“Too late,” Moke shrilled above the clamor. “She don’t really expect us anyway. Put your money in your shoe, don’t ever let a fellow know you got any. Come on.” They left the stockroom and elbowed through the crowd that streamed toward the lockers, working busily all the while with pocket mirror and comb.
Ruth walked slowly down the last block. Other people were coming home to shabby brownstone tenements and rooming houses, stopping on the way to buy food at the corner delicatessen, collecting the week’s laundry from the Chinaman whose basement window was beaded with steam. She watched them from the secure heights of one who was bound for a warm dinner, a bed with a cretonne cover, and a writing desk of her own. There was a shoe-repair shop in the middle of the block and next to it a dry cleaner’s. Very handy, she told herself, especially the cleaner’s. For when I get my blue.
The blue was a suit that every woman in New York was trying to wear that fall. It was a bright, electric blue that dulled the eyes and hair of all but the very young, and consequently drew the middle-aged and sallow like a magnet.
Ruth dwelt on the blue. Seventy-five dollars in stores like Blackman’s, sixteen-fifty on Fourteenth Street. She had eleven dollars saved up and her week’s salary was untouched. She asked herself what she was waiting for. Take out eight for board, she figured rapidly, no carfares, and lunch in the cafeteria is twenty cents. I can do it and maybe a hat to match. And who’s to tell me not to? Nobody. This is a new life and I want to look nice. I can do the glasses next month. Who’s to tell me the glasses come first? Well, maybe Mrs. Sutton, but—She put Mrs. Sutton out of her mind. I want the blue, I need it. There’s nothing like a touch of color after black all day. . . . That Miss Brady said dinner was from six to eight. I’ll eat right away and get down to Fourteenth Street. Saturday night, they’ll be open late. I’ll wear it to the dining room tomorrow. There’s nothing like a good first impression, and you never know when you may meet somebody. Some of the girls may have relatives in New York and Sunday’s when they’d come to call. And have dinner, maybe. Sunday dinners are always special. . . . She saw herself entering the dining room, alone and poised, sitting at one of the small tables, saying something pleasant to the maid who served her. Wearing the blue.
The house was straight ahead. She went up the steps.
Miss Small raised her head when the door opened. This was a stranger with a suitcase, therefore the new girl. She consulted the card quickly, verifying the name. Miller, Ruth. It was important to get a name right, to make a girl feel as if she were expected and wanted. She stood up.
“Well, Ruth,” she said, holding out a hand.
Ruth advanced, blinking in the light of a powerful lamp that a previous social worker had installed for a purpose. It was trained to shine directly in the shifting eyes of board-payers who had spent their money for new clothes and claimed their pockets had been picked again, and in the calm, wide eyes of supplicants for week-end passes to visit what they called married sisters.
Ruth narrowed her eyes and saw a young woman with fair hair and a bright smile. She was disappointed. It wasn’t Miss Brady. Miss Brady was dark and thin and her voice was loud and comical. Who was this? Then she remembered. This must be Angel, Miss Angeline Small, the social worker who was Miss Brady’s assistant. Moke and Poke had described her. Miss Small does a lot of good, they’d said; she keeps you from making a mistake that’ll ruin your whole life for a minute’s pleasure.
She smiled at Miss Small when she took her hand. All around her were girls, coming and going, laughing and talking.
Miss Small adjusted the light. “There,” she said, “that’s better, isn’t it?”
It was better, much better. She had almost been blinded by the glare, and now she looked eagerly about her. She could see the other girls clearly.
She saw the dark blue curtains at the dining-room door, the elevator and its uniformed attendant, the telephone switchboard and its operator, the girl with red hair who slouched against the office railing and whistled under her breath. There was a single yellow rose on the desk and an open money box filled with bills and silver. Miss Small had light blue eyes and a rosebud mouth.
“Kitty Brice and Lillian Harris,” Miss Small’s voice was saying, “this is the new girl, Ruth Miller. She’ll be in 706 with April Hooper. Lillian, I’m afraid you’ll be late for work, dear. Are you waiting for something?”
The red-haired girl drawled, “Not any more.” She removed her felt hat, cuffed it into new angles, and sauntered to the door.
“Seven-o-six,” she said over her shoulder, “I’m in 606. Drop down sometime.”
Miss Small went on. “Lillian is rather abrupt, but you mustn’t mind. And now, my dear, let’s talk about you. Do you want your dinner at once or would you rather go to your room first?” It was a stock question and the answer was always the same. Room first. To primp. A faraway look came into Miss Small’s eyes. She had made that answer herself three years ago, when she stood where Ruth was standing now, and Monny had smiled across the desk.
A chattering procession passed on its way to the dining room. One girl stopped at the desk and asked for a tray check.
“Who’s it for, dear?” Miss Small wanted to know. “Not Minnie May again?”
“Yes, Miss Small. Miss Small, I’d ask you to find me another roommate, I really would, except that I’d have Minnie May on my conscience. I think she needs my influence, I really do, and because of that I’m willing to put up with a lot. But it’s hard on me.”
“I’ll have a little talk with Minnie May later. Didn’t I see her just a minute ago?”
“Yes, Miss Small. She came down with me, but she went right up again. She says the whole place smells of last night’s fish. She’s—well, she’s in a state, and it isn’t last night’s fish, either.”
When the girl went away, Miss Small suddenly realized that Ruth Miller hadn’t answered her question. She examined her sharply and closely for the first time and was disturbed by what she saw. Why, she’s frightened, she told herself. Or is that shyness? No, it’s fright. She looks as if she were cornered, or caught, or something dreadful like that. She looks terrified. For a brief moment Miss Small felt the contagion of panic, but she quickly recovered. She rapidly scanned the lobby, but there was nothing unusual that she could see.
The invisible diners chattered behind the blue curtains, as harmless as a cageful of sparrows. Mrs. Fister, the housekeeper, stood by the dining-room door calmly collecting the tray and guest checks. Jewel lounged beside the elevator, waiting for the after-dinner rush. At the switchboard, Kitty’s bony hands darted from plug to plug, and her monotonous voice droned on without a break.
Miss Small’s eyes met Ruth Miller’s for an instant and the girl looked away. She made a quick decision.
“I know what we’ll do,” she said briskly. “Here’s your key, your room is at the rear. Now you run along and look things over, and when you’re ready, come down to room 506. That’s mine. I have a nice little suite all to myself. We’ll have our dinners sent up there, and I’ll tell you all about our little rules and so on. Fun? And you’ll want to know about your roommate, too. She’s just gone in to dinner, but she’ll be around later.”
“I have to go out,” Ruth said. They were the first words she had spoken and they were thick and strangled.
Miss Small nodded agreeably, but she left the office enclosure and followed the shabby figure to the front door. “Some other time then,” she said. “But do take your key; slip it in your purse, dear. There, now you’re really one of us!” She pretended not to see the shaking, fumbling hands and went on brightly. “And let me have your suitcase. I’ll send it up to the room, and you’ll find it ready and waiting when you come back.”
She carried the suitcase to the desk and shook her head reprovingly when Kitty Brice laughed.
“Didn’t want to give it up, did she?” Kitty said. “Hung on like a drowning man. Would you say she peddled diamonds or dope?”
Miss Sm
all smiled wryly. “Another odd one, I’m afraid.” She sighed, and returned to her work.
The November night grew older slowly. Outside the cold increased and the street gradually emptied. The front windows of the tenements and rooming houses were thriftily dark; only the lights of Hope House burned through the murky fog.
At ten o’clock the lobby was deserted except for Kitty, nodding at the quiet board, and Miss Ethel Plummer, an elderly spinster who took over the desk at night because it meant free room and meals and didn’t interfere with her regular job. Her regular job was piecework which she did at home, fine embroidery executed with sequins, tiny beads, and metallic thread. She sat behind the desk, a shaded light trained on the strip of sea-green gauze that lay across her sheet-covered lap, her steel-rimmed spectacles reinforced with rubber bands to keep them from slipping. Round wooden hoops protected and framed the pearl-and-silver rose that grew under her stubby fingers.
There was one other light, over by the door. The elevator was closed and silent, and the indicator showed it stationary at the seventh floor.
Been up there for the past fifteen minutes, Miss Plummer said to herself. And Jewel doesn’t live on seventh, she’s calling on somebody. She ought to leave the car down here when she does that, so people can take themselves up without waiting. Having coffee and doughnuts with April, I guess. I couldn’t enjoy that myself, sitting there and watching the child fill cups and spoon out sugar. I’ll never complain about my life again, I’m really blessed. . . . Thinking about cups made Miss Plummer thirsty.
“Any of that tea left, Kitty?”
“Sure.” Kitty crept over with a thermos jug. “You finish it, I’ve had enough. . . . That’s pretty, Miss Plummer. What’s it going to be?”
“Front panel of a bride’s mother’s dress. Big house on Fifth Avenue three weeks from today, if I don’t go blind first. Anything happen before I came on?”
Kitty shrugged. “We got a new girl and our social standing remains the same. Kind of cuckoo, but she won’t bother me any. This place is getting terrible. Old maids, fresh kids, and people with something the matter with them. If a good-looking girl walked in here, I’d drop dead. So would she, in five minutes.”
Miss Plummer snipped a thread. “Now Kitty, you could be pretty yourself if you’d only take a little interest.”
“Zilch. I know what I look like.” Kitty came closer and lowered her voice. “What’s the big idea, Monny taking your sister out to tea? What’s Monny got up her well-cut sleeve? Come on; you know. Give.”
“I must say you’re not very respectful. And it’s none of your business, although I don’t mind telling you. It’s the meals. Miss Brady thinks they could be better.”
“If they were better, they’d raise the prices. Let Brady eat out, she can afford it.” Kitty hunched her shoulders and peered at the clock. “Nearly ten-thirty, hour and a half to go.”
“You’ve had a long day, dear, and I know you’re tired.” When she thought of it, Miss Plummer tried to talk like Miss Small. “Poor dear,” she added.
“I’m cracking up,” Kitty said hopefully. “I’m caving in.”
“Then run along, dear, and get a good night’s rest. I’ll take over the board.”
Kitty’s gratitude expressed itself in halfhearted objections. “You’ll forget to switch it over to Angel’s room when you lock up.”
Miss Plummer used Miss Small’s firm smile. “I wont forget.”
“And the new girl went out. She’s not in yet. I don’t think she knows about self-service when Jewel goes off. Maybe she’ll try to walk up. She looks like that kind.”
“I’ll tell her, dear; I’ll take her up myself if she’s timid.”
Kitty sighed. Thanks. I’ll pull bastings for you tomorrow.” She crept through the swinging gate and over to the stairs beside the elevator. The elevator’s absence made no difference. She lived on the second floor with the maids and minor staff members, and they were asked to walk.
Her room was cold because she had left a window open. She closed it with a slam and sat beside the radiator. There were coffee parties in other rooms, and probably more than coffee in Minnie May’s, but she didn’t feel like prowling up and down halls and sniffing at closed doors. Tonight she had a pain around her heart and she hated her life. She thought of the years behind her and those ahead. Once she got up and started for the door. She’d go up to April’s, she’d say she’d come to get warm. But she didn’t go. She stayed where she was, hugging the radiator until even it grew cold.
Miss Small’s suite, like Miss Brady’s, was not furnished with the regulation maple, but she had done very well with the money she could afford to spend. Miss Brady had antiques from her own New England home, old Persians and heirloom silver, and Miss Small had walked warily in her steps with walnut, hooked rugs, and pewter. The Wallace Nuttings that she bought when she first came had been supplanted by Currier & Ives. Because Miss Brady had laughed at the Nuttings.
Miss Brady wasn’t laughing now. She was stretched full length on the low couch, her untidy black head resting on pillows, and Miss Small sat at her feet. Within easy reach was a small table holding a spirit lamp and china. It was the hour for hot chocolate, small cakes, and confidences.
“Light me a cigarette, Angel,” Miss Brady said. “Miss me?”
Miss Small complied. “Monny! You know!”
Miss Brady looked pleased. “You’ve got rings under your eyes. You do too much, you let these kids run you ragged. Look at me. I’ve been doing this stuff for years, and not a nerve in my body. . . . For God’s sake, are you putting marshmallow in your chocolate? Disgusting.”
“Sorry.” Miss Small spooned the single marshmallow out of her cup and all marshmallows out of her life. “You were so late, Monny. I was afraid you were having more trouble with Fister.”
“No. Fister is eating out of my hand. We had rum in the tea and that reminded her of her late husband. So I won on all points. Tapioca, coffee jelly and grape-nuts ice cream are out. Fruit and cheese in. I said I’d pay the difference out of my own pocket.”
“Lucky Monny to have her own pocket.”
“Stop that. Lucky Monny, period.” Miss Brady reached for her chocolate and took a deep swallow. She stretched out again, her long, ugly face relaxed, her eyes smiling. “This is the best part of the day. . . . Marshall-Gill is the one who made me late. Talk, talk, talk, all about nothing. She swore she’d sent the stuff over for the party costumes. Did she?”
“She did. All cut out and sewed, only the masks to do.”
“Coo!” Miss Brady said. “She’ll be on hand for tea tomorrow, as usual, and sees no reason why we shouldn’t do the masks then, Sunday or not. What do you say?”
“Whatever you say, Monny.”
Miss Brady’s eyes clouded. “What’s wrong, Angel? You’re miles away, you’ve got something on your mind. Don’t you know you can’t hide things from me?”
Miss Small hesitated. Then, “I’m worried,” she said simply.
Miss Brady sat up and scowled. “Has some little tramp——”
“No, no, Monny. Everything’s all right. I mean, don’t look like that! Nothing’s happened at all. Only one sick tray, Minnie May, hangover, and only two week-end passes and I know they’re legitimate.”
“Then what—”
“The new girl, Monny. She came.”
Miss Brady was openly puzzled. “Well? What’s wrong about that? Isn’t she all right? She looked all right to me.”
“I don’t know, but I have the most awful feeling. As if she were going to—bring us trouble. I’m afraid she’s one of the quiet ones that—blow up. You remember that dementia praecox they had at the Primrose Club?”
Miss Brady shuddered. “Out the window, hanging to the ledge by her fingers. That woman down there, Motley, told me it was months before she stopped seeing that girl in her dreams. She had to go to a rest home to get over it. . . . What are you trying to do, scare me to death?”
Miss Small e
xplained. She described the sudden transformation at the desk, the fear that took over eyes and hands, the averted face. “She was natural enough when she came in, exactly as you said on the card. Shy, quite ordinary in a nice, quiet way. Then all at once something happened. She changed, right before my eyes, and it frightened me. Somehow I got the idea that she saw something, or heard something, but I can’t imagine what.”
“Who was near the desk?”
“I thought of that, too. Just the usual crowd going to the dining room, stopping for mail, nobody that stood out. Wait a minute. Dot came for a tray check for Minnie May.”
“Dotty, the girl evangelist! Who else?”
“Jewel at the elevator, Kitty at the board. Kitty noticed it, too; I imagine they all did. It seems ridiculous when I tell it like this. Kitty, Jewel, all of them as drab as Ruth Miller herself. . . . Oh!”
“Got something?”
“Lillian Harris was hanging around. She said something flippant, I forget what it was. Then she went off to her job. The Miller girl went out, too, a few minutes later. . . . She didn’t have dinner.”
Miss Brady looked thoughtful. “Harris,” she said.
Miss Small said quietly, “Lillian doesn’t like me.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that, and I don’t see how it fits in here,” Miss Brady answered. “Lillian Harris was well recommended, but if she hurts you in any way, out she goes.”
Miss Small raised puzzled eyes. “What do you mean when you say she was well recommended? She came here after that rule about references was thrown out.”
Miss Brady grinned when Miss Small recalled the rule. They had drafted it themselves and fought for its adoption. They’d argued that a girl’s past was her own private business and insisted on her right to live it down if she wanted to. The Board had fought back, prophesied scandal, and lost. From that time on, no one was asked for a reference. The rule was three years old and so successful that Miss Brady sometimes forgot its origin.
Time to Die Page 30
