in the shed, if you know what I mean.”

  “Maybe he was just acting stupid so you wouldn’t suspect him.”

  Garnet has a wild imagination, but unlike me, she doesn’t read for fun, so the imaginary world and the real world get all mixed up in her head.

  “Well, if he was, then he was a mighty good actor. I’d say he could give Gary Cooper a run for his money.”

  “Miss Rose at school says that anybody could be a Jap spy,” Opal said. “You can’t tell by the way somebody looks or acts. That’s why you can’t talk to nobody.”

  “My teacher says that, too,” Garnet said. “She says loose lips sink ships.”

  This rhyme must’ve struck Baby Pearl as funny because she giggled and repeated it, but it must’ve been hard for her little mouth to wrap around because it came out, “Looth lipth think thipth.”

  “Say it again, Baby Pearl!” Daddy said, laughing.

  Baby Pearl said it again and again, and every time it got funnier and funnier till we were laughing so hard we couldn’t catch our breath.

  October 24, 1944

  Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again.

  That’s the first sentence in Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. Miss Connor is always telling us how bad it is to plagiarize, so I wanted to give credit where credit is due. But Miss du Maurier’s sentence is so beautiful I couldn’t resist writing it down myself.

  I wasn’t worth a plugged nickel the whole time I was reading Rebecca. I couldn’t put it down. I swept the floor reading. I folded clothes reading. Sometimes Mama had to tell me two or three times to do something before I’d hear her because in my mind I was wandering the dark halls of Manderley.

  “That must be some book,” Mama said.

  And it is, but I don’t want to say too much about the story here because part of it’s a surprise and I don’t want to spoil it for anybody. That Mrs. Danvers is a right biddy, though. I had nightmares about her.

  I thought about Iris a lot while I was reading since she had recommended the book to me, and then when I walked into the library today to return it, Iris was the person I ran smack dab into. She was holding Baby Sharon, who looked like she was trying to decide whether or not to have a crying fit.

  “Hey,” I said, feeling friendlier than I usually do, maybe because the book gave Iris and me something in common to talk about. “It’s funny you’re right here when I’m bringing back Rebecca.”

  “It’s not that funny,” Iris said, joggling Iris on her hip. “I come here almost every afternoon. When you’re home with a baby all day, you’ve got to have some access to intellectual stimulation, or your brain turns to tapioca pudding. Did you like the book?”

  “I loved it.” Iris’s face was pleasant and friendly. A little bit of lipstick was smeared on her front tooth, and I noticed a place on her sweater where the baby had spit up and she’d tried to wipe it away. Something about these little flaws made me like her more. “You know, I just now realized something, looking at you. The whole time I was reading that book, I kept imagining the main character—the second Mrs. DeWinter—as looking like you. I guess since you told me about the book, you and it are all tangled together in my brain.”

  Iris laughed. “Well, as long as you didn’t imagine me as Mrs. Danvers. You really should’ve imagined the main character as Joan Fontaine since that’s who played her in the movie.”

  “They made a movie out of Rebecca?”

  “Yes, a good one. About three or four years ago.”

  “Shoot, I would’ve loved to see it.” I added another item to the long list of things I’d missed out on by growing up poor in the country.

  “I’m checking out this Pearl S. Buck book,” Iris said, lifting the book with the hand that wasn’t holding Baby Sharon. “I love her, but she always makes me cry. I just returned A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I think I was the last person in America who hadn’t read it.”

  “The second to the last,” I said. “I’ve not read it.”

  “Well, you should. It made me cry, too, but in a good way. I’ll tell you what—come up to the librarian’s desk with me, and we’ll see if she’ll check it out to you instead of reshelving it.”

  At the librarian’s desk, Iris said, “I need to check this out, please, and I was wondering if you might let my friend Ruby check out the copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn that I just turned in.”

  I liked hearing her call me her friend.

  “Of course, ma’am,” the librarian said. “I’ll just need to see your cards.”

  I pulled my library card out of my skirt pocket, but Iris was struggling with getting her purse open while still holding on to Baby Sharon. “They ought to issue an extra pair of arms to every new mother,” she said.

  “I can hold her for a minute.” I looked at Sharon and reached out for her.

  “She’ll scream,” Iris said. “She won’t let anybody but me hold her, not even her daddy.”

  “Let me try,” I said.

  “Well, it won’t be the first time she’s disturbed the silence of this library,” Iris said, handing her over.

  But Sharon didn’t cry.

  “Her’s a little Sharon Bear,” I said in the baby-talk voice I’d used with my sisters, and Sharon broke out in a one-toothed gummy grin.

  “That’s amazing,” Iris said, handing her card to the librarian. “She really likes you.”

  “Ah-boo!” I said and tickled Sharon’s little belly. “That’s because she knows I’m willing to make a danged fool of myself to make her happy.”

  “Hm,” Iris said, as we walked toward the door with our books. “I’m not sure what the proper etiquette is in asking you this question…”

  “You’re not a spy about to ask me to spill secrets, are you? ’Cause I don’t know any.”

  Iris laughed. “No. I was actually going to ask if you’ve ever done any babysitting.”

  “Well, I’ve been helping keep my sisters since I was practically a baby myself.” Looking after Opal, Garnet, and Baby Pearl had always just been something I did because Mama told me to.

  “Warren and I never go out at night anymore,” Iris said, pulling Sharon’s hat around her ears as we hit the crisp fall air. “It’s not like this town is hopping with nightlife, but still, it might be nice to see a movie once in a while. And I could use some help during the day, too—somebody to mind Sharon while I go get my hair done or pick up something at the store or just catch my breath. I’ve not talked to Warren yet, of course—the idea didn’t even dawn on me until I saw you holding Sharon—but I think he’d be fine with it if we let him decide on the amount of money.”

  I finally caught on that Iris was offering me a paying job. “I wouldn’t have to quit school, would I?”

  She laughed. “Gracious, no. I was thinking you could come over after school a couple of days a week…and maybe stay until it’s time to go home for dinner.”

  Her saying dinner would’ve confused me a couple of months ago, but since we moved here, I’d gotten used to Northerners who said “lunch” for dinner and “dinner” for supper. “I could do that.”

  “And then maybe a weekend evening every now and then, if I can convince my husband to take me out, now that I’ve turned into the matronly, motherly type.”

  “You don’t look old enough to be anybody’s mother,” I said. There was something about Iris that made her look like a girl in woman’s clothing. “I’m sure he’ll be proud to take you out.”

  “No wonder Sharon likes you,” Iris said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “You know just th
e right thing to tell a girl.”

  I looked down at my muddy shoes, embarrassed. I wasn’t used to compliments, and between Miss Connor and Iris, I had been hearing quite a few of them lately.

  “We couldn’t pay you much, and as I said, I’ll let Warren set the price. Men like it when you make them feel like they’re in charge of things. I know he wouldn’t offer you any less than a quarter an hour, though, and you’d be working somewhere from six to ten hours a week, so that would probably give you enough spending money to make it worth your while.”

  “Iris,” I said, and I felt the tremble in my voice that meant I wasn’t far away from crying, “that money would mean a lot to my family and me.”

  I had it all figured out. I’d hand every penny I made over to Daddy to use for the family as he saw fit. I wouldn’t be earning near as much as I would if I was working full time, but I’d still be increasing the family income. And I wouldn’t mind not keeping the money as long as I got to stay in school

  “Well, that’s good.” Iris looked embarrassed.

  I probably shouldn’t have sounded so grateful, but I’m the kind of person who has a hard time hiding my feelings.

  Sharon was getting squirmy and rubbing her eyes with her dimpled fists. Iris said, “I’d better get her home for her nap. I’ll tell you what—why don’t you come over for lunch on Sunday around one? We’ll let Warren get a look at you and see how much money we can extort from him.” Her smile was contagious.

  “Okay, I’ll see you Sunday, then. Should I bring anything?” I hoped she’d say no, but I’d been taught to ask that question if somebody wanted you to eat at their house.

  “Just that extra pair of arms I need to hold Sharon,” she said.

  Walking back home, I felt warm even though my sweater was thin and the wind was chilly. I woke up this morning without a friend or a job or a way of staying in school, and now I was pretty sure I had all three.

  October 29, 1944

  The way Mama and my sisters acted when I told them I wouldn’t be joining them for Sunday dinner, you would’ve thought it was news that needed to be a front-page headline in the Knoxville News-Sentinel: Ruby Pickett Misses Sunday Dinner, Reasons Undisclosed. Of course, I can see why it would make Mama curious. I’ve never been one to miss out on her chicken and biscuits, particularly since Sunday’s the one day of the week we count on having meat.

  “Where you gonna be at?” Mama asked. She was at the counter, cutting up the chicken.

  “I’ll just be out for a while. It’s nothing bad, Mama, I promise. If it works out, you’ll be proud of me. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.” I didn’t want to say anything specific about the babysitting job. I didn’t want to get anybody’s hopes up in case Iris’s husband hated me on sight or was too tight with his money to pay a babysitter.

  “Ooh, I bet I know what it is!” Opal said from the kitchen table where she was peeling potatoes. “Ruby’s got a feller.”

  To make it worse, Garnet grabbed Baby Pearl by the hands and started dancing her around, singing, “Ruby’s got a feller! Ruby’s got a feller!”

  “You’uns hush,” Mama said, then she turned to me, the chicken knife in her hand. “If you do have a feller, Ruby, I hope you’re meeting him someplace out in the open. Some of these town boys is fast movers.”

  “I am not meeting a boy,” I said. “And don’t ask me no more questions ’cause I won’t answer them.”

  “Ruby”—Baby Pearl looked up at me with the extra-wide eyes she always got when she wanted something—“If you ain’t gonna be at dinner, can I have your piece of chicken?”

  “That was the last question I’m gonna answer,” I said. “And the answer is yes.”

  * * *

  Iris and Warren lived on Snob Hill in one of the cemesto houses the government builds for the people with fancy jobs. Their house was one of the smallest ones on the hill—still lots bigger than ours—and it sat on grass with some trees around it instead of just the mud that passed for our yard. Standing on their porch about to knock on their door, I was overwhelmed how much Iris had that I don’t. I could see every scuff on my shoe and every place my skirt had been let out so I wouldn’t grow out of it too soon. I wondered if I should just run on home and take my piece of chicken back from Baby Pearl.

  But then I’d be a chicken myself, I thought, and I got tickled enough that I found the courage to knock on the door.

  When Iris opened the door and flashed her easygoing smile at me, I felt better. After all, she’d already seen how raggedy my clothes are. If that had bothered her, she wouldn’t have invited me to her house in the first place. “Ruby!” she said, like I was the Queen of England dropping by for a visit. “I’m glad you could come.”

  “Me, too.”

  She opened the door wider and patted me on the back as she let me in. Over her clothes, she was wearing a pink apron made out of some kind of filmy material with red roses on it. The house, I saw, was also heated by a stove, but unlike our house, it was broken up into more rooms. I was standing in a real living room, with a couch, and armchair, and a bookcase spilling over with books I was dying to get a look at. The coffee table was piled with newspapers and magazines. Half-empty coffee cups had been abandoned here and there, and the ashtray on the end table was full. The room was like Iris, pretty, interesting, and not quite neatly put together.

  “Sharon’s asleep,” Iris said, “which is a blessing since it actually allowed me to cook lunch. I was afraid she’d be so fussy I wouldn’t have time to put anything together but peanut butter sandwiches.”

  “Peanut butter sandwiches would’ve been fine,” I said.

  “Well, they might have been better than my meatloaf, which is what you’re getting.” Iris motioned me to follow her into the kitchen. “What with rationing, I’m afraid there’s more ‘loaf’ in it than meat.” She dipped mashed potatoes from a pot on the stove into a fancy china serving bowl, then did the same with some green beans. She opened the door of the oven and pulled out a ketchupy-looking meatloaf. I couldn’t imagine having a kitchen so nice to cook in.

  “Well, I guess we’re ready,” Iris said. “Warren’s back at his desk in the bedroom, puzzling over something or another. Let me go see if I can lure him out with food.”

  When Iris came back, it was with a man who looked quite a bit older than my daddy. His hair wasn’t all the way gray, but it was streaked with silver, which just made his face look tanner and more handsome. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, open at the collar. I thought of a word I had read in a book not long ago: distinguished.

  “Ruby, this is Warren. Warren, Ruby,” Iris said.

  “Delighted,” Warren said, but he didn’t sound delighted. He didn’t seem happy or unhappy to see me; he just seemed like his mind was somewhere else.

  When he shook my hand, I noticed how soft his hand was, not rough and knotty like my daddy’s.“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said.

  To my surprise, he smiled a little. “Southern charm aside, Ruby, you don’t have to call me sir. I bet you don’t call my wife ma’am.”

  “She’d better not,” Iris said, laughing. “It would make me feel ninety years old. Ruby, what would you like to drink? The only choices besides water are coffee or milk, I’m afraid.”

  I didn’t want to ask for milk since it’s a kid’s drink, but I can’t stand the taste of coffee by itself. “Coffee with milk, please.”

  We sat at the table and passed around the meatloaf, potatoes, and beans. We ate quietly for a minute, and then Warren said what I was thinking but would never have dreamed of saying out loud: “The meatloaf. It’s crunchy.”

  Iris crinkled her nose and smiled. “Cornflakes,” she said. “To make the meat stretch. I guess I should’ve soaked them in milk first.”

  “Oh, everything’s real good,” I said. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “It’s okay, Ruby,” Iris said. “I know I’m not much of a cook. I’d never cooked a meal until I was m
arried, and Warren’s been really patient with me and my burnt casseroles and unleavened dinner rolls.”

  “And grease fires,” Warren added. “But I’m fortunate in that my mother is a truly terrible cook, so I have very low expectations.”

  “Which I someday hope to exceed,” Iris said, laughing.

  A loud “waah” came from a couple of rooms away, and Iris jumped up. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  She probably wasn’t gone for more than a minute, but it felt longer because I had no idea what to say to Warren. I couldn’t ask him about his work because he wasn’t allowed to tell me about it, and I didn’t know what hobbies or interests he might have. I thought he might ask me something, just to keep some noise going, but he just went on eating. He was one of those people who ate only one food at a time. He had quickly finished his meatloaf and then his potatoes and had started in on his green beans.

  “Look who’s here,” Iris said, carrying a sleepy-eyed Sharon.

  “Hey, Baby Sharon,” I said.

  “Watch this, Warren,” Iris said. She handed Sharon to me, and she settled into my lap without a peep.

  “See, what did I tell you?” Iris said.

  Warren shook his head. “I can’t believe it. She never lets me hold her like that.”

  Baby Sharon reached onto my plate and helped herself to a fistful of mashed potatoes.

  “Such ladylike behavior,” Iris said, and we laughed.

  “If you ladies will excuse me…” Warren rose from the table. “I always practice my violin after lunch.”

  “Warren?” Iris said.

  He looked at her and nodded.

  After he was out of the room, Iris leaned over and whispered, “You got the job.”

  “Really?” I squealed and leaned down to kiss the top of Baby Sharon’s head.

  “Really. How about you come on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school and the occasional weekend evening if I can strong-arm Warren into taking me out?”

  “Sure.”

  “And is fifty cents an hour okay? Warren said anything less would be insulting.”