by Peg Cochran
* * *
—
Trucks were densely parked along the streets of the garment district with workers unloading colorful bolts of fabric or loading finished garments. Horns blared as vehicles attempted to maneuver down the crowded streets while drivers shouted and waved their fists at one another.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky were making their way along Thirty-Sixth Street toward Seventh Avenue when Kaminsky grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her out of the way of a push boy barreling down the sidewalk with a rack of finished clothes.
“Sorry,” the young man called over his shoulder as he passed them.
“Have you ever been to the garment district before?” Kaminsky said.
“No,” Elizabeth said, darting to one side as a kid in a newsboy cap raced past her with a pile of dresses over his arm.
“Careful,” Kaminsky said, leading her around a rack of clothes and a pile of boxes that were waiting to be picked up. “I think this is it,” he said, squinting up at the twenty-five-story building. “Number four hundred ninety-eight Seventh Avenue.”
They stepped into the lobby, which was small and nondescript with an office off to one side. The door to the office flew open and a woman ran out.
“Can I help you?” she said.
She was wearing a starched red-and-white shirt with a high collar, a slim black skirt and plain black pumps. There was a pencil stuck behind her right ear.
“We’re looking for Samuel Kass Manufacturers,” Kaminsky said.
The woman pointed toward the elevators. “Tenth floor. Freight elevator is down the hall.”
Kaminsky raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth and she shrugged.
The elevator arrived and the grate made a loud screeching sound as the operator pulled it open.
“Tenth floor,” Kaminsky said.
The elevator operator nodded and said in a singsong voice, “Kass Manufacturers coming right up.”
The doors opened and Elizabeth and Kaminsky stepped out into a large room occupying nearly the entire floor.
Long wooden tables, placed close to the windows, ran down either side of the room. Operators sat on wooden chairs in front of the sewing machines pushing fabric under the needles with swift, sure motions.
It was hot and the noise was deafening. The air was choked with dust motes dancing in the sun coming through the windows.
In the center of the room were more wooden tables where cutters sliced through the layers of fabric that would be passed to the operators for sewing. Off to the side were the pressing machines sending puffs of steam into the already humid air.
A woman rushed toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky. She had a tape measure around her neck and bits of colored thread clung to the front of her dress.
“Can I help you?” she said with a look that indicated she thought that highly doubtful.
“We’re looking for a Miss Cullen. Miss Orla Cullen,” Kaminsky said. “Daily Trumpet.” He waved his press card in front of the woman’s nose.
The woman glanced at the large clock on the wall.
“Miss Cullen will have a break in five minutes. You can wait over there.” She pointed to several wooden chairs by the door.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky watched as the woman scurried over to one of the operators and leaned down toward her ear. The operator shot a swift glance in back of her, and they recognized Orla. She continued pushing fabric through the machine as she listened to the woman.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky took a seat. Elizabeth was struck by how hard the women were working in the hot, stuffy room. They barely had time to pause for breath before another bundle of fabric was dropped on the table next to them. No wonder Orla resented Noeleen having gotten the job with the Posts. It must have galled her to know that Noeleen was spending the hot summer days out on Long Island while she was cooped up inside, working her fingers to the bone.
A bell sounded and all the women pushed back their chairs at the same time, the wooden legs scraping across the factory floor. They rushed to the freight elevator calling to one another and laughing like prisoners let loose from jail.
Orla made her way over to Elizabeth and Kaminsky, the look on her face making it clear that she didn’t relish having her afternoon break interrupted.
“Can we at least go outside?” she said, wiping a handkerchief around the back of her neck. Perspiration stained the armpits of her faded dress, and the hair around her face was damp and curling.
“We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us,” Elizabeth said.
Orla shot her a withering look. “Do I have a choice?”
Elizabeth stopped short. “Of course.”
“Oh, never mind,” Orla said. “Let’s get it over with.”
The freight elevator was crowded and Elizabeth was squashed in the back behind a tall woman with short hair that was dyed a bright red. She was grateful when the doors opened and she was able to breathe again.
They followed Orla down a hall, past a luncheonette counter where a young boy was cleaning the stove, and out the door to the street.
Women clustered in groups, smoking cigarettes or holding their faces up to the sun. Orla led them to a quiet spot halfway down the block where she leaned against the wall of one of the buildings.
“Got a cigarette?” she said to Kaminsky.
Kaminsky pulled his Camels from his pocket and handed her one. He lit it, then put a cigarette between his own lips and held the match to it.
“Saw my picture in the paper,” Orla said, blowing out smoke. “Nice. People are saying I’m famous now. As if.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“So what do you want this time?” She fixed her gaze on Kaminsky.
“We heard a curious story,” Kaminsky began. “About how you were meant to interview for that job Noeleen got, but you came down sick. That must have been infuriating. Now you’re stuck here.” He motioned in the direction of the factory. “It must have irked you to think of her out on Long Island riding around in Duff Lambert’s sports car.”
Orla turned her head and spit on the ground behind her.
“It wasn’t fair.” Orla turned to Kaminsky, her face contorted with fury. “It was her fault I got so sick I couldn’t go to the interview.”
Both Elizabeth and Kaminsky were taken aback.
“Noeleen’s fault?” Elizabeth said.
Orla nodded. “She made me sick. It was all her fault.”
“Did she have something contagious?” Elizabeth said thinking of the time her sister had come home with chicken pox and had given it to her and James. Even poor Jones had come down with it, surprising everyone because he’d thought he remembered having it as a child.
Orla laughed. “No, nothing contagious. She made me sick on purpose,” she said, emphasizing the last two words.
“How did she do that?” Elizabeth said.
“She was very sly. Although you would never have known it to look at her. So devout and pure.” Orla clasped her hands as if in prayer and lowered her gaze to the ground in a parody of saintliness.
“What exactly did she do?” Kaminsky said. “I can’t imagine—”
“Oh, she was very clever,” Orla said, cutting him off. “She got some Ex-Lax from the drugstore. Do you know what they are?”
Both Elizabeth and Kaminsky nodded.
“Then she bought herself a big box filled with Whitman’s candy.” She inhaled the last puff from her cigarette, making a sucking sound, before dropping it to the ground. “She said Tommy Schmidt gave it to her, but I didn’t believe her. He steered clear of her after that one time he took her out for an ice cream.”
She ground out the glowing butt of her cigarette with the toe of her shoe. “I suppose she ate the candy herself. She was the sort to enjoy it piece by piece alone in her room. She would never have thought to share with the re
st of us.”
“So what does the candy have to do with you getting sick if Noeleen didn’t give you any?”
Elizabeth could sense Kaminsky was getting impatient. It was about now that he would normally leave the office for the bar across the street and his shot of Old Schenley and a Budweiser chaser.
Orla held up a hand. “Noeleen was a sly one, let me tell you. Everyone was fooled by that devout posturing of hers—going to church every day, walking around with her rosary clasped in her hand.” She held her hand out to Kaminsky. “How about another cigarette?” She paused while Kaminsky lit a match “She did give me the box of chocolates in the end. Said she couldn’t finish them—she wasn’t feeling well.” Her face grew red at the recollection. “How was I to know she’d replaced the Whitman chocolates with Ex-Lax?”
Elizabeth had to stifle her immediate reaction, which was to laugh.
“I got as sick as an old dog, I’ll tell you. Up and down all night long—I didn’t sleep a wink. There was no way I could go to that interview with Mrs. Post.” She leaned forward as Kaminsky lit her cigarette. “Noeleen and I had signed up with Mrs. Sutton’s Irish Employment Agency at the same time. We were both looking for domestic work. So when I wasn’t able to make the interview, they asked Noeleen to come in instead.” She gave a bitter laugh. “And you know the rest, of course.”
“No wonder you were furious,” Elizabeth said.
“Right?” Orla took an angry puff on her cigarette. “I wanted to kill—” She clapped a hand over her mouth suddenly. “I didn’t mean that.”
Kaminsky didn’t say anything—just looked at Orla as he closed his notebook and shoved it back in his pocket.
The chattering female voices behind them grew more urgent like the chirping of birds at the arrival of dawn and the women began to move toward the factory door.
Orla threw her cigarette on the ground. Her face was pale now and she’d begun to shiver in the cool September breeze.
“I have to go.”
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd of women making their way back to work.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth stretched out her legs, luxuriating in the feel of the soft cotton sheets and the cozy warmth of her down comforter. It was Saturday morning and she’d slept later than usual, not having set her alarm clock the night before.
She threw back the covers and stood up, stretching her arms over her head. No rays of sun peeked through the sliver of an opening in her chintz bedroom curtains. Elizabeth pulled them aside and peered out.
Rain pattered against the window and umbrellas bobbed over the heads of pedestrians on the sidewalk below. She was glad she had the day off and for once didn’t have to go out in this weather.
The radiator under the window sent up puffs of moist heat, and Elizabeth held her hands over the vents for a moment to warm them before pulling off her nightgown to get dressed.
She chose one of her older wool skirts and sweater sets that she saved for the weekends when she didn’t have plans, quickly brushed her hair and headed toward the dining room.
Her parents and her younger sister Rose were already at the table, her father buried in his newspaper and Rose stirring her oatmeal, a dreamy expression on her face. Helen was retrieving the last section of her grapefruit, cutting around it with a serrated spoon.
James’s place was empty.
“Where’s James?” Elizabeth said as she pulled out her chair.
“I guess he’s being a sleepy head today,” Rose said, laughing.
“I imagine he must have to go back to school on Monday.” Elizabeth unfurled her napkin and put it across her lap. “The semester’s only just started, and he’s missed quite a bit already.”
A tiny frown puckered the space between Helen’s eyebrows.
“Quite frankly, he’s refused to come out of his room since the funeral for those boys. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Elizabeth’s father rattled his paper slightly.
“I’m worried about him,” Elizabeth said. “Have you called the doctor? Maybe there’s something he can do?”
“He’s had a shock, I’d say,” Mrs. Murphy said as she bustled into the dining room with a fresh pot of coffee. “It’s not every day that you lose three of your friends.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Murphy,” Helen said, holding her cup out for a refill. “We must give him time to recuperate.”
Elizabeth wished her parents would take this more seriously. Mrs. Murphy was right—her brother had had a terrible shock, and he was grieving. Maybe there was something that could be done to help him.
George briefly lowered his newspaper. “Would you like sugar, my dear?” He held the bowl toward his wife.
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m slimming at the moment.” She laughed and patted her stomach. “My new Madame Louise dress will be arriving any day now. It would be ghastly if I suddenly found it didn’t fit.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Speaking of dresses, what will you wear to Marjorie Hicks’s engagement party tonight?”
Elizabeth groaned. “Is that tonight? I’m afraid I’d totally forgotten.”
She’d been imagining a quiet evening at home with the new book she’d picked up earlier in the week. It had just come out and everyone was talking about it—Rebecca by an Englishwoman named Daphne DuMaurier.
“What will you wear?” Helen said again, pushing her plate away. “Have you got something new?”
“I haven’t given it any thought actually,” Elizabeth said, taking the plate with her boiled egg and toast from Mrs. Murphy. “Maybe my dark blue velvet.”
“It’s a bit early in the season for velvet,” Helen said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I always think of velvet as being more appropriate during the Christmas season. What a shame you didn’t order something new.”
“Too late now,” Elizabeth said breezily. “I couldn’t get it altered in time.”
Elizabeth didn’t mention it, but she’d been planning to pay her expenses out of her own salary and her salary didn’t run to specially ordered dresses from Madame Louise. She even had an envelope of cash she planned to give her father later on. It would hardly cover her room and board in her parents’ luxurious Madison Avenue apartment and the plentiful meals Mrs. Murphy put on the table every day, but she thought it would give her a sense of independence, nonetheless, and would be good practice for when she moved out on her own.
Elizabeth finished her egg and toast and excused herself from the table.
She pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Her parents didn’t take the Daily Trumpet—they didn’t approve of the paper although she knew her mother always picked it up when she was at the hairdresser getting her permanent wave—but she knew Jones went out and bought it at the newsstand every morning before breakfast.
Mrs. Murphy was at the sink washing the breakfast dishes.
“Do you have the Daily Trumpet?” Elizabeth said.
“It’s on the chair over there,” Mrs. Murphy said, pointing toward the kitchen table, soap suds dripping down her arm to her elbow. “I saw your photograph with your name under it. It makes me so proud.” She smiled at Elizabeth. “Such a sad story though—that poor young woman throwing herself out the window like that.”
Elizabeth found the paper and began thumbing through it. Kaminsky’s story didn’t make the front page—the lead story was about Hitler annexing the Sudetenland, which stirred a vague sense of unease in Elizabeth.
She found Kaminsky’s piece on the fifth page—he was going to be disappointed. Her photograph of Gordon Tyler and one of Mary Tyler’s body accompanied the story.
She sighed. She knew Kaminsky had been hoping this story would be front page material.
She folded the paper back up, returned it to the chair and thanked Mrs. Murphy.
She hesita
ted as she passed James’s room on the way to her own. The door was firmly shut. She thought of knocking—she couldn’t shake her worry about her brother—but in the end decided it might be better to let him be.
She began to go through the dresses in her closet—Helen was right—it was too early for velvet. She certainly didn’t lack choices, no matter what Helen thought.
She pulled out a dress she’d bought the previous year—an emerald green silk gown with short, puffed sleeves and a fitted waist. She’d only worn it once, and she doubted anyone would remember it.
She was going through her shoeboxes, looking for the emerald green silk pumps she’d ordered to go with the dress, when she had a sudden thought. It was so startling that she jumped and lost her grip on the shoebox. It fell off the shelf and the corner hit her in the middle of the forehead.
It stung, but she was too preoccupied to notice.
She’d figured out a way to hand Kaminsky a big scoop—possibly the biggest of his career.
* * *
—
“Are you going somewhere, dear?” Helen said when Elizabeth walked into the sitting room where she was at her desk writing a letter. “It’s positively filthy out.”
“Yes. Hazel and I are going to the pictures to see Bringing Up Baby.” Elizabeth swung her camera around behind her back so her mother wouldn’t see it.
“Is that the one with that Hepburn woman? They say she insists on wearing trousers all the time—just like a man.” Helen swiveled around to look at Elizabeth. “I also heard that her house in Connecticut was hit by that terrible storm and was washed away. Fortunately she was able to find her mother’s tea service and silver flatware.” She turned back to her letter. “Have a good time, dear.”
Elizabeth took the elevator down to the lobby.
“Miserable day out, miss,” the doorman said as he opened the door.
“Thank you, Ernst,” Elizabeth said stepping outside.
She had her umbrella with her but was glad to see that the rain had temporarily stopped, although the clouds overhead were still dark and threatening.
