The Chaperone

by Laura Moriarty

  “Exactly.” Cora smiled again. She had chosen the right word, precisely. It was as if they were shopping at the Innes Department Store together, and Cora had shown disdain for an ugly china pattern. She already knew, with certainty, Viola would reconsider.

  When the rain let up, they slid out and carried the crates in, sidestepping puddles, each woman making two trips. Inside, waiting for the librarian, they chatted about other things. They flipped through a pristine copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and smiled at the illustrations. They stopped at the Lassen Hotel for tea, and then Cora drove Viola home.

  So many years later, this easy ride home with Viola would be the part of the story where Cora, in the telling, would momentarily lose the regard of a grandniece she adored. This grandniece, who at seventeen, incidentally, wore her hair much longer than her mother preferred, would be frustrated to the point of tears that in 1961 she was not yet old enough to join the freedom riders in the South. She often admonished Cora for using the word “colored,” but she generally showed her more patience than she did her own parents, understanding that her aunt Cora was not a hateful person, just an old woman with tainted language.

  But that patience was tested when she heard about Viola. Cora’s grandniece couldn’t comprehend why her great-aunt would remain friends with a woman who even considered being part of the Klan. Did she not know what they did to people? Her grandniece would look at Cora with scorn, and with forsaken, teary eyes. Had she been unaware of their cowardly crimes? Their murders of innocent people?

  Yes, Cora would say, but in the end, Viola never joined. Only because she was a snob, her grandniece would counter. Not because the Klan was repugnant. It was a different time, was all Cora could say, defending her old friend, who would be long since dead by then. (Cancer. She’d started smoking after her daughters picked it up.) Consider the numbers, Cora would try. That rainy day with Viola was in the summer of 1922, when the Klan was six thousand strong in the city limits—and Wichita only held maybe eighty thousand souls in total. That wasn’t unusual for the time. The Klan was growing in many towns, in many states. Were people just stupider then? Meaner? Maybe, Cora allowed. But it was foolish to assume that had you lived in that time, you wouldn’t be guilty of the same ignorance, unable to reason your way out. Cora herself had only escaped that particular stupidity because of her special circumstance. Other confusions had held her longer.

  There’s plenty of stupidity now, the grandniece said, and I know it for what it is. True, Cora conceded, and I’m proud of you for that. But maybe there’s some more, and you don’t know it’s there. Do you know what I’m saying? Honey? To someone who grows up by the stockyards, that smell just smells like air. You don’t know what a younger person might someday think of you, and whatever stench we still breathe in without noticing. Listen to me, honey. Please. I’m old now, and this is something I’ve learned.

  After she dropped Viola off, Cora drove back downtown and parked on Douglas, just outside Alan’s office. No one looked twice at her as she climbed down from the car. Just two years earlier, one of the most discussed events of the annual Wheat Show was the Parade of Lady Drivers. Even then, the organizers had no trouble finding almost twenty women anxious to display their competence behind the wheels of various cars. Cora had driven the fifth car in the line, Alan sitting proudly beside her.

  She had to push hard on the big door to his office, and when she finally managed to open it, she saw and felt why. The big window in the front room was open to the rain-cooled breeze, and a huge electric fan was pointed right at her. On her left, two girls she didn’t know sat typing. Alan’s secretary stood behind another desk, using both hands to turn the crank on a rotary duplicating machine. When she noticed Cora, she stopped.

  “Oh, Mrs. Carlisle! It’s nice to see you!”

  Cora was aware of a pause in the typing, the typists looking up, taking her in. She was not surprised by their scrutiny. Her husband was a handsome man. Cora smiled at the girls. Both were young, and one was pretty. Neither posed any threat.

  “Let me tell him you’re here,” his secretary said. She wore an ink-stained apron over her dress.

  “Oh no,” Cora said, glancing at her watch. “Please don’t bother him. It’s almost five. I’ll just wait.”

  But the door to Alan’s office opened. He stuck his head out and smiled. “Darling! I thought I heard your voice. What a lovely surprise!”

  He was already walking toward her, arms outstretched, a sight to behold, really, tall and trim in his three-piece suit. He was twelve years older than Cora, but his dark brown hair was still full. She glanced at the typists just long enough to see she had their full attention, as if she were the heroine in a silent film. Alan leaned down to kiss her cheek, smelling faintly of a cigar. She thought she heard someone sigh.

  “You’re damp,” he said, using two fingers to touch the brim of her hat. His tone was lightly scolding.

  “It’s just sprinkling now, but it might start up again.” She spoke in a low voice. “I stopped by to see if you wanted a ride home. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  It was no bother, he assured her. He introduced her to the typists, praising their skills even as he gently steered her back to his office, his hand on the back of her waist. There were some fellows he wanted her to meet, he said, some new clients from the oil and gas company. Three men stood when she entered, and she greeted them all politely, trying to memorize faces and names. They were pleased to meet her, one said: her husband had spoken so highly of her. Cora feigned surprise, her smile so practiced it seemed real.

  And then it was five o’clock, time to go. Alan shook hands with the men, put on his hat, took his umbrella from the stand, and jokingly apologized for having to catch his ride home in a hurry. The men smiled at him, at her. Someone suggested a future get-together. His wife could call Cora to see what would be a good evening. “That would be lovely,” she said.

  When they got outside, the rain had indeed grown more serious. He offered to bring the car around to the front, but she insisted she would be fine if he shared his umbrella. They ran to the car together, huddled close, heads lowered. He held open her door and gave her his arm as she climbed up into the passenger seat, his umbrella over her head until she was safe inside.

  In the car, they were still friendly, though the air between them was always different when they were alone. She told him about the library and the children’s room, and he congratulated her on her good deed. She said she hadn’t been home for most of the day. She would have to warm up some soup for supper, but she had been to the market, and she could make a good salad, and there was bread. A light supper would be fine with him, he said. It wasn’t the same, sitting down for a big meal now that the boys were gone, and yet they better get used to it. If they had a quick meal, he added, the two of them could go to a movie later, and see whatever was playing. Cora agreed, pleased with the idea. Hers was the only husband she knew of who would go see anything with her, who had actually sat through The Sheik without rolling his eyes at Valentino. She was lucky in that way. She was lucky in many ways.

  Still, she cleared her throat.

  “Alan. Do you know Leonard Brooks?”

  She waited for his nod, though she already knew the answer. Alan knew all the other lawyers in town.

  “Well,” she said, “his eldest daughter got into a dance school in New York. He and his wife would like a married woman to chaperone her. For the month of July, and some of August.” She rubbed her lips together. “I think I’ll go.”

  She glanced at him only briefly, seeing his surprise, before she turned back to her window. They were already close to home, moving down the tree-lined streets, past their neighbors’ pretty houses and neat lawns. There was much that she would miss while she was away: club meetings and ladies’ teas, the summer picnic in the Flint Hills. She would likely miss the birth of a friend’s fourth child, which was unfortunate, as she was to be the child’s godmother. She would miss her fr
iends, and of course, she would miss Alan. And these familiar streets. But her world would still be here when she returned, and this was her chance to go.

  Alan was silent until he pulled in front of the house. When he did speak, his voice was quiet, careful. “When did you decide this?”

  “Today.” She took off her glove and touched a fingertip to the glass, tracing a raindrop’s path. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back. It’s just a little adventure. It’s like the twins, going to the farm. I’ll be back before they leave for school.”

  She looked up at the house, lovely even in the rain, though far too big for them. It was a house built—and bought—for a large family, but given the way things turned out, they’d never used the third floor for anything but a playroom, and then for storage. Still, even now that the twins had moved out, neither she nor Alan wanted to sell. They both still loved the quiet neighborhood, and they loved the house, how majestic it looked from the street with its wraparound porch and pointed turret. They reasoned that it would be nice for the twins to be able to come home to a familiar place. They’d kept their rooms as the boys had left them, their beds made, their old books on the shelves, the better to lure them home for summers and holiday breaks.

  “New York City?” Alan asked.

  She nodded.

  “Any reason in particular you want to go there?”

  She turned, taking in his warm eyes, his cleft, clean-shaven chin. She had been just a girl when she first saw his face. Nineteen years they had lived together. He knew the particular reason.

  “I might do some digging,” she said.

  “You’re sure that’s for the best?”

  “I can speak with Della in the morning about coming in earlier, or staying later. Or both.” She smiled. “If anything, you’ll gain weight. She’s a far better cook than I am.”

  “Cora.” He shook his head. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

  She turned away, her hand on the door. That was the end of the discussion. She’d made up her mind to go, and as they both understood very well, for them, that was all there was to it.

  TWO

  The Brookses lived on North Topeka Street, close enough to Cora’s house that the walk might have taken another woman less than a quarter of an hour. But it took Cora much longer because, as had long been her habit, every time she heard the motor of a passing car, she lifted her parasol to see if it might be anyone she knew. If a friend or a friend of Alan’s was kind enough to stop to ask if she needed a ride or to comment on the lovely June morning, she was happy to stay and chat for a few minutes. She appreciated neighborliness, especially in this little city that still seemed so big to her after all these years. On this morning, however, she turned down all offers for rides, and would only say that she was on her way to meet a friend.

  Still, she reached her destination on time, having left the house early to allow for diversions, and it was eleven o’clock exactly when the Brooks home came into view. Even painted a dull gray, it was a difficult edifice to miss. On a block of large houses, it was easily the largest, all three stories stretching more than halfway to the back alley; really, it seemed overgrown, too big for its average-sized plot. All the front windows were open to the breeze, except for one with a jagged crack across the frame, perhaps too fragile to lift. The surrounding lawn was freshly mown, and several lilac bushes, still in bloom, framed the shaded limestone porch. When Cora made her way up the steps, a bumblebee circled her twice before losing interest and buzzing away.

  Myra opened the door with a smile, and Cora was at once reminded of and surprised by her hostess’s relative smallness. Cora was just shy of average height herself, and she wasn’t used to looking down at another grown woman, but she had at least four inches on Myra. She didn’t think of Myra as being short—she hardly appeared short when at a podium, and she had the low speaking voice of a taller woman. Despite her tiny frame, Cora had never heard anyone describe Myra Brooks as “cute” or “adorable” or even “pretty.” She was called “beautiful” or “captivating” or “appealing.” Today, even Myra’s pale neck appeared long, rising up from a white silk blouse with a flat collar, and her skirt, with its nipped waist and demure hemline just above her ankles, made her body seem longer, too. One dark strand of hair, escaped from a twist in back, hung down almost to her shoulder.

  “Cora. So good to see you.” Her voice was soothing, melodious, and almost convincing. On the telephone, she’d pretended to know who Cora was. Now she clasped Cora’s free hand and took her parasol with the other. “You walked? In this heat? That’s impressive. I wilt in this sun, I swear.”

  “It’s only a few blocks,” Cora said, though her back felt damp with sweat. She fished her handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her forehead. Myra waited, looking, on closer inspection, a little frazzled herself. The pearl buttons of her blouse had been buttoned incorrectly, leaving an extra hole at her throat and an extra pearl at the bottom.

  “Please come sit. I can get you some lemonade. Or some tea? And I apologize for the condition of the house.” She shook her head, turning away. “Our girl usually comes at nine, but for some reason, no sign of her today. Of course she doesn’t have a telephone.” She threw her hands in the air and sighed. “Nothing to do but wait.”

  Cora nodded, empathetic, though she always tried to clean as best she could before Della even arrived, not wanting to leave a bad impression, to have Della go home and tell her people what a slob her white employer was. As she followed Myra into the parlor, it became clear that her hostess was not burdened by this kind of worry. The room itself was lovely, spacious and full of light, with a breeze drifting in from two large windows. But there was clutter everywhere. On the floor, in no discernible design, lay a spoon, a fountain pen, a badminton racquet, a shoe horn, and also a naked doll with one blue eye missing. Farther on, not quite under a lovely brocaded settee, a pair of soiled socks lay next to an open-faced copy of Candide. Cora pretended not to notice the socks, and she tried to breathe through her mouth. Despite the open windows, the distinct smell of burnt bread permeated the air.

  Myra sighed. “I’ve been upstairs working all morning. I’m giving a talk on Wagner next week.” She stooped to pick up the spoon, the doll, and the racquet. “The children are driving me crazy. They’re not even supposed to be in the parlor. I’m really so embarrassed. I’ll be right back. Tea? You’d like tea, you said? Or lemonade?”

  Cora took a moment to answer. She had expected perfection, rooms as lovely as Myra herself. “Lemonade is fine.”

  Myra moved through a pocket door, pulling it closed behind her. Cora stood where she was, wondering if she should kick the dirty socks under the settee. After a moment of hesitation, she did, and then, pleased with the result, surveyed the room again. Books, she noticed, were everywhere. Latin Made Simple rested on the window seat, a frayed green ribbon of a bookmark fluttering in the breeze. A small stack of books sat on the center table. She took a step closer, peering at the titles. The Poems of Goethe. An Artist in Corfu. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The Origin of Species. Under an upholstered chair, like a waiting footrest, crouched The Collected Works of Shakespeare.

  Quick feet descended a creaking staircase, and a moment later, a curly-haired child of maybe seven wandered in from the hallway, using a spoon to eat what appeared to be chocolate icing out of a teacup. The chocolate was smeared against her pale cheeks, the front of her shirt, and the tip of her nose. She startled when she noticed Cora.

  “Hello,” Cora said in her gentlest voice. “I’m Mrs. Carlisle. I’m a friend of your mother. I’m just here waiting for her.”

  The girl swallowed another spoonful of chocolate. “Where is she?”

  Cora nodded at the closed pocket door. “In there, I think.”

  The door slid open. Myra glided back into the parlor, a glass of lemonade in each hand. Her smile faded when she saw the girl.

  “Darling, what are you eating?” Her voice remained low and soft, though
she handed Cora both of the lemonades so she could take the teacup and spoon from the girl. She looked into the cup and scowled. “June. This is not an acceptable lunch. I don’t think I need to tell you that. Go to the bathroom and wash your face, and then go find Theo.”

  “He’s playing badminton with himself,” said the girl. “He said he didn’t want a partner.”

  “Nonsense. I just found the other racquet where he was not supposed to leave it, and now it’s by the back door. After you wash up, go get it, and then go outside and find Theo. Mother has company. That will be all.”

  With that, Myra turned to Cora, her smile restored, and took back one of the lemonades. Her blouse, Cora noticed, was now buttoned correctly. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the upholstered chair.

  “I’m so impressed with all these books,” Cora said. As she sat, she was careful not to kick the Shakespeare beneath her chair.

  “Oh.” Myra rolled her eyes. “The children leave those lying about. They can’t keep them in the library because of Leonard’s law books. That side of the house is actually sinking because he keeps so many, and they’re heavy.” She saw Cora’s smile and shook her head. “No. Really. The foundation has slipped fourteen inches. That’s why the windows are cracking. And he won’t get rid of one book.”

  Cora tried to think of some mild complaint she could make about Alan, just to show understanding. But she couldn’t think of anything comparable. Alan, too, had many law books, but if the foundation started slipping under their weight, she was sure he would part with a few.

  They looked at each other. It seemed to Cora that Myra should start.

  “Beautiful girl,” Cora said, nodding to the pocket door through which June had disappeared.

  “Thank you. Wait till you see Louise.”

  Cora stared.

  Myra took in her expression and shrugged. “You haven’t yet, I take it. I’m sorry. I’m just being frank. I feel I must be, given the nature of the… mission for which you’ve volunteered.” She looked at Cora skeptically. “You should know that you’ll be chaperoning a girl who is not only exceptionally pretty, but also very willful.”