You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  “Your experience appears limited to clerking a small-town dry goods store,” she began. “I’m not sure that—”

  All at once, a familiar voice caroled from the doorway, “Oh, Mrs. Carlson!”

  We both turned to see Dot’s smiling face poking around the doorframe. Behind her, the brunette woman gestured wildly. Dot ignored her.

  “Mrs. Carlson, how did your husband like that hat you purchased last week?” she purred. “The one with that cunning little feather?”

  Mrs. Carlson’s face brightened. “Oh, it’s perfect, Miss Rodgers. You were so right about paying attention to which way the feather points. It makes all the difference.” She nodded to her assistant, who backed off.

  “I must say, you have the perfect face for that sort of hat, Mrs. Carlson. Not everyone can pull off such a sophisticated style. Well, I won’t keep you, I see you have company—” Dot glanced at me in feigned surprise, eyes wide and mouth forming an O. “Mercy me. Is that Miss Corrigan? Miss Marjorie Corrigan?”

  Mrs. Carlson’s glance slid from Dot to me and back again.

  “Um—oh, uh, good morning, Dot. M-Miss Rodgers,” I stammered, not at all sure what game we were playing.

  “Are you applying to work here? Oh, what great good luck.” Dot clapped her hands as if she’d just won a prize. “Mrs. Carlson, don’t let this one get away. Marjorie Corrigan is a darling, and she is a genius at retail. Simply a genius.”

  “She is?” Mrs. Carlson turned to me with fresh interest.

  Dot winked at me. “Please excuse me. I must get back to Millinery. Big rush on summer chapeaux in this warm weather. Mrs. Carlson, do stop by and take a peek at our new broad-brims.”

  “I’ll do that, Miss Rodgers. Thank you.” Dot vanished and Mrs. Carlson peered at me over the top of her spectacles. “Now, Miss Corrigan, you were saying . . .”

  I told her about my work at Corrigan’s Dry Goods, and the plans I had for displays and possibly bringing in a ready-to-wear-section.

  “I see,” Mrs. Carlson said slowly. “But if you already have a job, then why do you want to work at Field’s?”

  “To broaden my knowledge of retailing in the world’s finest department store.” And to spy on the handsome man in menswear, I thought, but of course she didn’t need to know that part.

  “Well, as it happens, we do have a temporary opening, just for the summer.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  And a few minutes later, I was Marshall Field & Company’s newest employee in Ladies’ Nightwear.

  “You may start on Monday. Nine-thirty sharp.” Mrs. Carlson’s glance swept me from head to toe. “Dark colors only, please. Black or navy.” She handed me a form to sign. “As I said, it’s only for the summer. Six days a week, Sundays off. By signing this form, you commit to work until Labor Day.”

  I gulped. That meant I’d be going home just a couple of weeks before the wedding. How would I ever explain this to Richard and my family? But I couldn’t quit now. I needed the money, not to mention the close proximity to P. A. Bachmann. I signed.

  We discussed a few more details, then I floated to the elevator, breathing a prayer of gratitude. My mind drifted back to the words of the elevator operator. He’d called me a classy girl. A real Field’s kind of girl. As for explaining it to my family and Richard . . . well, I’d figure that out somehow.

  I left Field’s and went to the Y to fetch my suitcase and take it over to Dot’s place. I figured anyone who’d go to bat for me like that must be a good egg. Before checking out, I telephoned Richard. When the operator connected us and he answered, I said, “Hi, Richard. It’s me.”

  A slight pause. “Marjorie?”

  “Of course. Who else would it be?”

  “I don’t know. You just sound—different. That’s all.”

  “Do I?” The change in attitude I was already feeling must have started showing in my voice.

  “Have you forgiven me yet for speaking to Dr. Cragin?”

  “I suppose so.” So much had happened since then. “That’s not really what I’m calling to talk to you about.” I inhaled deeply, then blurted in a rush, “I’m calling to say I’ve decided to spend the rest of the summer here in Chicago and I’ve taken a job until Labor Day.”

  A pause. Then, “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “A job. What kind of a job?”

  I tried to sound confident. “You’re speaking to the newest salesclerk at Marshall Field & Company.” Silence. “In Ladies’ Nightwear.” More silence. “Richard? Are you still there? Hello?”

  “A salesclerk,” he said finally, to nobody in particular. “My fiancée has become a salesclerk.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I reasoned. “I’ve been a salesclerk for years, in Pop’s store.”

  “Exactly. In your father’s store, surrounded by your family. Not miles away in a strange city.” He sounded weary. “Marjorie, what in blazes is the matter with you? You don’t sound like yourself. You’re talking nonsense, and you have me worried. Me and your whole family.”

  I fiddled with the telephone cord. “I’m not talking nonsense. I’m merely telling you I’ve taken a summer job. For heaven’s sake, lots of girls do it.”

  “You’re not lots of girls. You’re my girl. And in a department store, of all places.”

  My throat tightened. “My goodness, you make it sound like a den of iniquity. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

  “Proud of you?” he sputtered. “Proud that my future wife is peddling who-knows-what to who-knows-who in downtown Chicago?”

  “I’m not peddling. I’m serving a distinguished clientele,” I said, parroting Mrs. Carlson. I recited the list of advantages I’d practiced in advance. “It’s not forever, just for the summer. I’m earning money that can go toward the wedding and setting up our new home. And I’m not just a salesclerk.” I warmed to my topic. “I’m learning retailing procedures and techniques that Charlie and I can use at Corrigan’s. It’s sort of like a professional training program.”

  So maybe “professional training program” was a bit of a stretch. But I could not even begin to explain the real magnet that drew me to Field’s, the real reason I didn’t want to come home—a mysterious salesman who bore a remarkable resemblance to the man I’d loved long before Richard came on the scene.

  He snorted. “Training program? Be serious. Besides, I thought you were going to stop working at Corrigan’s to devote yourself to your duties at home.”

  “You thought that. I didn’t think that.”

  “I earn an excellent salary, Marjorie. I don’t need my wife selling underwear to support herself.”

  “Nightwear. And I know you’ll be able to support us, but right now there’s also the apartment to pay for.”

  “Your apartment?” he sputtered.

  Oops.

  I hurriedly explained about Dot’s offer of hospitality, carefully sidestepping the artist’s-model and speakeasy-singer bits.

  I pictured that little vein in his temple starting to throb.

  “See here, Marjorie,” he blurted. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m tired of it. Either come home, or else.”

  My face burned. “Or else what?”

  He inhaled audibly. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said. “Think about what I’ve said.” The line went silent.

  I sat for a moment, staring at the telephone. Richard, too, had his limits. I couldn’t put off a decision about our marriage, one way or another, much longer. I’d never thought I was the sort of girl to break up with a man long-distance. But I had to admit, the idea had its merits.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My first morning as a Field’s employee sped past in a blur of instructions about cash versus charge versus cash-on-delivery, sales slips in triplicate, pink copy here, yellow copy there, this form and that form, and a dizzying array of numbers: employee number, time card number, locker number, section number, department number. I despaired of
ever remembering it all. The manager for Ladies’ Nightwear was a Mrs. Cross—a diminutive, white-haired woman with ramrod posture whose name echoed her temperament, as she seemed permanently out of sorts.

  After a polite but frosty greeting, Mrs. Cross grilled me about my experience. When I told her about my job at Corrigan’s Dry Goods and Sundries, she seemed less than impressed. “Let’s hope you know a thing or two about fabrics,” she said in a tone that indicated she harbored no such hope. She introduced me to a few other salesladies who, in the haziness of that first day, all had the same name. I could have sworn Mrs. Cross introduced them as Miss Ryan, Miss Ryan, and Miss Ryan. They looked enough alike in their plain black dresses and tidy chin-length bobs that I assumed they were sisters and wondered how on earth I’d learn to tell them apart. Only much later did I discover they weren’t at all related, and their names were actually Miss Ryan, Miss Bryant, and Miss O’Brien.

  My new habitat, Ladies’ Nightwear, was the boreal forest of nightgowns—acres and acres of them. I despaired of ever learning my way around, but Miss Ryan (or was it Miss Bryant?) told me I wasn’t expected to sell anything that first week. I was only to watch, listen, and learn. That much I figured I could handle.

  “Our store stocks only the highest-quality merchandise, and we must treat every item like a jewel.” Mrs. Cross propelled me through the labyrinth of gowns and robes and described styles, colors, sizes, and fabrics in a rapid-fire delivery that left me dazed, along with a whole new vocabulary. Peignoirs. Chemisettes.

  “You will be expected to have a complete understanding of each garment and its selling points,” Mrs. Cross stated crisply. “Neatness is a must at all times, in our personal appearance and the appearance of our section. In the early days, when Marshall Field himself was in charge, a supervisor made the rounds to make sure we were dressed appropriately.”

  Just when I thought my head would explode from all the facts I was required to remember, a tall, stately older woman entered the department, and I was mercifully abandoned as Mrs. Cross hurried to wait on her. I overheard her greet the customer in a silken, honeyed tone nearly unrecognizable from the no-nonsense bray she’d been using with me.

  The customer looked familiar. I struggled to figure out where I’d seen her before.

  Miss O’Brien drifted up to me. “Don’t stare,” she said under her breath.

  “What?”

  “Don’t stare at the customers. It’s vulgar.”

  “I’m not staring, I’m just . . . I think I know her from somewhere.”

  “From the society pages, no doubt,” she stage-whispered. “Don’t you know who that is?”

  “No. Who?”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief at my naiveté. “That’s Evangeline Dunsworthy, of the North Central Bank Dunsworthys. Rich as Croesus. Of course, she was a Chadwick before she married.”

  I nodded as if I understood what she was talking about, although I hadn’t the faintest clue.

  “Looks like Mrs. Cross is putting her in Dressing Room One,” she said. “Mrs. Dunsworthy is an exacting customer. Usually nobody waits on her but Mrs. Cross herself. But you should remain on standby at all times, at a discreet distance, in case she needs you to fetch something. And please pay attention. Mrs. Dunsworthy is a very important customer.”

  Cowed by this speech, I dreaded being called in to help. Thankfully Mrs. Cross managed fine without me.

  When lunchtime rolled around, I’d half expected the other salesgirls to invite me to join them, but none did. The thought of navigating the employee dining room alone made my palms sweat. I contemplated heading down the street to Walgreens when Dot swooped past and collected me. In the crowded employee dining room, I followed her through the line, selecting a tuna sandwich and a glass of Ovaltine, and we pushed our way to an empty table, raising our voices above the din. We were joined by a curly-haired girl whom Dot introduced as Agnes-in-Books, and a hearty, stalwart young woman with a rosy complexion called Ruthie-in-Stationery.

  As soon as I sat down, I realized how tired I was. My back ached and my shoes clamped like torture devices onto my swollen, throbbing feet. I’d better make some conversation or I’d start groaning out loud, right there at the table.

  “Ruthie, how long have you worked at Field’s?”

  She chomped down on a carrot stick. “Two years. Say, has anybody talked to you about the food drive?”

  “Food drive?”

  Her face took on an earnest expression. “Field’s encourages its employees to get involved in some sort of community service. The food drive is just one example. Employees donate canned food and things for the needy. It then gets distributed to charitable institutions around the city. Will you help us?”

  “Gee.” I faltered. “This is only my first day, and . . .”

  “Ruthie’s out to save the world,” Agnes said. “Don’t let her twist your arm.”

  Ruthie jabbed her with her elbow.

  “I see. Well, it sounds like a good cause, and I’d like to help, but . . .”

  Before I could formulate an answer, Agnes lifted her arm and shouted, “Hey, Betty Boop. Over here.”

  We were joined by yet another young woman. “This is Marjorie in Ladies’ Nightwear,” Dot said by way of introduction, a description that made me blush, but nobody else seemed to think anything of it. “It’s her first day,” Dot added, as if that weren’t glaringly obvious.

  “Welcome. I’m Betty Hendricks. Hosiery.” The newcomer squeezed in on the other side of Ruthie. The women were all in high spirits, chatting between bites about the upcoming holiday.

  Betty glanced at me. “Lucky girl. A holiday during your first week.”

  “Holiday?”

  “Wednesday is Memorial Day,” Dot said. “The store closes so we can all attend the parade. You’ll come too, won’t you?”

  My heart sank. “No, I don’t think I will. Thanks for asking, though.”

  Every year I tried to forget Memorial Day. Without Jack’s grave to visit, the day always felt hollow and incomplete, although in Kerryville I did usually attend the local festivities for Charlie’s sake. Here in Chicago, I saw no reason to force myself to go through the motions.

  Thankfully, Agnes changed the subject. “So, Marjorie, what do you think of Old Rugged?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Cross. That’s what your predecessor used to call her. You’ll have to keep on your toes with that one.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Mrs. Cross is one of the oldest employees at Field’s,” Agnes said. “She’s been working here since the dawn of time, when the original Marshall Field was still in charge. A fact she’s eager to tell all and sundry at the drop of a hat.”

  “Back in my day . . .” crowed Betty in a voice that sounded uncannily like Mrs. Cross.

  Agnes giggled. Then she snatched up her water glass and took a sip as a blond man in a blue uniform sidled up to the table.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Agnes blushed. “It’s a million degrees in the shade, Kurt. What’s so lovely about it?”

  The man leaned over and gazed straight into Agnes’s eyes. “It’s all in your attitude, doll face.” She glanced toward the ceiling in mock disdain, but her face was glowing. While it was clear she relished the attention, this Kurt fellow struck me as overly cocky and sure of himself.

  He turned his gleaming smile on Dot. “How’s our little canary today? Been doing much chirping these days?”

  “Sure thing,” Dot said. “I’m still singing at Louie’s Villa Italiana on weekends, ten until two. You should come.”

  “You girls ever hear this one sing?” Kurt said. “She’s got pipes like an angel. Her boyfriend kind of scares me, though. He’s one of those menacing types.”

  “Aw, go on,” Dot said, but I could tell she was pleased.

  He beamed his grin my way. “And who’s this?”

  “Marjorie, meet Kurt Steuben,” Dot said
. “Kurt’s one of our esteemed store security guards. Kurt, meet Marjorie. It’s her first day. She’s in Ladies’ Nightwear.”

  “Oh, if only,” Kurt said, looking me up and down in a way that made me squirm inside. Fresh! Then abruptly he said, “Excuse me, ladies. There’s someone over there I need to talk to.”

  After he’d sauntered away, Agnes breathed, “That man is so dreamy.”

  “Kurt Steuben?” Betty said, wide-eyed. “Ugh. He’s slick as snake oil. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  Privately I had to agree.

  “Not Kurt, silly.” Agnes pointed across the room. “That man he’s talking to.”

  We all turned to look, and immediately I broke out into a cold sweat. Kurt Steuben was talking to none other than P. A. Bachmann.

  “That’s the new manager in Menswear,” Betty said. “Only just started. Name’s Peter Bachmann.”

  Peter. His name is Peter.

  “Catch me, I’m swooning,” Ruthie said. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or just making fun of Agnes.

  “Marjorie, weren’t you asking me something the other day about somebody named Bachmann?” Dot said.

  “Uh, different fellow,” I mumbled when I regained the power of speech. I watched as Peter raised an arm and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Betty continued, “I heard he transferred here from some big store in New York City. Macy’s or Gimbel’s, something like that. Made a few people plenty sore, let me tell you, bringing in a manager from the outside instead of promoting somebody who’s already here.”

  “New York? Are you sure?” If he was from New York, then he couldn’t be Jack.

  Betty looked at me. “That’s what I heard. Why?”

  Thankfully, Dot interrupted. “Wonder where he got that doozy of a scar.”

  Betty adopted a soulful gaze and mouthed, “The war.”

  Agnes shook her head. “Betty, how do find out the dirt on everyone so quickly? I swear. The man’s been here two minutes and you already practically know his hat size.”