“Now, to the Scripture I mentioned.” He opened his Bible, adjusted his glasses, and read. “‘Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.’”
He looked around the table. “I want us to be a paper that thinks on these things, one that will make our readers think on these things. I want us to tell uplifting stories about honest people doing positive things in this world.”
No response.
“You can’t be all that surprised. I think I made it known early on that I wanted to take this direction, and then after our visit from Mr. King, well, I just don’t think I want our paper associated with that level of society.”
“I think this is good,” Zelda said, making Max wonder if she and Uncle Edward hadn’t had similar conversations.
“I’m glad you agree,” Max said. “Because I want you to be a contributor.”
Zelda’s face registered surprise; Monica’s voice burst forth in disbelief.
“What? She’s a cleaning lady!”
“With wonderful ideas,” Max said. “She could write about homemaking tips and things that might make the lives of our women readers a little easier. Recipes for cleaning products, or beauty.”
Monica scoffed. “Beauty?”
“Like what you told me the other day about the coffee grounds, Mrs. Ovenoff.” He addressed the table at large. “She makes some kind of paste, and then—”
“With eggs.” The newborn pride in Zelda’s voice gave him a brief jolt of victory. “It does wonders for the skin. You should try it, Miss Monica.”
“What in the world is wrong with my skin, I’d like to know?”
Max turned to her, and he would have to agree that her skin was something close to flawless, save for the blotch of red stretching from her neck to her collarbone, an unmistakable sign of fury or frustration. Whatever the source, like a flame it licked across the table and destroyed what little bit of confidence Zelda had mustered. Once again the older woman’s eyes were downcast, her hands engaged in invisible knitting.
“I—I don’t know, Mr. Moore,” Zelda said. “I don’t write in English so good as I speak it.”
“I’ll get you help. In fact, perhaps Miss Bisbaine could spend some time—”
“And also, you know, with so much that was ugly, I don’t know how many women even read this paper.”
“This is crazy.” Monica pushed herself away from the table and stood, planting her hands on its top. “We have plenty of women readers. And do you know why? Because of me. They want to know what I’m wearing and what I’m doing. Tell me, Maximilian Moore, what happens to Monkey Business?”
He’d anticipated this question. “It stays, but it changes.”
She folded her arms and glowered. “Into what?”
Instead of answering directly, he turned his attention to the table at large. “I want to talk to each one of you individually this morning in my office. That way I can discuss with you more specifically my expectations, and we can share ideas.” His words sounded weak, like his decision wasn’t final and firm, and he hoped to have more courage fighting one lion at a time.
“Whatever you say, boss.” Tony was closing his notepad and tapping it back into his jacket pocket. “But I have to tell you that all this happiness and sunshine might have worked with that magazine where you was at before, but here—this ain’t no town of roses.”
“We’re going to see about that.” He nodded to Harper, who stood, cleared his throat, and turned the piece of cardboard balanced on the easel.
“As you can see,” Harper said, as if he were wrapping up a lengthy lecture, “even if we see a dramatic drop in sales, our paid subscriptions and current cash balance will fund publication for the next six weeks.” At this point, his long, tapered finger came to rest on the point where the jagged black line turned blood red. “At which point we will need to reassess whether this direction is prudent.”
“’Cause we’ll be broke,” Monica said, arms still folded in defiance. “Tell me, do you have any salaries factored into that black line?”
“Of course we do,” Max said, overconfidently according to the brief shake of Harper’s head. He took a deep breath and tried to summon that confident, warm, reassuring tone his father had whenever Max needed direction. “Look, this is going to be a new venture for all of us. It’s my first time to be in charge of—well, anything. And there’s a good chance that we’ll fail. But as a great, power-crazed, homicidal woman once said, ‘Screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.’”
He ended his Shakespearean quote, fist raised in the air and all, and looked to Monica in triumph. She returned his gaze with one unconvinced raised eyebrow.
“You do realize,” she said, “that Macbeth ends with the guy’s head on a stake.”
“We’ll write that story when we come to it.”
The paper still smelled of the mimeograph ink. Monica drummed her fingers on the pale, purplish typing. Max’s instructions had been simple: take this sheet, read it, study it, and wait for a meeting in Mr. Moore’s old office. She’d done the first, letting her eyes scan the written passage of the Bible he’d read at the meeting.
Just. Pure. Lovely. Good report.
As far as studying, though—what good did it do to study someone else’s fantasy? She wasn’t exactly the pure and lovely type, at least not that anybody’d ever said. If these were the new requirements, she had nothing to offer.
So she waited. Tony Manarola had been behind the closed door for what seemed like ages. Or at least three cups of coffee. Zelda waited too, dutifully writing something on a pad of paper, getting up to go to the pencil sharpener every time Monica ventured to the coffeepot. The rest of the staff writers had been a little antsy, finally opting to step out for a smoke.
Monica studied her now, dying to snatch the pencil from the woman’s hand and ask her about her dalliances with Edward Moore. There was a story—the humble immigrant janitress and the lonely, irascible businessman. What secrets were locked inside that graying-blonde head of hers? Monica herself knew a little something about carrying on an illicit affair, but those two had no barriers to thwart their affection.
Zelda raised her eyes to the ceiling and tapped her lip thoughtfully with the pencil.
“I know about you and Edward Moore,” Monica said, without ever really planning to do so.
Zelda looked at her straight on. “What do you know?”
“That you loved each other.”
Zelda visibly gathered herself, sitting taller and drawing the pad of paper closer. “We did not.”
Monica got up and moved to the other side of the table, sidling right up to the woman, who flipped her notepad upside down as if protecting her very thoughts from attack.
“It’s all right,” Monica said, wanting to assure the woman about both the notes and the affair. “And I’m sorry about what I said earlier in the meeting, about you being just a cleaning woman. Obviously you were so much more—”
“Stop this!” Zelda’s accent worked to make the command sound like hissing steam. “There are things that are proper and things that are not, and I will not speak of it.”
“What’s improper? You’re a woman, he’s—was—a man. A bachelor, even, as far as I know. Unless you—” she cupped her hand over her mouth, catching the secret. “Oh, Zelda. Don’t tell me you have a husband stashed away somewhere. Talk about bringing the old country into the modern age. I never would’ve taken you for a—”
Before she could say another word, the left side of her face exploded in stinging pain as Zelda’s palm crashed against it.
“A lady does not speak of these things. I do not speak of these things. Not like you modern girls, flaunting yourselves with your smoking and your sex.”
“Hey,” Monica said, holding her cool
hand to her burning cheek, “I don’t flaunt anything.”
Zelda made a noise that only a speaker of her native tongue could make. “Of course you do. All those nights drinking and dancing, and enticing other girls to follow. It is a shame.”
“Edward didn’t think so.”
Monica knew the comment would be more hurtful than any slap, and she waited for Zelda’s face to turn as red as her own. Instead of looking wounded, however, the older woman took on an expression of compassion—close to pity.
“Edward always worried about you. Going to those places.”
“He said that?”
“More than once. And if he was here the day that awful man came . . .”
Monica felt herself on the precipice of guilt for having been such a burden to the man, until a certain resentment took over.
“Why didn’t he say anything?”
“Would you have listened?”
For that she had no answer, at least not one that would satisfy either of them, so she dug into her purse, found her mirror, and checked to see what damage Zelda had done to her face.
“I should not have done that to you.”
“No kidding, Katie.” The sting had disappeared, but the tinge of pink remained.
“If you like, someday I will tell you about Edward. Better you should know the truth, rather than to make up your own story. Is that not so?”
“I suppose.” But she didn’t care anymore about Mr. Moore and Zelda Ovenoff, if they had a torrid affair or true love or a simple, secret friendship. She positioned her mirror, seeing one brown eye, encased in black kohl, beneath a brow tweezed to a thin, perfect arch. A modern eye for a modern girl.
“You modern girls.” What did she care of one old woman’s disdain?
She snapped the compact closed just as the door to Mr. Moore’s office opened to allow Tony Manarola, looking more shifty and stooped than usual, to exit. The man shuffled straight to the rack, where he retrieved his overcoat and hat before taking his silent leave. Max stood in the doorway, watching.
“What’d you do to him?” Monica asked. “Knock him upside the head with your Bible or something?”
“Just talk.” He crooked his finger, beckoning. “You’re next.”
She walked as if the worn wooden floor were piled with snow, her feet growing numb with each step, and when she stepped across the threshold, the chill spread to her entire body.
“No wonder Ed was such a crank,” she said, vigorously rubbing her arms in an attempt to generate warmth. “It’s colder than anything a lady ought to say in here. Ever hear of a radiator?”
“On the fritz.” He gestured for her to sit down before settling himself behind Mr. Moore’s plain, empty desk.
“Well, then we better make this quick before I turn into a penguin.”
“Clever,” he said in a way that wouldn’t allow her to believe him.
Perhaps it was a good thing the office was so frigidly cold. It would keep her from getting too comfortable, too compliant. The cold sharpened her mind, kept her on edge, though it did tend to draw her to the only spot of warmth in the room—that being Max himself. She sat a little taller and thrust out her chin in defense.
“I meant what I said out there, you know. About keeping the Monkey Business column. I believe we do have readers who follow you and whatever shenanigans you choose to engage in. I’m merely suggesting a new focus.”
“Let me guess. Tea parties? Tent revivals? Maybe a quilting bee?”
“No,” he said, riffling through a pile of newspaper clippings. “Nothing quite so extreme. I thought you might be interested in this.”
Max half stood from his seat to reach across the desk and hand her a square of newsprint. She, too, had to stand to take it, and rather than return to her chair, chose instead to ease one hip on the desk. When she did, their faces were at the same level—equal for a second—until he sat back down.
What he’d handed her was a photograph of a woman. Not a movie star, not some grande dame of politics. Just a plain, ordinary woman—plain being the kindest word possible to describe her features. The photograph was close-up and unflattering. More like a candid shot than anything the woman posed for.
“Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“Read the caption.”
Monica unfolded the small strip below the photograph and read the brief lines.
Anti-flirt leader, Miss Alice Reighly, is president of a club whose members say they are tired of being whistled at.
She looked up at Max. “So?”
“So, that’s your next assignment.”
She slid off the desk and returned to her chair. “Assignment as in, what?”
“As in, find that club, join in, and write about it. Let us see what happens when Monkey gives up the business of flirting.”
He looked so smug sitting there behind the desk, nothing like the sweet guy who had shared a drink with her in a bank vault. There was an accusation lurking behind his cool facade, and she could either squirm beneath the unspoken weight of it or force him to speak it outright.
“What are you getting at?”
“It’s an opportunity for investigation, just like you said you wanted to do. Go, blend in, find out just what these women are trying to accomplish by taking a stand against flirting.”
“Are you calling me a flirt, Mr. Moore?”
Her intent had been to make him squirm, but he appeared to have anticipated her question and dodged it easily.
“It’s what makes you perfect for the story. You look surprised.”
“Insulted is more like it.”
“You flirted with me the first day we met.”
“I wanted you to feel welcome.”
“It was my uncle’s funeral.”
“I wanted to lighten the mood.”
“I don’t think you realize that you’re doing it. Flirting, I mean. More than that, I don’t think you understand how dangerous it can be. A fellow could get the wrong impression—think you’re the type of girl that you aren’t.”
The memory of Bernardo and his men flitted through her mind, but she kicked it away with a cross of her legs and leaned forward. “And just what kind of a girl do you think I am, Max?”
“You see?” He popped out of his chair and paced the width of the desk, hands jammed down into the pockets of his slacks. “There you go again. I don’t think you ladies realize what it does to a guy—the thoughts it puts into his head when you bat your eyes and show your legs, or come running when we whistle.”
“Who’s whistling?”
“That guy in the car when we were walking to the deli. And even that gangster, King.”
“Well, he didn’t kill us, did he? These might just be the big brown eyes that saved your keister.”
He was directly in front of her now, leaning against the desk. “I worry about you.”
She went a little flippy inside and moved her foot in a slow, calculated circle, hoping to buy both Max’s attention and a little time to calm the tiny waves of pleasure at the thought of his concern.
“Tell me,” she said at last, “this worry of yours. Is it just for me? Or for all of the fairer sex?”
“I’m trusting you to do the right thing for both. Now go. Be a journalist; find the story.”
At some point the room had ceased to be so cold, or maybe her own body, fueled by pride and protection, simply brought itself to a compromising comfort. Either way, she remained motionless until Max, in a move of obvious dismissal, returned to his place behind the desk and began shuffling through his clippings once more.
Don’t smile at flirtatious strangers—save them for people you know.
ANTI-FLIRT CLUB RULE #6
THE FIRST HURDLE was finding the meeting. For a woman bent on changing the way of women, Alice Reighly was sure secretive about the meeting place. It took an entire afternoon with Anna manning the telephone directory, calling every Reighly, A. in the book, asking if she (or he) was the one affiliated with
the club. They found her just in time, as there was a meeting that very night. It took an hour combing through city maps to find the address on Harvard Street, then two streetcars, and finally half a block’s walking before coming across a hand-lettered scrap of canvas hanging from the banister of a row of small apartments.
ANTI-FLIRT CLUB
7:30
DOWNSTAIRS (BASEMENT)
Basement. At least she’d dressed warm—wool skirt, sweater, and galoshes. The perfect outfit to blend in with the other plain Janes bent on wiping the wink off the face of the earth. Her crushed-velvet hat was pulled low over her ears, but she maintained that its silk lining served dual purposes: to warm her ears and serve as a reminder that no serious journalist should ever relinquish her grip on fashion.
A walkway stretched along the fronts of the apartments, bending around the corner of the last in the row. She walked cautiously, hunkered down, embracing more secrecy than she’d felt with any speakeasy. She should have called Max, let him know the address so when some lowbrow tabloid unapologetically reported the discovery of a pretty girl found chopped up after being lured by the promise of a more pious existence, he’d be able to identify the body.
The walkway ended with a set of narrow steps dimly lit by a single bulb and a strip of light peeking out from beneath a solid door at the bottom. She took a deep breath before taking the first step, then held it for all the rest, exhalation being the promised reward for not turning back. Once there, she pressed her ear against the door, hoping to hear some clue that she’d come to the right place. Nothing—although the muffled silence could be attributed to the cushion of silk and velvet between her ear and the door.
Then, the sound of conversation. Women, and giggles, and footsteps descending the stairs at a quick pace.
“. . . and so I told him, ‘Look, Mr. Morton. You might be my boss, but that doesn’t give you access to my personal files, if you know what I mean. I’m a secretary, not a secret Mary.’”
“So’d you slap him?”
“Nah. I’m two weeks behind on my rent already. I just—oh, hello.”
All for a Story Page 13
