A Dangerous Woman

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “What? What is it? You think maybe mice? No, no, I know. Somebody’s breaking in here a coupla nights a week and all he ever takes is fifteen or twenty bucks a crack. The rest he leaves. Makes sense, huh?”

  Birdy replied in a low voice.

  Martha wished there was some way to help Birdy right now, even though she had brought this all on herself. Ever since Birdy had started going out with Getso, one of the laundry-truck drivers, she couldn’t seem to do anything right. On the slips she would check “heavy starch” for bed sheets or “rainproofing” for men’s shirts, and for three weeks straight she had mixed up everyone’s work schedule. She had marked last Friday as a day off for Martha, Mercy, and Barbara, leaving no one to run the machines or service the counter. Thank goodness Martha had gotten bored in her room and had come downtown to visit. Usually that irritated Birdy, seeing Martha show up here on her day off, but that morning people had been lined up out the door. Now Martha tried to double-check everything Birdy did.

  “Would you stop?” Birdy had snapped at her this morning when she found her examining a slip she had written up only moments before. “Why are you doing this?”

  Soon after, she overheard Mercy telling Birdy how Martha had even looked in the coffee maker after Birdy started it.

  “It’s so weird!” Birdy said.

  “She loves this friggin’ place so much, she’s probably after your job.”

  “And she can have it,” Birdy said in disgust.

  Martha felt sick to her stomach. She would never, ever do a thing to hurt Birdy, who was her very dearest friend in the world. When no one else had even let her fill out a job application, Birdy had hired her on the spot.

  “Then who?” John boomed, and Martha shuddered. She picked up a rag and began to wipe the dull glass countertop, scrubbing the same gouge over and over. “Don’t yell at her like that,” she muttered. “You better not yell. I mean it. I mean it. I mean it.”

  The bells rang on the opening door, and she looked up to see a man in shirtsleeves rush at her with his yellow slip. “I’m in a hurry,” he said, then went to the glass door, where he stood looking out onto the busy street.

  She searched through the racks where the cleaned clothes hung in clear plastic bags. Today’s date was on the slip. “Won’t be hard to find,” she said, pushing the hangers aside. “Should be right here … right … right here. But it’s not,” she whispered. “Not there. Not there,” she said nervously, hurrying over to the cubicle. Birdy would know. Now she recognized John’s handwriting on the slip. He was always making mistakes. He never knew where anything went, but he always accused everyone else of inefficiency. Well, she’d show him that he made mistakes too. He might be the boss, but he was just as human as the rest of them. She threw open the door to the cluttered little office, and it banged back, shaking the partition walls.

  “Martha!” Birdy said, shocked to see her rush at John.

  “Here,” she said, holding the slip in his face. “Out of sequence. I looked, but I can’t find it.” For Birdy’s benefit, she rolled her eyes at his incompetence.

  “Shit!” John hissed. “I forgot.” He reached behind the door and pulled out a navy-blue blazer with brass buttons. “I promised him by noon. And I forgot. Here,” he said, flinging the jacket at Birdy. “They’re coffee stains. Go do a pre-spot, then bag it.”

  “He’ll know,” Birdy hissed back.

  Martha nodded. Of course he’d know.

  “He’s not gonna know. Jesus Christ, don’t just sit there. That’s Gately, the fucking president of the fucking bank I’m tryna get on the board of. Go! Go!” He waved and Birdy scurried into the back room.

  Martha stood, staring. John flipped his hand, gesturing her out of his way. When she didn’t move, he squeezed past the desk to get out of the office.

  “Andy!” he called, shaking the man’s hand. “It’ll be right out. I didn’t like the way it looked, so I’m making the girl do it again. She’s hand-pressing it. Might be a little damp, but it’s better that way, hand-pressed. Here she is. Here you go. Here.” John held up the jacket and Mr. Gately slipped into it.

  “I appreciate this, John. Next Chamber breakfast I’ll wear a bib,” Gately chuckled.

  “Ah!” John said disgustedly. “It’s the same everywhere. Lousy service, the hallmark of the modern marketplace. You can’t get good help anymore. I can’t. Nobody can. It’s all going down the tubes.”

  The door jangled open onto a slack-jawed young man shuffling in with a sheaf of laundry slips clutched in his fist. This was Hock, one of the residents of Harmony House, a home for retarded adults. “Pickup day,” Hock announced, dropping the slips onto the counter. Down in the street, a car idled, waiting. The counselor was letting Hock run this errand himself.

  “I appreciate this, John. How much do I owe you?” Gately asked, taking out his wallet.

  “Pickup day!” Hock said again. “My turn for pickup day!”

  “The girl’s got the slip,” John told Gately with a nod at Birdy. He turned his back to Hock.

  Birdy looked skeptically from the slip to John. “Five dollars?” she said hesitantly.

  Everyone ignored Hock. He picked up his slips and waved them at Birdy, who usually waited on him. She was the only one with enough patience. “Pickup day, my turn!” he called, his voice rising anxiously. He touched both sides of his face and then his chest, as if to make sure he was there and not invisible.

  Martha was stunned: the full charge for a jacket that hadn’t even been dry-cleaned. Talk about honesty. Talk about stealing from someone.

  Gately paid John, thanking him again as he opened the door.

  “Excuse me, sir!” Martha called, rushing at him before he got outside. “Excuse me, sir, but this isn’t right. He’s lying to you. This jacket has not been dry-cleaned, and I don’t think it’s right. Not at all. It’s not one bit right!”

  They stared at her, all but Hock, who paced back and forth in front of the counter, peering at his slips.

  “You’re paying for work that wasn’t even done!” Martha said, growing breathless. “That’s not right.”

  “Martha,” Birdy warned. “You’re losing it.” She glanced at Hock, who made a whimpering sound.

  Losing it? Losing it? Well, she was sorry, but she had been hired to do a good job and give good service, and if the boss wasn’t going to be honest—the people who run businesses, the people who run this country—then who would be?

  “Look, the jacket’s clean,” John said, first to her, then to Gately. “Not a spot on it.” He turned anxiously to Birdy. “Right? The jacket’s clean. Tell him. Tell him!”

  “The jacket’s clean,” Birdy said, eyes downcast.

  “I’m sure it is,” Mr. Gately said. “Great job. No problem.” He started to open the door again, and Martha grabbed at him.

  “No!” she cried. “You should leave it here.…”

  “That’s all right!” Gately insisted.

  “… and make him really clean it!”

  “Please!” Gately said, trying to pull away.

  “Martha!” Birdy gasped.

  She looked down, shocked at the blue wool pocket that dangled from her hand.

  Hock waved the slips at Martha and laughed heartily.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, Andy. But you see what I’m dealing with here? See? See what happens!” He turned on Birdy. “What is this? I’m tryna run a fucking business here and I don’t have time for these screwballs. Do you hear me?”

  Birdy nodded.

  He turned to Gately. “‘Please, John,’” he said in a high voice, mimicking Birdy. “‘Give her a chance, poor thing. As a favor. A favor for me.’ So look what I end up with. Martha Horgan!”

  “I know,” Gately said quietly.

  “Oh Christ, I forgot,” John said with a stricken look. “That night, your boy.”

  It was starting. First the choking. Martha held her breath and thumped her chest. The ceiling was sinking, the floor rising, and she fe
lt herself getting bigger and bigger.

  Hock stared at her. He had stopped laughing. Now he looked afraid. The door opened, and a young woman with straight blonde hair entered. Hock hurried to stand by her. “Is everything all right?” the young woman asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you kidding?” John said, throwing up his hands. “Things couldn’t be better here in the sheltered workshop.”

  Three

  While she waited for the curling iron to get hot, Martha leaned close to the mirror, practicing what she would say tonight when the party ended. “Well,” she began, then took a deep breath. She took off her glasses, thumped her chest twice, and cleared her throat. “Well, thank you for inviting me. I’ve had a good time … a fine time … I’ve had a very fine and enjoyable time.” Oh, that was awful. She squared her shoulders and smiled. “This has been so much fun!” she said in the clench-jawed manner of Frances’s friends no matter how dull the evening had been. “I’ve really had a wonderful time! The food was delicious. The conversation was lively.…” She cleared her throat. “Oh God,” she moaned, burying her face in her hands. She was just too nervous. What if her hands shook like this at the party and she spilled coffee on Birdy’s sister’s furniture? The only reason Birdy had even invited her was because of John’s blow-up yesterday. Birdy had begged him not to fire her. She said Martha needed to socialize more. She was too rigid, too uptight. She didn’t know how to act around people.

  She held her breath, trying to remember the ten easy steps to becoming an engaging conversationalist that Birdy had cut out of Cosmopolitan for her. “Wear bright friendly colors. Be calm. Smile. If your instinct is to laugh, then by all means laugh! Make and maintain eye contact.” She couldn’t remember the rest. In any event, she had one of her own—she wouldn’t lose her temper, no matter what anyone said or did. She would be in total control. “Only you can help you,” she said in a firm voice, pointing at the mirror. “Only you can help you. Only you can help you!” she muttered, her voice trailing off as she looked up.

  Turning in a panicky little circle, she sniffed at the sharp chemical smell … hot plastic.… The curling iron—the dot on its tip had turned black. She held the directions close and read, PLACE END STRAND OF HAIR ON WAND AND ROLL TOWARD HEAD. HOLD FOR 20 SECONDS. “One … two … three … four …” she began to count. It burned her temple, so she twisted it away from her head. She had never used one of these before.

  Birdy’s sister was having another PlastiqueWare party. Mercy and Barbara had gone to all of them, but this was the first time Martha had been invited. She had found the invitation this morning in her box at work. The first thing she did was sniff the small blue envelope, with her name scrolled in Birdy’s elaborate handwriting. It smelled of Birdy, fresh and sweet. She had been so jittery that she waited until her break before she opened it, in the back room, with her hand cupped hard to her mouth so no one would hear her squeal.

  “Nineteen … twenty.” There. She tried to see in the mirror. Something was wrong. She couldn’t unroll the wand from her long hair. The more she turned the curling iron, the tighter it tangled. Her fingertips were burned and there was a red mark on her temple. She smelled singed hair. “Oh no!” She angled her head to the dim, blurry mirror. The curling iron had no “On/Off” button. Frantically, she began to break strands of hair from its tight rows of hot little teeth.

  “Help!” she cried, barely able to touch the curling iron, which she was only twisting tighter against her seared scalp. “Help!” she cried again. But no one would hear her all the way up here on the third floor. Straining toward the door as far as the cord would allow, she began to yell, but the boarders, like her landlady, Claire Mayo, were all old women. The only one who might hear her would be Mrs. Hess, whose room was directly below this one. “Help! Help!” she cried, stamping her feet.

  “You stop that!” Mrs. Hess shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “You just stop that!” She slammed her door.

  “Mrs. Hess, please help me. My head’s on fire!” she hollered, and then she thought to pull out the plug. Of course. “Stupid fool,” she muttered, looking for scissors in the sewing kit Birdy had given her the first time John threatened to fire her from the Cleaners. Birdy had suggested she take up mending, something she could do at home alone, where people wouldn’t bother her. Birdy meant well, but just the thought of not being with her every day made Martha feel queasy. The best part of the job was Birdy.

  She was snipping her hair from the hot curling iron when the door flew open. Claire Mayo stood there, breathless and glassy-eyed from the long attic climb. “What’s burning?” panted the old woman, her hand at her heaving breast. “Where’s the fire?” From the hallway, Mrs. Hess peered into the room.

  “Leave me alone!” Martha roared, slamming the door and turning the dead bolt now with the shock of what she had done. She looked down in horror at the handful of chopped hair. She put on her glasses and leaned close to the mirror to examine the jagged bald spot on her temple.

  “That’s it!” Claire Mayo called from the hallway. “I told you last time I’m sick of your temper!”

  “Leave me alone!” Martha begged. Now what would she do? This was probably the most important night of her whole life, and her hair looked as if a rodent had gnawed on it. “Leave me alone, just leave me alone!” she panted as she tore through her drawers looking for her new red scarf. Next she scrambled through the few things folded on the closet shelf, and then she remembered. Birdy had admired the scarf and so she had given it to her. After that she bought two more scarves and gave them to her, until Birdy insisted she stop.

  “I told you before. I warned you!” The old woman kept it up.

  Martha kicked aside the clothes that were all over the floor, and then she picked up the pink cloche Loiselle Evans had knit for her last winter. She put it on, then, seeing how ridiculous she looked, tore it off and threw it across the room, moaning.

  “I won’t put up with any craziness!” Claire Mayo banged on the door.

  “Just leave me alone!” she moaned, her face in her hands. “Please! Please, leave me alone!”

  “Up here, screaming the house is on fire like some kind of insane person … One of these days …” The two old women muttered their way down the dark, creaking staircase. “… in there talking to herself all hours of the night …”

  She had circled the block twice before she could bring herself to climb these four brick steps, and now she did not even ring the bell, but tapped lightly on the door frame, holding her breath, chewing her lip. She kept touching the top of her ear, where she had parted her hair to cover the bald spot.

  Maybe she had the wrong night. Maybe no one had come. But the street was lined with cars. She shifted from foot to foot, then stepped down. She stepped back up, then down again. The door opened.

  “Oh!” said a woman with small startled eyes. “Martha Horgan!” The woman tried to smile—as if that could make up for anything, Martha thought. Rude people, everywhere she went, such rude, rude people. Always knew her name, but never said theirs. “Birdy invited me,” she said, lifting the plait of recombed hair that sagged over one eye.

  If she had known the party had already started, she wouldn’t have come in. But it was too late now. One of Birdy’s sisters set a straight-backed kitchen chair in front of the television for her. She sat next to the PlastiqueWare salesman, who stood, the two of them facing this audience of smiling women. They all stared at her. She crossed her arms. No. Clasped her hands, sweaty, slimy fingers. Crossed her feet. No. Crossed her legs. Her face was hot, burning red hot face red hot ears all that heart blood pumping, pounding in her ears. Take a deep breath, don’t choke. Can’t see anything in this glare. Can’t swallow calm down. If she opened her mouth birds would fly out. The salesman was tall and skinny with long bony fingers and thick black eyebrows that fused over his nose. The women laughed and she blinked. They were laughing at him, not her. Okay, calm down, calm down.

  On his lon
g narrow folding table were displayed nests of clear plastic containers for food storage, plastic mixing bowls, bread boxes, and clear rectangular boxes with ridged covers for stacking, “also perfect for sweaters and whatever lacy unmentionables you ladies …” From his jacket pocket, he fished out a knotted string of panties, stockings, camisoles, which he dropped into one of the boxes, the silky mound growing higher. The women laughed even harder now as he began to pull more knotted strings from his sleeves and the back of his jacket. A fat woman in white pants doubled over laughing. Martha pressed her knees together and clenched her teeth in a miserable smile. All the women wore either pants or skirts. She was the only one this dressed up. She had on a silky turquoise dress with big red pinwheels, which she had bought in Cushing’s on her way home from work. Her feet were rubbed raw from these new black heels. In the mirror over the sofa, her lopsided reflection grinned back at her. The women were all looking at her hair. What in God’s name was she doing here? Why had she come? Oh, Birdy! She forced her eyes on Birdy, dear, sweet Birdy, who was in the kitchen, sliding a foil-covered platter from the refrigerator. There. Birdy was coming into the living room now. She winked and all at once the air grew smoother, easier to breathe.

  The PlastiqueWare demonstrator was pouring a pitcher of water into a juice container. When it was full, he twisted the cap tightly, shook it, then, holding it high overhead, dropped it onto the hardwood floor. Her hand flew to her mouth as it bounced up and down, and then rolled by her feet.

  “It bounces. Just like my checks at the end of the month,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and flicking an imaginary cigar. “But it will not break!”

  It took her a minute to catch on. Oh, like Groucho Marx. That was good. Now, that was funny. She clapped her hands and laughed. She kept laughing until she realized everyone else had stopped.

  Birdy’s pregnant sister, Carol, watched from a chair in the kitchen doorway. Shifting the heft of her belly, she glanced down at the floor as the sudden high whine of an electric saw buzzed through the brief silence. Birdy’s brother-in-law, who had been on a yearlong strike from the wire plant, made extra money building redwood bird-feeders in his basement workshop. Everyone who knew Birdy owned a feeder. Telling Birdy they were for the ladies at the boardinghouse, Martha had bought six of them. But they were for her, every single one. Recently, at work, when she asked to buy more, Mercy and Getso burst out laughing and Birdy’s face drained a bloodless white. “You’ve got to stop this,” she said in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “Do you understand? It’s really starting to get to me.”