You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  At last, on Thursday morning my efforts paid off. I spotted P. A. Bachmann emerging from Union Station, newspaper under his arm. Heart fluttering, I followed him at a discreet distance for several blocks. He turned in at a side entrance to the stately Marshall Field building, smiling a greeting to the doorman, who let him in even though the store was not yet open for business. Did he work at Field’s? I was determined to find out.

  As soon as the doors were unlocked to customers, I launched my search. I zigzagged up and down every floor of the enormous store, but did not spot him. Perhaps he worked somewhere out of the public eye, in administrative offices or the stockroom. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “Excuse me,” I finally said to the clerk at the information desk on the first floor. “I’m looking for Mr. P. A. Bachmann. I believe he might be employed here.”

  The clerk flipped through a directory, then pointed to a page. “Here it is. Mr. Bachmann works in the Store for Men.” She picked up a telephone receiver. “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  All at once my mouth went dry. What would I say to him? That I’d trailed him from the train station like some sort of lady spy? Marjorie Corrigan, Girl Detective.

  “I’d prefer to speak to him in person,” I said. “Where can I find the Store for Men?”

  The clerk directed me to an annex across the street, accessed by an underground tunnel. I scurried through the tunnel and located the Store for Men.

  This section had a woodsy, leathery feel to it, quite unlike the more feminine atmosphere of the rest of the store. My pulse raced as I spotted P. A. Bachmann across the sales floor, one hand holding up a suit jacket, the other gesturing to the lining as he pointed out some feature to a customer. I slipped behind a rack of shirts, a safe vantage point from which to study him unobserved.

  P. A. Bachmann certainly had Jack’s coloring and height, although he seemed slimmer than I remembered. Slimmer in the waist, broader in the shoulders. Of course there was the jagged scar—Jack hadn’t had that, but for pity’s sake, he’d fought in a war. Had Jack had that small cleft in his chin? One would think I’d remember something like that. I’d have to pull out an old photograph to check, and of course all the albums were back home in Kerryville. It had been ten years, after all. I couldn’t quite recall every—

  “May I help you, miss?”

  I whipped around and faced the cordial smile of a young male clerk. In desperation I grabbed a random shirt from the rack and stammered, “I’m wondering if you have this shirt in green.”

  The clerk’s forehead creased. “That is green, miss.”

  I looked at the shirt for the first time. “So it is. I’m afraid I dislike green. Thank you for your help.” I thrust the shirt into his hapless hands and rushed off before P. A. Bachmann could glance over and see me. Once safely out of sight, I leaned against a wall to catch my breath. My full investigation would have to wait for another time. But when? I couldn’t keep lurking around the Store for Men forever, feigning an interest in tab collars and cuff links.

  Still, I’d found him. I walked back through the tunnel to the main store and celebrated this accomplishment with a small bag of pistachios.

  On Thursdays the Art Institute stayed open later to accommodate working people, and admission was free. So rather than spend the evening sitting around in my cell at the Y, I boarded a streetcar for Michigan Avenue. I passed the bronze lions of the Art Institute, and on impulse found the part of the building where classes were held. I’d intended to inquire about the adult classes I’d read about on the brochure, but found the registration office dark and locked, even though the hallway bustled with students. I’d have to come back another day. Meanwhile, I wandered down the hall, peeking into doorways.

  “Say, that hat is the last gasp,” said a friendly voice beside me. I turned to see a dark-haired woman wearing what looked like a flowered silk kimono and slippers. The ensemble struck me as avant-garde, but I reminded myself that my fashion sense had been formed in Kerryville and was not to be trusted.

  The woman’s face and voice seemed familiar. It took me a moment to recall where I’d seen the glossy dark hair and rouged cheeks. Then it hit me.

  “You work at Marshall Field. In the millinery department.” I touched the brim of the Darling Yellow Hat. “You sold me this hat. Remember?”

  She laughed. “Why, sure, doll.” She walked around me, admiring the hat from all angles. “I do know how to pick ’em, if I do say so myself.” She snapped her fingers. “Say, you’re the girl who’s getting married soon, right? The one I tried to talk into cutting her hair.” She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I see you haven’t taken my advice.”

  “I’m—still thinking about it.”

  She extended a hand, showing exquisitely lacquered blood-red fingernails. “I don’t believe we’ve properly met. I’m Dorothy Rodgers. Everyone calls me Dot. As in polka.”

  I shook her hand. “Marjorie Corrigan.”

  “Say, are you here for a class?”

  “Oh, no. I’m just exploring. I wanted to get some information, but…” I shrugged and gestured to the locked office door.

  “Since you’re here, why don’t you pick a class to sit in on and observe? They encourage prospective students to do that.”

  A thrill shimmered up my spine. “I am kind of interested in Textiles.”

  “Down the hall and to your right.” Dot pointed. “Say, you seem like a good egg. You all alone in the city?”

  I nodded.

  “Why don’t we get together tonight after class? I know a little place where we can grab a drink and get acquainted. Meet you at the front entrance right after class, all right?”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “But I have to warn you, I don’t drink anything stronger than coffee.”

  “Pity. Well, coffee it is, then.” Students began filing into their studios. “Duty calls.” Dot turned toward a doorway marked Life Drawing.

  “So you’re taking Life Drawing,” I said, thinking this was an interesting choice for a milliner.

  “Goodness no.” Dot laughed over her shoulder. “I’m the model.”

  “You have to disrobe?” I exclaimed to Dot later that evening as we sat in a nearby coffee shop. “I would feel so humiliated, being naked in front of all those strangers.”

  “We prefer to call it ‘unclothed,’” Dot said, glancing at the menu. “It’s not as bad as you think. The art students don’t see you . . . you know, that way. They’re more interested in learning how to draw the way your ribcage connects to your hipbone and all that.”

  I frowned. “The ribcage doesn’t connect to the hipbone.”

  “You know what I mean. What I’m trying to say is, they don’t view you as a woman. You’re more like an anatomical specimen. Why, it’s practically medical.” She snapped the menu shut. “Let’s talk about something else. How did you like the Textiles class?”

  “I loved it. I just don’t think I could keep up. I don’t have any real background, you know. Just an interest.”

  “That was an advanced class. You don’t have to have experience for the beginner classes,” Dot said. “That’s why they call them ‘beginner.’ Let’s eat, I’m starved.”

  Over grilled cheese sandwiches and iced tea, I learned that Dot had moved to Chicago from a small town in Indiana, and that although she scraped together an income by selling hats at Field’s during the day and posing at the art school at night, her real ambition was to sing professionally. To that end she sang with a band on the weekends, at an Italian restaurant called Louie’s Villa Italiana.

  “It’s a members-only kind of place,” she said, “but I’m sure Louie will let you in, if you want to come and listen.”

  “Members only? Sounds like a speakeasy. At least, what I know about speakeasies from the movies, which isn’t much.”

  She shrugged. “If you want to call it that. Say, are you one of those crusaders?” One side of her mouth quirked up into a half-smile, half-smirk.


  Stiffly I said, “No. I just don’t like it. Not to mention buying alcohol is illegal.”

  “Prohibition is a farce,” she said. “What makes anything more attractive than saying you can’t have it? If they decided to outlaw candy bars, we’d all have rings of chocolate around our mouths. Besides, it’s plain cruel to separate a working man from his beer.”

  “Not when the beer wreaks havoc with his life,” I said, thinking of Charlie and his struggle with the bottle.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t drink much myself. Maybe an occasional cocktail. Anything stronger makes me forget the words to the songs.”

  I ought to have been put off by the fact that my new friend sang at a gin joint, but under the dazzle of the city lights it all sounded quite sophisticated. And her friendly smile warmed my heart like a cozy quilt on a chilly night. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d been feeling. For my part, I told her a bit about Kerryville and Richard and my plan to spend some time in the city before my wedding. I left out the parts about premarital jitters, reputed nervous breakdowns, and childhood sweethearts risen from the dead. No sense in spilling all my secrets right away.

  At one point I did, however, venture to ask whether, while working at Field’s, she’d made the acquaintance of one Mr. P. A. Bachmann of the men’s department.

  She shook her head. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Suddenly I had an idea. “I need to make some money. Do you think you could help me get a job there? You know, put in a good word for me?”

  “At Field’s? I don’t see why not. Usually they’re desperate for summer help—all the tourists and whatnot pouring through the doors. I’ll bet they’ll hire you like that”—she snapped her fingers—“with your retail experience and all.” She pushed aside her half-eaten sandwich and stretched like a cat. “It’s getting late. Where did you say you were staying?”

  “At the YWCA.”

  Dot made a face. “Oh, you don’t want to stay there,” she sneered. “I lived there for a while and they have far too many oppressive rules. No men in the rooms and whatnot.” She brightened. “Say, why don’t you come and spend the night at my place? Then we’ll go to Field’s first thing in the morning and see about getting you a job.”

  Disappointed, I said, “Thanks, but all my belongings are at the Y.”

  “Well, you can’t very well fetch them tonight,” she replied. “I’ll lend you a nightgown, and you can collect your things tomorrow.”

  The taxi dropped us off in a leafy North Side neighborhood in front of a modest brick apartment building. Dot ushered me up two flights of stairs and opened a door off a dim hallway. She switched on a lamp to reveal a narrow living room with scarred wooden floors and a small window-lined alcove at one end. There wasn’t much furniture, just a sofa, a couple of mismatched chairs, and an end table with a lamp on it. Dot hastened to pick up the several pieces of clothing strewn about.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company,” she breezed. “I had a terrible time deciding what to wear this morning.”

  The room contained a fireplace, apparently unused, flanked by bookshelves holding little in the way of books. Instead they held several framed photographs, mostly of Dot herself, posed alongside various other carefree-looking people. Dot on the beach. Dot on a sailboat. Dot in an evening gown.

  She showed me the extra bedroom—not much more than a large closet with a narrow cot in it—but it was cozy and safe, and heaps quieter than the YWCA.

  “What a lovely place,” I remarked with a touch of envy. “A sweet little nest, all to yourself.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, glancing around. “It’s pretty nice. The landlady’s a dear. Better than being cooped up in the Y with a zillion other women, don’t you think? Say, my former roommate moved out recently and I could really use some help with the rent. You could move in here. What do you say?”

  All at once a terrific roar shook the building. Tinkling glasses shivered together in a cabinet and the picture frames wobbled on their shelves. Then in a moment, it was over.

  “What on earth was that?” I said, grabbing the doorframe for support.

  “What? Oh, that’s the El. The elevated train. It runs right past the building. After a while, you don’t notice it anymore.”

  As my heartbeat slowed to its normal pace, I said, “Gee, it’s tempting to move in here, but I’m only in town temporarily. I’m getting married in September, as you know.” Maybe, came a thought from out of nowhere.

  “Yes, that’s too bad,” she said cheerfully. “But from where I sit, a summer’s worth of rent is better than nothing. And as I said, I’m a busy gal. I’m hardly ever home. You’ll practically have the place all to yourself.

  I sighed. “We’re putting the cart before the horse. I need a job first.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” she said confidently. “We’ll take care of that little matter first thing tomorrow.”

  I shivered deliciously. Yes. And then I can spy on P. A. Bachman and discover his true identity.

  “Do you think they might put me in Millinery with you?”

  “Not Millinery, I’m afraid,” she said with regret, as if Millinery were the highest of aspirations. “That takes special training. But plenty of other sections need help. Don’t worry, they’ll find a place for you.” She yawned.

  I glanced at my wristwatch, a Christmas gift from Richard. With a pang of guilt I realized that, in my excitement, I’d neglected to consider what he might think of all this upheaval. What would he think of my taking a job at Field’s? More to the point, did I really care what he thought?

  Dot disappeared into her bedroom and emerged with bedding, a towel, and a nightgown—a slinky apricot satin number that would have done Theda Bara proud. “Here, you can wear this. And first thing in the morning we’ll go down to Field’s and see what we can do about getting you a job.” She yawned again. “And now, I’m off to bed. I’ve been out late every night this week and I’m absolutely done in.”

  After she retired, I took a bath in the claw-footed tub in the tiny bathroom. It felt like heaven to enjoy a leisurely soak uninterrupted by a long line of other girls pounding on the door, or Miss Jessop complaining that I used too much hot water. As I relaxed into the steaming tub, I daydreamed about my new job. I saw myself gliding sylphlike through the store, helping some grateful customer select a becoming dress or smart accessory. That I’d never in my life glided sylphlike was entirely beside the point.

  Best of all, working at Field’s would put me into close proximity to P. A. Bachmann, thus making it easier to find out who he really was. If he turned out not to be Jack, then no harm done. But what if he did turn out to be Jack, after all? What would I do then? I decided to worry about that later.

  I toweled off and attempted to squeeze myself into the peach satin nightgown, but it wouldn’t even slide over my hips. Grudgingly I put my own petticoat back on, slipped my cardigan over it, and padded out to the galley kitchen, where I scrounged the makings for a cup of tea. Then I made up my bed and crawled into it.

  Just as I was drifting off, the roar of the El shook me from my slumber. I hauled myself out of bed to the bathroom, where I took two cotton balls from Dot’s stash and stuffed them in my ears. Back in bed, I punched the pillow and threw off the covers. I didn’t think I’d sleep a wink, but the next thing I knew, early morning sunlight was streaming through the little window and Dot, wrapped in the sort of fluffy aqua peignoir that Greta Garbo might wear, was standing over me, saying, “Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to go to work.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I followed Dot through the heavy revolving door of Marshall Field & Company. She propelled me toward the elevator. “Go on up to Eight and find the Personnel department,” she ordered. “You’ll have to fill out a bunch of paperwork. I’ll clock in first, then I’ll meet you up there as soon as I can. Now scoot.” She gave me a little shove and trotted off. I strode tow
ard the elevator with a quick glance around, yearning for a glimpse of P. A. Bachmann. No such luck.

  “Eight, please,” I told the elevator operator.

  “Shopping today?” he asked in a friendly manner.

  “Not today. I’m hoping to get a job.”

  “So you’re headed up to Personnel?”

  “Yes.”

  “When they ask you, say ‘Candy.’”

  “Pardon me?”

  The operator glanced at me over his fringed epaulet. “Tell them you want to work in the Candy section. Clerk just quit yesterday, and they need to hire somebody quick.”

  “I see. Candy. Thanks.” Frankly I’d been hoping for something more glamorous, like Evening Wear or Fine Jewelry. But a girl had to start somewhere. I was determined to land a job, even if it meant scooping jellybeans while wearing an unfashionable hairnet. “Any other advice?”

  “Just be yourself. You look like the classy kind of girl that Field’s goes for.”

  A warm glow of pleasure spread across my face. The doors slid open and the operator called out, “Eight.” He pointed to a frosted glass door marked Personnel. “There you go, miss. Good luck to you.”

  I stepped out of the elevator and stood for a moment, rooted to the spot by my jumbled feelings. I dipped into a restroom to check my outfit. Having not yet retrieved my belongings from the Y, I still wore the previous day’s dove-gray skirt and matching blouse, brightened by a fresh floral-print scarf and rosy lipstick thoughtfully provided by Dot. I took a deep breath, pulled my Darling Yellow Hat firmly down on my forehead, and marched resolutely into the personnel office.

  The room was long and rectangular, lined with benches and crowded with people of all ages. A perky brunette in a blue smock handed me an application form and a pencil. I sat on a bench and used my handbag on my lap as a writing surface.

  At long last the brunette called my number and I followed her into the office of Mrs. Carlson, a tweed-clad woman of about forty. She motioned for me to sit down. Several moments of silence ensued while she glanced over my application, expressionless. Finally she jotted something in the corner of the application.