She looked back over her shoulder. “Crazy, like what?”
“Like sending a beautiful woman out into a cold winter night.” He reached for his coat. “After I walk you to the bus stop.”
“Always the gentleman.”
He could see that she was fighting a losing battle to keep the sadness from her smile, but there was a certain risk to offering reassurance—one that might topple his last stance of resistance.
“What is it you flapper girls say? ‘Cash or check?’”
She pursed her lips. “I’m no flapper.”
“Even so.” His hand safely ensconced in a glove, he touched her face. “I’ll take a check.”
He opened the door for them both, welcoming the rush of the winter night’s air. The walk to the bus stop was silent and quick, and a simple “Good night” ended the evening.
Back home, he took the opportunity to stand outside and study the little house with the lights glowing through the windows. The curtain rustled from within, and Paolo leapt up to the sill and sat, waiting. He couldn’t remember the last time any living soul waited for him on the other side of a door.
“Monkey Culpa”
For those of you not up on your Latin, “Monkey culpa” is a ten-dollar way of saying that this little Monkey might have to take back some of her screech and chatter. Maybe because I’ve had a few days away from the zoo, but I’ve had a chance to step out of the monkey house and walk upright among the people. Mr. Darwin says that’s what happened to all of us. We grew bigger brains and stood up straight. I happen to think that is a bunch of bananas, but there’s more than one kind of evolution. For instance, this little Monkey might be ready to evolve into a new woman.
Want to know how your favorite Monkey has been keeping herself busy? She did some dancing cheek-to-cheek at a certain spot better known for its Nubian clientele. She had a late supper in a certain little diner and had quite a time watching a couple of gents duke it out for her honor. She even got a quiet dinner for two in the home of a regular Keeper.
Oh, there was one more escapade, when she grabbed a vine and swung back to visit her anti-flirting sisters. Yes, my monkey girls, I went back. (I’m waving at you RIGHT NOW from a very specific perch.) Furthermore, ladies—for that is what Miss Alice Reighly would call you—I’m taking the challenge. In my evolutionary endeavor, I think I’m going to stick it out. Going to try to stay and learn and grow.
From this column to the next, No Flirting. No winks, no grins, no swish, no sashay. No more pets and pats and whistles. No more dates with apes, and no more dancing near the wolf traps. I’ll be the little dark cloud home all alone, leaving the sheiks to the rest of you shebas. Don’t gobble them all up at once!
I have a gift for enraging people, but if I ever bore you, it will be with a knife.
LOUISE BROOKS
THE SPECIAL DELIVERY ARRIVED at nine o’clock Tuesday morning, announced by Mrs. Kinship with a vigorous knocking on Monica’s door. The strength of the knock was tempered by the hesitant, muffled question, “Are you in there?”
Little doubt why Mrs. Kinship would wonder. Monica had gone straight up to her room after the humiliating dismissal from Max’s house on Saturday night, and with the exception of a foray to Sobek’s for soup, coffee, and rolls, hadn’t made her presence known. Her only communication with her housemates was a brief nod in the hallway while on her way to the washroom and a formally scripted note from Mr. Davenport stating that a Mr. Moore had telephoned and requested that she return the communication.
Sunday was, after all, the first official day of Alice Reighly’s Anti-Flirting Week. What better way to comply than to lounge alone on her rumpled bed leafing through old editions of the Saturday Evening Post? More than once she’d longed for the company of Paolo, even considered making the trek to reclaim him. But that would bring her face-to-face with Max, and her eyes were still a little too puffy for any such encounter.
Not that he’d been anything but a gentleman. Which was perfect, because she’d been trying so hard to be a lady.
The long stretch of Monday afternoon was given to the writing of her column, and she allowed a brief glimpse at the paper still rolled into the typewriter as she shuffled to her door, drawing her silk kimono around her shoulders.
“Mrs. Kinship?”
“There is a special delivery for you.”
Monica slowed her pace at the announcement, unused to the trilling, songlike quality in Mrs. Kinship’s voice. The woman sounded like she wanted a tip, and Monica wasn’t in the mood to fork over a nickel.
“Can you slide it under the door? I’m not quite dressed.”
“Oh no. Not these.”
The woman sounded so pleased with herself that Monica’s curiosity broke free of her muddled malaise. She slipped her arms through the robe’s sleeves and was loosely tying the sash as she opened the door.
“For you,” Mrs. Kinship said. “Delivered just now.”
The box was long and flat with the florist’s imprint stamped in gold. Monica ran her finger along the thick, burgundy-colored ribbon, thinking she could make something out of that—a headband or a sash.
“I think it’s roses,” Mrs. Kinship said, her nose close to the lid. “And expensive ones, too, from this place. Not from any street market.”
“Thanks.” Monica had to tug more than once to get the box out of Mrs. Kinship’s grip. Once she did, she thanked her again and used her shoulder to quietly, yet firmly, close the door between them.
She cleared the clutter of magazines and half-read novels to the floor and set the box on her tiny table. This wasn’t the first time she’d received flowers—quite a few former suitors had plied her with such a gift. But as Mrs. Kinship had observed, those had been cheap, bedraggled bouquets often delivered in the sweaty clutch of the man himself. This? This was the gesture of a gentleman, a gentleman willing to spend at least five bucks on a lady.
“Aw, Max. You shouldn’t have.”
She carefully untied the ribbon, looking for a card before sliding it off the box. Anonymous? Leave it to Max’s sweet, shy nature to have such a gift delivered with intrigue. Perhaps he wanted to follow in the footsteps of Edward and Mrs. Ovenoff, keeping a courtship shrouded in secrecy. Not that there was a courtship—not yet. She’d known enough men, however, to recognize a desire for something more in a man’s eyes. Max might have turned her away and put her on a bus, but he’d done so reluctantly. Perhaps these flowers were an apology? Or a belated invitation?
Eager now to see the contents, she lifted the lid and let it drop to the floor. Large sheets of thin tissue paper rustled as they were folded away to reveal five blood-red roses nestled within. Monica exhaled, finding a tiny wedge of disappointment at the bottom of her breath, and counted again. Five? That’s not even half a dozen. Though they were beautiful—deep in their color and full in bloom—it seemed an odd gesture.
“Don’t send a lot of flowers, do you, Max?”
She lifted out a bloom to inhale its heady fragrance. This was a far cry from the modest bouquet that had adorned his dinner table, and wisely so, for no food could have successfully competed with this scent. Already the stale odor of old coffee and dirty stockings was bowing to its beauty. First thing, Monica would peek through the cabinets of the common kitchen downstairs and find a perfect narrow vase to house the long, thornless stems.
Returning the rose to the box, she found the tiny envelope. There was a note after all, addressed to her by the single initial M. Positively cloak-and-dagger, without the dagger. Hastily, she turned the envelope over and took out the card within. She didn’t even have to read the message before her hand dropped away in disappointment brought on by the familiar ill-executed penmanship. And when, after summoning a deep breath of courage, she read the note, it did little to restore her joy.
I miss you, my little Mousie. One more chance? JJ’s tonight.
She could feel every inch of the silk robe touching her skin, grating against it like sand. Charlie
, as if she hadn’t just seen him with another woman on his arm. As if he didn’t have a wife somewhere. That explained the odd number of roses—probably all he could get with whatever cash he had on hand. Or maybe he’d bought the whole dozen: six to the wife, five to her, and the last one left on the pillow of that floozy in the diner. Suddenly the scent was cloyingly sweet, and Monica slammed the lid back on in an attempt to trap it.
She opened the door, unsurprised to find Mrs. Kinship lurking about, a faraway, romantic expression on her plain gray face. “A new admirer?”
“No.” Monica squared her shoulders and gave her head a little toss, hoping to exude more swagger than she felt. “An old one, actually, giving me the brush-off.”
“Really?”
There was no mistaking the thread of smug victory, but Monica chose to ignore it, knowing the older woman had been ignored far more than rejected.
“Why don’t you take them downstairs, put them in a vase with some water. Brighten up the parlor.”
“I’ll do just that,” Mrs. Kinship said, taking the box as though it were some kind of treasure. “And then I’m off to bed, if you wouldn’t mind keeping the noise down.”
She said this nearly every day; you’d think her fellow residents conducted parades up and down the hallways.
“I’ll be out. All afternoon, once I get dressed.”
“Well, don’t you let this one worry your day,” Mrs. Kinship said, hefting the florist’s box as if it represented the man himself. “There’s bigger and better fish out there.”
“Yeah? Well, there’s plenty of sharks, too.”
Mrs. Kinship sniffed. “I can’t imagine any of them would bother you too much.”
“Only if you let them.”
An hour later, Monica walked as if facing a bitter headwind, even though the morning—well, midmorning—was clear and still. Head down, seeing only her favorite sturdy-heeled shoes poking out and back from under the hem of her sage-green wool coat. She kept her hands plunged deep within her pockets while relying on the confines of her pumpkin-colored cloche to hide her face.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look up.
It seemed the best way to adhere to the tenets of the club, especially given Saturday night’s disaster.
She’d tried. Honestly, really, and truly tried to be her best. Saturday night at Max’s house, she’d used her eyes to ogle only his books. Not his jaw with its charm of soft stubble, or the breadth of his shoulders hunched over the stove, or even the way he touched his nose to Paolo’s in sweet greeting. She didn’t wink or giggle or pounce on that final unguarded moment when he was obviously ready to be a willing participant. There was a moment, right before the first bite of dinner, when she felt like she’d known him all her life. But maybe she just had her time all mixed up. Maybe she’d just been looking. Waiting.
What was rule number 7? “Don’t annex all the men you can get—by flirting with many, you may lose out on the one.”
Maybe he was the one, and that lunk Charlie almost messed it all up.
She kept her head low and plowed through her fellow pedestrians, stepping through this sea of strangers. At one point, while rounding a corner, her shoulder solidly collided with that of a stout older gentleman, who gave her an appreciative perusal as she staggered back.
“Might wanna watch your step, toots,” he said with a tip of his hat. “An’ if not, I’ll watch it for ya.”
“Sorry, mister,” she said, and no great loss. Her first opportunity for sweet, constrained sincerity met an easy mark. Had he been young and handsome, she might have fallen into old habits—swished her hips and offered him something to follow. She might have even given this guy a jolt to the old heart, just for the giggle of it. Instead, she barely met his eye, didn’t smile at all, and never thought twice about turning around to see if he was, indeed, watching.
Her strength stirred her confidence, and she kept her head a little higher, her eyes perfectly forward, paying no attention to whether or not any other man took notice. She heard more than one car horn honk from the street but resolutely refused to see if she was its target. By the time she arrived at the office, her shoulders had relaxed, the bounce had returned to her step, and when the handsome fellow from the property management office two floors below Capitol Chatter held the door open, she offered a measured “Thank you” and breezed right past him as if she hadn’t spent a solid year wishing he’d ask her out on a date.
“You here to apply for the job?” he asked her midbreeze.
“What job?”
Still holding the door, he took the small cardboard sign that had been placed in one of its window squares and showed it to her.
Wanted for Hire:
Receptionist
Applicants proceed to the third-floor offices
Third floor? That was her floor—Capitol Chatter hiring a receptionist? When she’d be getting paid two cents a word for the heart and soul poured onto the page in her pocket?
“No,” she said, handing back the sign. “I already have a job in the third-floor offices, in fact.”
“That so?” He returned the sign to the window and smoothed the sticky gum back in place. “You’re not the receptionist, are you? ’Cause if you are, looks like you’re getting canned.”
For the moment, irritation overtook any hurt feelings from the fact that he apparently had never seen her before. “I’m a writer. For Capitol Chatter? It’s a newspaper.”
By now he seemed impatient with the conversation and, without actually touching her, nudged her along. “Never heard of it.”
“Well, you will. It’s very up-and-coming.”
Pleased that she sounded more haughty than coy, she continued past him without looking back. Two tests down for the week of not flirting. One old man and one young. She was ready for all the in-betweens.
As she rounded the final flight of stairs, the sound of hushed, excited female conversation wafted from above, growing louder with each step. Reaching the third floor, she turned the corner to find their usually low-lit, empty hallway lined with at least a dozen girls—nice girls with clean-scrubbed faces, hair coiled and pinned beneath plain brown hats. They spoke in hushed, sweet tones and fell into silence when the door to the Capitol Chatter offices opened, revealing the broad figure of Max framed within. A young woman scooted out from behind him. He thanked her, wished her well, consulted the paper on the clipboard he held, and said, “Mary Alice Murray?”
A fair-haired girl with freckled skin leapt to her feet, saying, “Here, sir,” as she made her way up the corridor of applicants.
“Miss Murray,” Max said, shaking her hand. Monica could feel the pressure on her own. “Do you have a letter of reference?”
“Three of them, sir.”
Max cocked a brow. “Three?”
From her vantage at the corner by the stairs, Monica stifled a giggle. The girl couldn’t have been more than nineteen and already had three jobs behind her. Max chose that very moment to look up and catch her eye from the other end of the hall. They shared a commiserating look before he ushered Mary Alice in for her interview.
Once the door closed, the gathering of girls erupted in a barely contained rush of giggling sighs.
“He could play Tarzan,” effused the girl closest to Monica.
“Nah, too handsome,” her companion said.
“The second one was handsome—what was his name? Something Polish.”
“Gene Pollar,” Monica said, butting in. “And I don’t think a nearsighted Tarzan would have a lot of luck swinging through the jungle.”
“Still,” said the first girl, “what I wouldn’t give to see that one in a loincloth.”
The corridor erupted in giggles as Monica wished them good luck with that and strode straight for the door.
“Hey!” Tarzan girl called after her. “You can’t just walk right in there. You gotta wait ’til he comes out again and gives your name for the list.”
“Relax, sweetie. I alr
eady work here.”
“You’re a secretary?”
The question shouldn’t have annoyed her as much as it did, but she spun on her heel to stare down the girl who’d posed it. She was a sweet-looking thing, frumpy and pale with the kind of gray, watery eyes that gave the impression that she was secretly ill or prematurely old.
“This is a newspaper, right? Well, I’m a writer, and chances are if any of you girls get the job, you’ll be working for me just as much as for him, so don’t waste your time thinking you can flirt your way to the position.”
She felt like a crumb even as she spoke. After all, the girls were engaging in a little harmless bantering—something she herself was known to do. It was a far cry from jealousy, but she couldn’t deny the territorial swell of protection she felt, no matter how rooted in hypocrisy it might be.
She grabbed the door handle with an air of privilege and was just about to slam it behind her when one final exchange of conversation caught her ear.
“You think she writes Monkey Business?”
“Nah. Monkey has a sense of humor.”
To confront the error would expose her persona. Tempting as it may be to set the girl straight, she shrugged off her coat and took off her hat, hanging both on the brass tree. Harper’s office door was closed, but Max’s was open, and she could see the legs of Mary Alice Murray—modestly covered—as she sat for her interview.
Curious, Monica sidled over to see how they were progressing, but a chastising “hssst!” from Zelda Ovenoff at the conference table stopped her.
“Do not eavesdrop. Is rude.”
“Who’s eavesdropping?” Monica pulled a folded paper from her purse. “I have a column to turn in.”
“Later. When she is done.” Zelda summoned her closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And it will not be too long. That girl does not have a chance. Three jobs in less than a year. Always as waitress.”
“That’s a lot of dropped dishes.”
All for a Story Page 23
