White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming home,” he said, his joints cracking as he eased up off the floor.

  “You put on quite a show tonight,” I said, fishing my house key out of my bag. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. Since when are you such a sore loser?”

  “Can we let this one go? I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I just came by to say I was sorry. I’m apologizing. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So you forgive me?”

  “Yes. I forgive you.” He didn’t pick up on my tone or else chose not to.

  He followed me inside and pulled me close for a kiss. I was still angry with him and didn’t feel like having sex, but I knew that’s what he wanted. That was what he’d come for, more than to apologize to me.

  So we made love that night and it was surprisingly satisfying, given that I was unhappy with him, that I hadn’t been in the mood. Afterward we lay in bed. All was dark except for the light coming in from the streetlamp outside my window and the hot ash at the end of my cigarette.

  Out of the blue, Jack asked me what parish I belonged to.

  “What?” I leaned up on one elbow, my cigarette ash moving through the darkness like a tracer.

  “Your parish? My mother was asking.”

  I laughed and situated the ashtray on the bed between us. “I don’t belong to a parish.”

  “You don’t? Are you serious? What about your parents?”

  “They don’t belong to one either.”

  “But you’re Irish-Catholic. You have to belong to a parish.”

  “Not if your mother’s Jewish and your father doesn’t believe.”

  He sat up in bed and hugged his arms about his knees. “So what does that make you? Are you Jewish?”

  I thought for a minute. “I’m not anything.”

  “But you have to be something. Everybody’s something. Either you’re Catholic or you’re Jewish.”

  “Technically, I guess a child is the same religion as the mother, but I’m not a practicing Jew. Neither is she.”

  “And your father is what?”

  “Atheist.”

  “Jesus!” He released his knees and clasped the sides of his head. “Do you even believe in God?”

  “I do when things are going my way.”

  “God’s not conditional,” he said. He reached over to the nightstand and turned on the lamp. “I can’t believe you never mentioned this to me before. I thought you were—you know, not super-religious maybe, but at least Irish-Catholic. You knew I was falling for you. How could you not say anything?”

  I propped my pillow up against the headboard and gave him a blank stare. “I never really thought about it. I guess the whole thing’s not that important to me. I didn’t think it would matter.”

  “Of course it matters. I come from a strict Irish-Catholic family.”

  “So what would you like me to do about this?”

  Without skipping a beat he said, “Convert.”

  “Convert? To Catholicism?” I laughed and ground out my cigarette.

  “Yes. I mean if we were to get married, I’d need to know that—”

  “Married? You want to marry me?”

  This seemed to have surprised him as much as it did me. He yanked playfully on a fistful of my hair and laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I do want to marry you.”

  “So is this a proposal?”

  “Sort of. I mean we’ll get a ring and everything. And we’d need to meet my family, but yeah. Would your parents let you marry me? I mean, would they be okay if you converted?”

  I thought for a moment. “Probably.” I figured they wouldn’t object. After all, my mother had walked away from her religion when she married my father, much to her own father’s dismay. And while my parents may have been alcoholics, they weren’t hypocrites.

  “Well, okay then. So, ah, yeah.” He smiled. “This is a proposal.”

  “How romantic.” I laughed.

  He laughed, too. “I do love you—you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I do know that.” And I did. We weren’t perfect. We had our differences, our quibbles, but we were in love. I rolled onto my side until our faces met in the middle and then our lips.

  And that was how Jack and I decided we were getting married. I had no idea what converting entailed. I didn’t yet know that I’d have to enter the catechumenate and attend Mass every Sunday. I didn’t know I’d have to be baptized and confirmed and would have to jump through a host of other holy hoops. I didn’t know that it could take up to a year before the church would even deem me worthy of marrying one of their own.

  But before I could think about passing the church’s test, I would have to pass the Caseys’ scrutiny.

  • • •

  The lipstick was too much. Too bold. I looked in the mirror and wiped it off with toilet paper, leaving my mouth a peculiar shade of red. I considered changing my sweater again, too. I was meeting Jack’s parents that day and had been second-guessing everything, rehearsing lines inside my head. They didn’t know about our plans to marry. Jack thought it was important for them to meet me first and I agreed.

  When he came to pick me up, one of the first things he said was, “Now, remember, don’t say too much about your mom and dad—especially your mom—if they ask.”

  “About what? Her poetry or her religion?”

  “Both.”

  He had already warned me that his parents—especially his mother—were very conservative and that, given my last name, they were expecting a nice Irish-Catholic girl, not a girl whose mother was a salacious Jewish poet and whose father was an Irish atheist.

  “I’m going to break it to them gently, when the time is right,” he said.

  “Wow. I didn’t realize I was such bad news.”

  “What? Bad news? No, I didn’t mean it like that.” He reached across the seat to squeeze my hand. “My parents are going to love you. It’s just that they’re old-fashioned. That’s all I meant.”

  I wasn’t convinced and what he’d said sat a little funny with me, but I let it go. I didn’t want to get into it right before I was meeting his family.

  It was an overcast day when we drove up to the Caseys’ home. The giant oaks that flanked their tree-lined street in Bridgeport had already begun to change colors, and the air smelled of hickory, signaling that winter was around the bend. The Caseys’ home was nothing like my parents’ and certainly nothing like the other, more modest bungalows in Bridgeport, including Mayor Daley’s, which was just around the corner on Lowe Street. No, the Caseys’ house was enormous—five bedrooms with dormer windows along the top floor and two redbrick chimneys.

  Inside, it was spotless and bright, as if the sun rose from within its walls. Mrs. Casey had decorated everything in buttercup yellows and mint greens. There were fresh flowers on the polished end tables and clear plastic coverings clinging to the couch and chairs in the living room. The wall of portraits confirmed that this was a home that celebrated family. Baby pictures, graduation pictures, birthday pictures, pictures with the Christmas tree, and huddled around their Norman Rockwellian Thanksgiving turkey. At my parents’ house you found photographs by Ansel Adams in the hallway and a caricature by Al Hirschfeld hanging over the fireplace in the living room. But nowhere would you find a family portrait or even a photograph of my parents’ wedding day resting in a silver frame. There were no embarrassing pictures of Eliot and me in diapers, no pictures of us, period. They didn’t even bother with photographs posing with Hemingway and their other famous friends.

  “Why, she’s darling, Jack,” said Mrs. Casey, taking my hands in hers and swinging them side to side.

  I was worried my hands were sweaty—that’s how nervous I was.

  “Just darling,” she said again. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed and she wore her apron like a beauty-pageant banner.

  “She sure is.” Judge Casey gave me a hug that I wasn’t ex
pecting. He was a jovial man, the type who always had a smile. He was tall and had probably been handsome in his youth, like Jack.

  The five other boys were handsome, too. They lined up and one by one rattled off their names. After a few more pleasantries were exchanged and Judge Casey offered me a drink, I followed Mrs. Casey into the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. It was color coordinated like the rest of the house with yellow canisters on the counter and a row of cookbooks parked between two bookends shaped like giant lemons. She even had a yellow telephone mounted right on the wall. I’d never before seen a telephone like it. I watched her move about the kitchen, doing all kinds of things as if she had magical powers: I could almost picture her opening a can of vegetables with one hand while beating a bowl of egg whites to perfect peaks with the other.

  The first hiccup came when I asked if I could help with anything because that’s just what you do when you’re a dinner guest.

  Mrs. Casey hesitated with a thoughtful finger pressed to her chin. “Well, I suppose you could set the table.” She pointed to a stack of china on the counter and a collection of water goblets and wineglasses turned facedown on a monogrammed dish towel.

  I went out to the dining room, and after placing the plates all around, evenly spaced, I separated the various forks, spoons and knives she had waiting on the buffet and arranged them before each place setting. I folded the napkins and tucked them under the fork to the left of each plate. I stood back, thinking the table looked rather nice, until Mrs. Casey stepped into the room.

  “Oh my,” she said. “What have we here?”

  My face burned red as she laughed and went from plate to plate correcting my work, moving the napkin to the plate and switching the order of the forks, the spoons and the glasses. Apparently I managed to get the knives right.

  I was still apologizing for my faux pas back in the kitchen while she pulled a roasted goose from the oven.

  “No harm done,” said Mrs. Casey, basting the potatoes and roast. “Thank goodness we caught it before everyone sat down.” She laughed and changed the subject, asking about my family. “Jack tells me your mother is a poet.”

  “Yes.” That was as much of an answer as I was allowed to give.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader.”

  “That’s a shame.” I couldn’t imagine. Reading was like breathing to me.

  “Well, who has time? So much to do around the house and then there’s the boys to look after.” She smiled, slinging a dish towel over her shoulder.

  Mrs. Casey and I continued to make small talk until Mr. Casey called me out to the living room.

  “Jack’s smitten with you,” he said. “And I can certainly see why.” He raised his glass to me and winked. “So tell me, did you grow up here in Chicago?”

  I sensed that this would be the first of many personal questions and so I got out in front of him and turned it around. “Did you always know you wanted to be a judge?”

  “Absolutely.” He smiled and went on to tell me how he’d put himself through law school and paid his dues, working his way up to the bench. “I believe in the system. I truly do. In this imperfect world of ours, I believe that our justice system is worth upholding. You know what makes this the greatest country in the world? It’s not our standard of living—it’s our constitution.” He thrust his finger in the air and nodded. “That’s the backbone of our society and we owe a debt of gratitude to our founding fathers. What courage, wisdom and foresight they had.” He spoke with such pride. It made me feel patriotic. “I wanted Jack to go to law school, too, but he’s got that reporting bug. I guess you have it, too, huh?”

  “It runs in my family,” I said with a smile, grateful that we were called to dinner before he could ask me to elaborate.

  I took my place at the table with the rest of the family, and as I looked around the room, something caught in my chest. Something bittersweet. Jack and I hadn’t officially become engaged yet, but still, it struck me that this was my future family. There was so much to live up to. In my mind, the Caseys were perfect. The judge no doubt helped his young boys with their schoolwork after supper while Mrs. Casey darned their socks and tucked the younger ones in for the night with bedtime stories. They were wholesome and innocent, and no one drank too much or used curse words or isolated themselves in their office. I couldn’t see how my parents and I fit into this picture. But I knew I wanted to try.

  I was admiring them when without warning all members of the Casey clan joined hands, bowed their heads and said grace.

  “O heavenly Father,” began Judge Casey, “we give thanks for the blessings you are about to bestow upon us. . . . We praise your grace and mercy. Thank you for all the fruits which we are about to enjoy. Amen.”

  I joined the others and I meant it. Amen, amen, amen.

  As plates were passed and spoonfuls dished out, Judge Casey and I entered into an interesting conversation about the political rift between Mayor Daley and his former friend and primary opponent, Benjamin Adamowski.

  “Now, now,” said Mrs. Casey, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “No politics at the dinner table.”

  “You know”—Judge Casey continued anyway—“there’s talk about Adamowski leaving the Democrats and joining the Republican Party.”

  “So I’ve heard. A friend of mine told me that Adamowski is going to run for state’s attorney.”

  “A friend?” Jack gave me a look that said, So when were you and Scott talking about this?

  “It’s a long shot,” I said, touching my thigh against Jack’s to reassure him.

  “Daley’ll never let him get elected,” said Judge Casey. “Adamowski would be out to clobber the machine. Can you imagine if Adamowski won? The last thing Daley needs is his enemy in a powerful position like that. Adamowski would be a real thorn in Daley’s side.”

  “C’mon now,” said Mrs. Casey, lightly slapping the table. “Enough political talk. We’re having dinner.”

  I smiled and went back to my roast. I didn’t see what the problem was. All my family usually talked about over dinner was politics and I enjoyed talking with Jack’s father. It reminded me of the conversations I used to have with my own father and it was comforting even though it made me homesick for him. Homesick for what we had before we lost Eliot.

  Since our uproar over Eliot’s typewriter I’d stopped by the house several times, and each time my father had mumbled his usual hellos. This told me there was no permanent damage done to our already fragile bond. Or else he’d been so drunk the day I moved out that he’d blacked out and didn’t remember a thing we’d said. Either one was possible.

  Chapter 15

  • • •

  One morning in mid-October, I arrived at the city room early and shot the breeze with the slot man while I checked the assignment book. I saw that Mr. Copeland had me covering a piece for Neighborhood News about an expansion for Kiddieland, a theme park for toddlers. Not exactly hard news, but it was better than weddings and charity balls.

  So I went out to Melrose Park and met with Arthur Fritz, who had opened the theme park back in 1929 with half a dozen ponies. The park was closed for the season now, and all the rides were dismantled, their frames covered by heavy tarps to protect them from the winter. I sat in his office while he showed me plans for the new Ferris Wheel and the Roto Whip coming that summer. The whole time he spoke, I was looking for a bigger angle, but two hours later, it was clear this was about the expansion of a wholesome little theme park for tykes and that was it. There was nothing sinister, nothing scandalous to report. It was just Kiddieland.

  When I got back to the city room I began writing up the piece, and as I was about to pull the copy from my typewriter, Ahern telephoned, wanting to see me. Right away.

  “And bring a sharp pencil with you,” he said.

  I met him at the Museum of Science and Industry in front of the Corliss steam engine exhibit. He gazed around the area while I looked at the chambers and levers before I followed
him to a coffee shop around the corner overlooking Lake Michigan. I hadn’t even known the place existed. We sat at a picture window with half curtains covering the lower panes of glass.

  “I was surprised to hear from you,” I said.

  Ahern lit a cigarette, cupping the match with his hands. “Well, I saw your piece the other day on the ‘Origins of Trick or Treating’ and figured you could use some help.”

  “So is that what this is about? You helping me?”

  “This is about us helping each other.” He dropped his match to the ashtray, sending up a ribbon of smoke.

  “So what do you have for me?”

  “Get out your pad and pencil. You’re gonna want to take this down.”

  I did as he said and reached inside my handbag. “Okay, shoot.”

  But he didn’t say anything. I cleared my throat. Still nothing. He was making me wait while he tap-tap-tapped his spoon to the rim of his coffee cup. At last he said, “How quickly do you think you can get a juicy story out about a crooked politician who’s about to be subpoenaed?”

  “That depends on who the crooked politician is and what he’s being subpoenaed for.”

  “Let’s start with the 1st Ward.”

  “D’Arco?” John D’Arco was the 1st Ward alderman and in thick with the Outfit. He was the Outfit. Everyone knew that.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but the state’s attorney is going to subpoena him first thing tomorrow to appear before a grand jury.”

  “For what?”

  “Faking automobile accidents. And with government cars.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Allegedly, D’Arco hired a group of crooked insurance appraisers to fake a string of auto accidents for city vehicles. He ended up collecting close to $70,000 in false claims from a dozen different insurance companies.”

  “How do you know this?”

  His smile was a sly one. “I have friends in the state’s attorney’s office.”

  I sat up a little straighter. Scott was no longer working there, but I wondered if Ahern knew him. I was tempted to ask but knew I couldn’t. Ahern was supposed to be an anonymous source. No one was supposed to even know I was speaking with him. I couldn’t let my friendship with Scott jeopardize this arrangement with Ahern, so I kept my mouth shut.