Chapter Two
Spring 1938, San Francisco
GERMANY MOBILIZES
FORTY HOUR WORK WEEK ESTABLISHED IN USA
CHOLERA EPIDEMIC RAGES IN INDIA
ITALY SENDS GOOD WILL MISSION TO JAPAN
JAPAN BOMBS CANTON
MOIRA WALKED THE BLOCK three times before she looked up and found the shingle hanging from a second floor window: Tracey Business School. They weren’t exactly grabbing customers. How did this bode for their promise of ‘One Graduate/one job’? Moira was counting on Tracey Business School and today’s entrance was not auspicious.
Green, should she have worn this green dress or something more sober, like the white blouse and black skirt? She wanted to start out right. Tracey Business School was a means to an end. It got her out of Los Angeles, away from her parents and the depression she had felt in the year since high school when she had sat at so many soda fountains waiting to be discovered by a movie producer that she had gained 10 pounds. Now a slimmer, more determined Moira was beginning a new life in San Francisco and she resolved to subordinate her temperament to the task at hand. 8.10. Did she have time to comb her hair? Well, in this game appearance was important.
Staring critically into the mirror, she saw large green eyes; a small, slightly too-pointed nose; a full, heart-shaped mouth, which when she smiled revealed straight teeth, unless you looked to the left and noticed the two that overlapped. The red hair was her greatest asset. She reached up her skirt and pulled down her satin slip. There, she stepped back, admiring the effect. Drool on, Tyrone Power.
8.15, she had better get a move on.
By the time she reached room 105, she could hear clattering typewriters. Calm down, Moira, this isn’t Immaculate Conception High School. The old wooden door squeaked loudly. A few heads turned, but most of the girls concentrated on their typing. A skinny woman stood at the front of the class, tapping a pointer on her broad oak desk. Moira smiled at the teacher, who frowned and nodded to a seat at the back. Moira walked with as much poise as she could summon — Katharine Hepburn spurning Spencer Tracey — and sat down in a desk next to a pretty, olive-skinned girl.
The girl turned, smiled briefly, and, by the time Moira had the composure to smile back, the girl had returned to work.
The skinny teacher didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Moira as she stood in front, tapping out the rhythm on her desk. She looked like an army sergeant. Shouldn’t let the thinness fool her, she was probably total sinew under that ridiculous grey tweed suit. Why did she pull her hair back in such a tight bun that it made her look old? What was she really — fifty, fifty-five? Not a trace of make-up. No accessories, not even a brooch and didn’t all old maids wear brooches? Enough Moira, you don’t want to get scared away the first day. She looked around the room, which at first had seemed filled with blond actresses. No, Moira inhaled and counted again, there were only four or five blonds in the room — if you included that woman with the dirty blond colour. Moira wished she didn’t fixate on fair women. She knew it was a silly obsession, but she couldn’t help it.
The dirty blond girl was interesting. Tall and strong, you could tell even when she was sitting down. She had a nice face — hardly pretty, but gentle and easy. Not your average secretary. Moira wondered about her talent for making friends with outsiders.
‘For those of you who were late.’ The toothpick was speaking to the back wall, but Moira knew she was being personally addressed. ‘We have been doing an initial exercise to test coordination and reflexes. Now we will spend 5 minutes having people introduce themselves.’
‘Connie Bently.’
Moira missed the next couple of names because she was staring at the girl in the middle of the first row, a beautiful Oriental girl. Moira had never had a friend who wasn’t white. Would this girl talk to her? She was quite stunning and Moira admired the neatness of her outfit — the simple, trim lines of her red suit. The color was terrific with her shiny black hair. What kind of shampoo did she use? Moira pulled a pencil from her handbag.
‘Wanda Nakatani,’ the Oriental girl said.
Moira wrote down the name, wondering if she spelled it right. She took a closer look at the blond women and none of them appeared to be movie material. Too thin or egghead. Then the one with the dirty blond hair spoke. Moira wrote down, ‘Teddy Fielding’. Teddy, what an unusual name, and she talked with a drawl. Was she Southern? Moira had always been interested in the South, ever since Gone With The Wind. The neighboring girl touched Moira’s shoulder, whispering, ‘Your turn.’
‘Moira Finlayson.’ Moira raised her head.
‘Ann Rose.’ Her neighbor followed. Moira wondered if she were Jewish, with such black hair and dark skin. She seemed a very sympathetic person. Moira peeked at Ann’s typing exercise and observed that she made it all the way down the page whereas a girl in front of them had only finished the first line. Yes, this one would be worth getting to know, too.
‘Miriam Schwartz.’ ‘Penny Lentman.’ ‘Dorothy Buckley.’ ‘Amelia Freitas.’ ‘Eleanor Mirelli.’ ‘Eve Smithson.’ ‘Gloria Porter.’ ‘Julia Tripp.’
Moira sighed back in her chair. This would be an adventure. Lots of new girls. A strange, witchy teacher. And what could be so hard about a little typing? If she could sew and knit — not that she did either brilliantly — she could type.
‘Very nice, very nice,’ said Miss Fargo. ‘Now let’s try that exercise again. Insert the paper carefully …’
Moira watched Ann Rose put the sheet behind the black roller and twist a knob on the side of the typewriter. Nothing to that, she decided, managing to insert three sheets of paper crookedly. She missed the rest of Miss Fargo’s instruction.
Ann whispered, ‘Put your fingers like this and type “asdfghjkl;”.’
Moira jotted down ‘asdfghjkl;’ under the names Wanda Nakatani, Teddy Fielding and Ann Rose.
‘No talking, please,’ Miss Fargo called. Ann simply concentrated on the typewriter. Moira resolved to follow Ann’s reactions to Miss Fargo.
Moira remembered being petrified how to act in grade school until she found the secret: she picked the smartest girl and copied her behavior. Susie Fitzpatrick was not only teacher’s pet, but most popular girl in school. Moira noticed that Susie never talked when Sister was watching but rather waited until Sister’s back was turned or she had left the room for a moment. Then she noticed that Susie always did her homework right away. Susie didn’t have to fret about the delays which imprisoned Moira every night about seven o’clock. On the playground Moira saw that Susie didn’t go out of her way to make friends, but neither did she spurn anyone. She wasn’t a snob. And she certainly didn’t suffer from shyness. It never occurred to Moira why Susie knew things naturally and Moira, herself, had to learn them. She just practiced being Susie Fitzpatrick.
At Immaculate Conception High School Moira continued to observe her friends and to compete with them. Sometimes this got out of hand. She had stolen Maria Ramos’s boyfriend and then realized that what made him attractive was that he was Maria’s. Moira defeated Elizabeth Getz in spelling, not because she cared about the spelling bee — in fact since then she had forgotten all the hard words like ‘Philippines’ and ‘vacuum’ — but because Elizabeth considered the spelling trophy worth seeking. Was she envious of her friends? No, Moira was afraid it was crazier than that. She didn’t know how to live. Outside the rivalry, she was paralyzed with fear or boredom. She continued to compete until she could act anyone’s part. Finally, Sister Lawrence noticed Moira had a gift; she was a magnificent actress. This was something for herself alone. Of course all the girls used to talk about John Barrymore, but none of them were serious about acting. Susie wanted to be a nurse. Elizabeth was going to marry a millionaire. Maria wanted to work at Woolworths. So the acting was Moira’s alone. And she was going to succeed.
‘Break ladies,’ Miss Fargo
called. ‘Five minutes break.’
‘Hello, my name is Ann Rose.’ The girl across the aisle smiled.
‘Yes, I remember from the go-round. My name is Moira Finlayson.’
‘Finlayson.’ The darker woman smiled. ‘That’s Scottish, isn’t it?’
‘How did you know? Most people think it’s Swedish or, oh, I don’t know, Outer Mongolian.’
‘Well, I make a habit of collecting unusual names. Your family’s from Scotland?’
Moira glanced at her watch: three more minutes. She started to explain and found herself revealing more than she intended. ‘My parents met at MacBrides, that’s a department store in Glasgow. Dad worked in the stockroom and Mother was a salesgirl. Mother had these hopes of coming to America, where it would all be different.’ Moira paused, checking Ann’s face to discover she was following closely. ‘They chose California because my Dad — funny I’ve never called him that out loud — had lung trouble. Turned out to be tuberculosis. He died a year after they got here. Three months after I was born.’
‘Sounds tough,’ Ann sighed, ‘for everyone.’
‘Yes, Mother had a hard time, but she didn’t want to return to Glasgow a failure. She met Daddy, my step-father, and they settled in Los Angeles.’ Moira heard her voice shaking and changed the tone. ‘It’s almost time to return to our fascinating work. How about lunch tomorrow? I mean I have an appointment today, but tomorrow?’
‘Good.’ Ann nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’
‘Asdfghjkl;’ ‘asdfghjkl;’. Ann liked Moira. She had learned that a lot of girls who wore make-up and frilly clothes simply used their femininity as protective covering. Moira was bright and ironic. Ann suspected she would need friends to get her through two years of Miss Fargo’s lectures. Poor woman, what a caricature of the cold spinster. Yet she couldn’t be more than forty-five. Must be difficult to teach office skills to a group of women twenty years younger, most of whom wanted to be someone very different from their stern, gaunt teacher. Ann imagined herself ten years from now visiting Miss Fargo with her diploma in classics.
Ann wouldn’t have selected Moira out of a crowd. She looked Irish with that red hair and the freckles. Ann remembered Mama’s stories about the Catholics in Europe, the worst anti-Semites. Why was she so conscious of race this morning? First day defensiveness. She couldn’t help noticing that there was only one other Jewish girl, Miriam Schwartz. She looked around the class now. Well, what’s-her-name Lentman could be Jewish, even with the blond hair and blue eyes and turned-up nose. Papa had warned her not to type people. ‘Jews come in all sizes and colors,’ he said, ‘as do Gentiles. Besides we’re in America now, where things like that don’t matter.’ Ann wondered often about her father’s capacity for self-deception.
She sat straighter in front of the typewriter, aware of the strain at the base of her neck.
‘And now the top row ladies, “qwertyuiop”, “qwertyuiop”, ‘qwertyuiop’. Let me hear it evenly, tapping to a regular rhythm. Practice. Practice, it’s all in the rhythm.’
Ann obeyed, ‘qwertyuiop’, ‘qwertyuiop’. She had always been obedient. A loving daughter. A model student. She recalled how Mrs Bird punished the second grade class, making everyone sit with folded hands. Ann obeyed and half an hour later Mrs Bird exclaimed to the whole class what a good girl Ann was. Here she sat, after all this time, with her hands folded on her lap. Imagine, said Mrs Bird. Imagine, Ann did try, but it always seemed smart to follow directions. Occasionally Ann felt as if she were born middle-aged — ever responsible and even-tempered. No one would guess she had these terrorizing headaches, ‘qwertyuiop’, ‘qwertyuiop’. She hoped for some sentences, at least words, by afternoon, ‘qwertyuiop’, ‘qwertyuiop’.
Ann was supposed to be grateful Papa was subsidizing business school. In fact she was grateful for the extra money because — with her part-time salary — it allowed her to move to Turk Street. Her throat caught at the thought of Turk Street; she had to forget the incident. After all, she had not been harmed; she had screamed so loudly the intruder had fled. Still, it was hard to sleep at night, imagining the man creeping in the side window with the paper bag over his head. All she could remember for the police were those big white hands with the long, well-manicured nails. She would like to move from Turk Street, but not so long as the only alternative was back to her parents’ flat.
Ann nodded encouragement to Moira. Funny how this connection had become so important to her in the space of an hour. Ann had dreamed all her life of a few deep friendships. She thought she had found this in Ilse Stein in the third grade and then again with Carol Sommers in high school, but she had lost both of them.
What an exaggeration. She knew exactly where Ilse Stein was. Aunt Ruth had written last year to say she was playing concerts all over the East Coast. She had even sent an address. Of course Ann could get back in touch. They had corresponded for years after Ann’s family left New York. They promised passionately to stay in touch. They were going to be room-mates at Barnard. They even talked about their majors and the color of their bedspreads.
Concentrate, how could an intelligent person concentrate on ‘qwertyuiop’? Humility, Ann, humility.
Could you count on anything remaining stable? She mourned for Ilse, but she knew they would never recover the old trust. Look at Mama, who hung on to the past like a drowning woman clutching an anchor. Sometimes Ann frightened herself by looking in the mirror and seeing Mama’s hazel eyes. She even had the same brown speckle in her left eye. Spots on the eyes, now what did that portend? Did she really believe in things being portended? No more and no less than she believed in prayers. From moment to moment you had to believe in something. Thinking about Mama always caught her in these conundrums. Mama, Mama. How had she changed from that big, warm woman who banished all her children’s troubles to a heaving mass of sobs and, finally, of silence? Was it Papa’s fault? Surely Mama could have said, ‘No, David, we are not going to America’ or at least ‘We will teach the children Yiddish.’ Instead she strained to create an all-American home for him, unable to contain the confusion and grief and rage. The Yiddish slipped out — first as she talked to herself cooking supper or hanging out the wash, then in small endearments. So Ann was Chanela or Hanna or Anna when Papa wasn’t around. She picked up a lot of the language when Mama was conversing with her friends, before the friends stopped coming in person and Mama began to conjure them.
‘That’s it, ladies.’ Miss Fargo’s voice cracked above the clatter. ‘Lunchtime. Let’s rest those fingers a while.’
The cafeteria was a cold, damp room in the basement. Ann’s stomach turned as she considered what might have been boiling for years in the huge tureens. She was disappointed Moira couldn’t eat with her. She noticed that several tables were already filled with girls chatting and laughing. They all seemed quite stylish. She looked down at her straight green skirt and plain pumps. Perhaps she should dress up more tomorrow. But it would take more than a colorful dress to fit in. These girls had a carefree verve. Actually, they were probably just as nervous as she. That tall, skinny blond woman at the front of the line looked as if she might die of shyness. What about Miriam Schwartz? Ann wondered. She turned and saw her gossiping with the Lentman girl. Now, how did she know they were gossiping?
‘Excuse me.’ Ann had run her tray into the one in front of her. She looked up to see it belonged to the Oriental student. The girl smiled self-consciously.
Ann smiled back. ‘You look familiar.’
Wanda blushed. ‘Aren’t you Ann Rose from Lowell High School?’
‘Yes.’ Ann looked at her quizzically.
‘Wanda Nakatani. I was the year behind you. My brother Howard was in your class. And I heard you speak at his — rather your — graduation.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember Howard. What’s he doing?’
‘Soup or sandwich?’ demanded the woman behind the counter.
‘Sandwich,’ Ann replied cheerfully. ‘Egg salad please.’ She paid the cashier and said to Wanda, ‘Shall we sit together?’
‘Oh, yes, I’d like that.’
Ann thought how much Wanda resembled her brother. Why hadn’t she recognized Wanda? Of course seniors didn’t talk to juniors. Now she regarded Wanda as a long-lost sister. ‘I remember, you were interested in journalism. And you wrote poetry, too.’
Wanda nodded. ‘Still do. In fact I had quite a lot running through my head during those gruesome typing exercises. Got to do something to preserve your sanity.’
Anna gobbled the rest of her sandwich, surprised at her appetite.
Wanda could barely conceal her pleasure about eating with Ann Rose, the girl she used to admire from a distance. ‘Is your father still at the factory?’
‘Good memory. You’ll make a great writer. Yes, but he got promoted to foreman last year. Mind if I smoke? Would you like one?’
‘Go right ahead,’ said Wanda, ‘but no thanks.’
Ann watched the smoke rise. She noticed Wanda biting her fingernails. First days were tough on everyone. ‘Who were your friends at Lowell?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t have known them.’ Wanda grew shyer, intensely aware of the differences — Ann a year older and the school brain — but she had resolved to be more forthright with people in this new course. ‘Emmy Yamamoto and Sarah Murdoch.’
‘I think. I knew Sarah. Wasn’t she in art studio?’
‘Yes,’ Wanda said. ‘She knew your friend Carol Sommers. Whatever happened to Carol? I always thought she was going to New York to make it big.’
Ann inhaled sharply. Then she stubbed out her cigarette and looked at her watch. Hell. She thought everybody knew. She considered excusing herself to the lavatory and then caught the panic on Wanda’s face. She breathed deeply; if she told this story often enough, she might start believing it.
All Good Women Page 2
