In Sunlight or In Shadow

by Lawrence Block

  But she was smart, and she stayed in school and finished it, because Mother and Daddy wouldn’t have had it any other way. And she could work, had worked summers and after school, and did what was needed around the house, when her parents were working—her sister was seven years older, and had married and started a family of her own. Margaret had won the typing medal in high school. And she could draw—her sketches had even been used in newspaper ads from the local department store, with her name and all.

  It didn’t matter, though, in Greensburg. She’d always be “Violet and Ernie’s girl,” or “the Tree,” or “Moose,” or “Large Marge.” The town wasn’t big enough for her to be anyone else. So she had to go someplace that was.

  When she told Mother and Daddy that she wanted to go to the city—and all three of them could hear New York in those words—Mother asked if she had lost her mind, that she’d do no such thing, and when Margaret said she could, she had saved her money, she had looked up safe places where girls could stay—the Barbizon, the Rutledge!—Mother said any child that wanted to run off to the city was bound to become a whore, or marry an Italian. When Margaret said that she didn’t think either of those would be necessary, Mother slapped her and stalked from the room. Margaret stood there, and didn’t let her eyes water until Mother had left, and Daddy had started to cry. “Couldn’t you just go to Atlanta?”

  Margaret did cry, then, but only as she said she had to try someplace big—someplace with opportunities, and stores that might want to see her portfolio, and art. Daddy shook his head and left the room, his shoulders shaking as he walked away. Margaret left three days later, without speaking to Mother again. When she tried to talk to Daddy, he’d just start to cry, and if that happened one more time, she knew she might not be able to go at all. She packed her things and caught the train, as no one waved goodbye. Later that night, she found ten dollars had been tucked into an envelope in her suitcase. The only word on it was “Daddy.”

  The coach fare to New York was more than that, but she paid—with her own money, and even giving a quarter to the porter—and rode the shuddering coach for what may have been thirty hours (“Remember,” she said to herself, “Buy a watch!”), but felt as though it could have been thirty years. She ate soup in the dining cars, tucking extra crackers into her purse for snacks along the way. On the second day of the trip, a young soldier in the coach smiled at her and tried to start a conversation, and while Margaret didn’t have much to say to him, she wondered at the idea that a man might want to talk to her—tall, ungainly, Large Marge. He got off the train somewhere in Ohio, handing her a hastily written address and telling her to write him once she got to be a famous ar-TEEST. She said that might be a while, but thanked him. She knew she’d never see him again, though—Ohio was a place she didn’t want to pass through more than once.

  Surely in New York, there might be someone for her. She imagined him—tall like Daddy, taller than her. Blonde hair and a kind voice—and a love of art, of course. But she’d have to be careful—she had read the magazines, and knew there were men in the city who would use a girl and throw them away, and to have to return to Greensburg, to Mother—best not to think of that.

  She had dozed off, with her head against the window, and awoke with a start when the conductor touched her lightly on the shoulder and said, “Pennsylvania Station, miss. End of the line.” She blushed as she stood, gathered her purse and stepped from the passenger car to find her luggage—well, a suitcase and makeup kit, and her portfolio. She bought a map at the newsstand, and looked up the Barbizon. It looked to be about two and a half miles, but she hadn’t come here to spend all her money on cab fare. She began to walk north, up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park and then east.

  It took Margaret almost two hours to reach the hotel. She could have made it in half the time, but she kept stopping, almost stunned by the towers around her, and the people everywhere. The thought circled through her head: “This is what New York looks like.” Then it changed: “This is what New York looks like with me in it.” Finally, she found the hotel—it was the biggest building she had ever seen—before today.

  She walked into the lobby, approached the desk. “I’d like a room, please.”

  The clerk, a woman, reminded her of her elementary school librarian—pinch-faced and stern, with the ability somehow to look down at Margaret despite being at least a head shorter. “What’s the reservation under?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation.”

  “Any references?”

  “You mean, like for a job?”

  “No, miss. To stay at the Barbizon, we require three letters of recommendation. We’re quite selective about the young ladies who reside here.”

  “Well, I don’t have anything like that. I’m new to the city, and didn’t know anything about that. Couldn’t you just—”

  “I’m sorry,” the librarian said. “That simply isn’t possible. Good day.”

  The blood began to drain from Margaret’s face as the older woman turned away. She stepped back from the counter, feeling her knees wobble a bit. She ducked her head as she stepped back through the doors, onto the street. It was afternoon, and the streets were already falling into the shadows of the tall buildings. She walked, toward the park, then south. As the street numbers grew lower, the language on the signs changed from English to German, and then occasionally to English again. Some of the German signs said something about a Bund—Margaret wondered if those were the people she had seen in the newsreels.

  Her luggage grew heavier and heavier as she walked through the upper Eighties, and she was wondering why she had been such a fool as to do this, and whether Mother and Daddy would claim her body when she died in an alleyway, when she saw a house with a hand-lettered sign reading “Rooms to Let.” She knocked on the door.

  The woman who answered had her hair pulled back into a bun, but she looked kinder than the woman at the Barbizon and she looked at Margaret, and at her luggage, and said, “Room, cold breakfast, and dinner for five dollars a week. Two weeks in advance.” Her voice was pleasant, and sounded foreign—like Margaret would have imagined a leprechaun’s to be. Before she thought, she asked, “Are you Irish?”

  The woman scowled. “Would that be a problem, missy?”

  Margaret blinked. “Oh, no, ma’am. I just thought you talked pretty, like one of those priests in the movies.”

  “You sound like a hillbilly yourself, you know.”

  “Maybe I am. But I’m a hillbilly who needs a place to sleep, and I’ve got ten dollars.”

  “Fifteen, girl. The ten are advance; the five is for this week.”

  Margaret ran some figures in her head. She’d need to get a job pretty quickly, but what she could see over the woman’s shoulder, into the hallway and the dining room at the side, looked clean. “Fifteen, then.” She handed the woman her cash, glancing into her own purse as she did so. She corrected herself: she’d need to get a job really quickly. “What’s your name, hillbilly?”

  “Margaret Dupont. Miss Margaret Dupont. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Dorothy Daly—not that the ‘Mrs.’ does me a whit of good, with Himself gone two years now.” She crossed herself. Margaret wanted to smile—she had never seen that outside of a movie, either. But she kept a straight face. “So, Peggy, you’re a big thing, aren’t you? Bet you eat a lot.”

  “I try to watch my figure,” Margaret said—what she had read about those rude New Yorkers had some truth to it, she guessed. “And why did you call me Peggy?”

  “Short for Margaret, girl,” Mrs. Daly said, shaking her head. Before Margaret could figure that out, Mrs. Daly said, “Don’t just stand there like a gump—let’s get you in before dinner.”

  The room was small—in Greensburg, it would have been cramped—with a single bed, a washbasin, a nightstand and a chest of drawers. The mirror atop the nightstand was missing a bit of its silvering, but it would do well enough. And she could put her things down at last. She focused again on
Mrs. Daly’s voice as she discussed house rules. “No guests upstairs, and no more than four showers a week. I’ve a clean house, but not a palace. There’s a phone down the hall. Five minute limit, and no long distance without paying up front.”

  “That’ll be fine.” I’ve no one to call, anyway.

  “And Peggy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bring your suitcases down once you’ve emptied them.”

  “Oh! Do you store them for us?”

  “You could say that, hillbilly, or you could say they’re collateral. You’re not likely to skip if you’ve nothing to carry your things in, are you?”

  Margaret did as she was told, except for the portfolio, which she saw as more of a sample book than a piece of luggage. The dinner was chicken, potatoes, and green beans—a meal she had eaten many times before, had cooked many times before, but it didn’t taste like the food from home. But it wasn’t soup or crackers, and she cleaned her plate. She thought of getting a second helping, but she remembered Mrs. Daly’s comment about her size, and decided to pass. The meal was enough, and she could get by on two meals a day for a while.

  Mrs. Daly introduced her to the other tenants, ranging from an old man to a woman who may have been thirty to Margaret’s nineteen. She promptly forgot their names, as the weight of the day and the weight of the meal pulled her toward sleep. After a decent interval, she went upstairs to her room and fell asleep as if she had been clubbed. Tomorrow was Thursday, time to look for a job.

  And Friday became time to look for a job as well, as did the following weeks. Apparently Mr. Roosevelt’s big ideas hadn’t made it to the department stores yet, because none of them needed so much as a window dresser, much less a sketch artist. She thought she had a nibble in the fashion district, but nothing happened there either. And she almost regretted slapping the bartender who offered her a waitressing job—in exchange for what he called a “finder’s fee,” but one in which no money would change hands. Almost. But she didn’t want to prove Mother right.

  As she walked through the garment district once again (an hour from the rooming house), she saw a rather run-down office building, which she assumed held rather run-down offices. Well, she was feeling rather run-down herself—and running out of time and money, even on the two-meal-a-day plan. Before long, she might have to ask Mrs. Daly if she could wash dishes or cook in exchange for some of the rent. But for now, she could keep looking.

  So she walked into the building, and looked for, and then at, the directory. There were offices listed on the tenth, seventh, sixth, and third floors, and Margaret figured she might as well start at the top and work her way down, so there would be fewer steps at the end of the day after she had struck out. She rode the elevator to the top floor, where it took her about ninety seconds to learn that Garlandson Architects Inc. didn’t need anyone, thank you, miss. Three flights of stairs later, she found herself on the seventh floor, which didn’t surprise her a bit, but which also failed to yield a position with Parker and Son, whatever it was that they did. As she got to speak neither to Mr. Parker nor his son (his Son?), she didn’t even get to learn what their business was, other than not hiring anyone. Likewise, the booking agent down the hall—a Mr. Landsberg—told her she was out of luck unless she could dance. Margaret almost gave it a try, but she told Mr. Landsberg sorry, but she wasn’t a showgirl.

  “Maybe you should try it sometime,” Landsberg said. “You’ve got the figure for it. How tall are you?”

  Margaret was so surprised by the idea that she might have a figure for anything that she told the truth. “Five-eleven and a half.”

  Landsberg shook his head. “No, sweetheart, that’s too tall for the Rockettes. But if you change your mind, give me a call.”

  “Probably better for everyone if I don’t,” she said to herself in the hallway. A showgirl’s figure? Large Marge? She looked down at herself. Her legs were long, and pretty well toned from all the walking she had done recently, and the two-meal plan kept her slim, too—even Mrs. Daly would occasionally push a second helping at her in the evening. Well, she guessed there might be a bright side to that much, anyway.

  Another flight took her to the sixth floor, which was primarily vacant. Like my prospects, she thought, but in the interest of completeness, she walked the hallways until she saw a door at the end of the hall. “Walter Schroer, Title Attorney” was gold leafed on the pebbled glass, and the letters were new enough not to start flaking. At least, not yet. She could see a silhouette through the glass, and she knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” said a voice—a man’s voice, and a pleasant one at that. Margaret did, and he said, “Oh, you must be the girl from the agency. What took you so long?”

  For an instant, she thought about lying, saying yes, she was that girl from the agency, but she didn’t think it would be a good idea, especially if the real girl from the agency (what agency?) were to show up in the middle of things. So she said, “I’m not sure what you mean—I’m just here looking for work. But if you’re expecting someone—”

  “Well, I was,” the man said, “but she doesn’t seem to be here.”

  Margaret looked around. The office was small—not much larger than her room at Mrs. Daly’s. The man—who she figured was Mr. Schroer, as the office hardly seemed big enough for too many other people—had a small desk, brown wood on the green carpet. A filing cabinet was behind his right shoulder against a wall of the strangely angled room. The room’s shape reminded her of a cough drop, or a card from a Rook deck before the sides were tapped into a neat pile. A smaller desk sat catty-cornered to her right, and a typewriter sat there. On the man’s desk, a desk lamp was positioned to illuminate a blotter, and a telephone rested by his left elbow.

  Schroer looked at her as she looked around. “Can you type?” he asked her.

  “Yes, sir, about 60 to 65 words per minute.”

  He whistled. “Can you file?”

  “Well, knowing the alphabet helps with the typing.”

  He smiled. “And can you take dictation? Let’s see. Sit over there.” He gestured toward the typewriter. “There’s a pad and pen in the desk drawer.” Indeed, there were. “You ready, Miss . . . ?”

  “Dupont,” Margaret said. “Mar—Peggy Dupont.” She liked the sound, and maybe the new name would bring a change of luck.

  “OK, Mar-Peggy,” Schroer said, and then she smiled. “October 19, 1935. Dear Mr. McGillicuddy—two d’s—I am happy to inform you that the title to the parcel of land designated Plat Z219X3 is free of liens. Furthermore, no easement will be necessary, as right-of-way is included in the rights to the property. The necessary papers are enclosed. At your service, I remain, Sincerely, Walter Schroer. Read it back.” She did, and as she finished, he said, “Not bad. Type it up, please.” So she did that as well. “May I see it?”

  “It’s your office,” she said, a little surprised at her own, well, sassiness. Mother would have had a conniption. But she handed him the paper, and he said, “Nicely done.” He went back to the desk, picked up the phone, and placed a call.

  “Ajax Personnel? Yes, this is Walter Schroer. Misfiled? It happens, I suppose. Don’t bother. I think the position is filled. Thank you. Goodbye.” He looked back at Margaret. “Well, Mar-Peggy, judging from your voice, I’m guessing you aren’t from Brooklyn. Where did you learn to type and take dictation?”

  “Greensburg High School, sir. In Greensburg, Tennessee.”

  “I didn’t know they typed there.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Not all of us do.”

  “Probably why they kicked you out.” She started to stand up, but he gestured to her, both arms out, palms down. “Settle down, Mar-Peggy.”

  “Do you have to keep doing that? Peggy is fine.”

  “Good to know. Have you ever been a secretary before? No? Well, if seventeen-fifty a week is fine, then you can be one now. The going rate is twenty, but good luck finding a job that pays the going rate. I’d start by keeping an eye on the death not
ices. Also, you can answer the phone, which shouldn’t be hard, as it doesn’t ring very often.”

  “Seventeen-fifty is very satisfactory, Mr. Schroer.”

  “This office isn’t big enough for Misters and Misses. Unless there’s a client in here, Walter will do.”

  Mother wouldn’t have approved of that at all, but then, this wasn’t Greensburg. “OK, Walter.”

  “Very good. Now what do you know about property law?”

  Nothing, as it happened, so he spent the afternoon telling her what a title was, and what he did, and where the City Register Office was, where he would be sending her from time to time, and where the deli was, where she could bring him a sandwich tomorrow at lunch, and it was five o’clock when he finally said, “Any questions?”

  No more than a million, she thought, but she said, “You gave me a lot of information. And thank you for giving me a chance.”

  He shrugged. “Thank Ajax. See you tomorrow at nine.”

  “Yes, sir.” The three miles to the rooming house were the shortest she’d ever walked, until the next morning. At last, she was no longer walking through the city with her in it—she felt as though she walked through her city.

  It had taken Margaret a while to get used to being dead, she thought. Well, really just a couple of weeks, and she didn’t exactly know what the rules were, or how long she had to learn them—forever, perhaps? Or would she lose interest in being . . . well, a ghost, she guessed, or maybe what they called a haint back in Greensburg, eventually, and just become something else or become nothing? Whatever was coming, she couldn’t say, but she would have liked to know how things worked.