The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Forgive me, I’m a little distracted. It’s so long ago! But there must be some misunderstanding. I met my husband at a USO dance. It was the reason, really, for all the wonderful things that have happened to me since.”

  That wasn’t entirely a lie, but it was a lawyerly way of saying that her two great blessings—her daughter and her career—ensued from that meeting. Mrs. Abbie seemed troubled by the rebuttal. Sandy perked up at the news. It hadn’t occurred to her that her parents once were strangers.

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Abbie. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Me neither.”

  “The cards are rarely this clear. Your marriage—is it contented?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Even when Mommy and Daddy fight, they still love me,” said Sandy, with rote composure.

  “That’s true, baby,” said Marie, laboring not to betray any anxiety. She hadn’t just brought her daughter here, but every bad memory, in cheap suitcases that broke open as Mrs. Abbie jimmied the locks. Had she come alone, she’d have boo-hoo-hooed for an hour, swearing that her marriage was hell in a bottle. Which it was sometimes, but whose wasn’t? She was adamant in her rejection of the tarot, and the cheat who worked the deck. She’d already won the game. In its stance on witchcraft, New York differed from old Salem only in the penalty phase. Fortune-telling was a Class B misdemeanor, punishable by up to ninety days in jail, and a fortune was being told for Marie.

  Mrs. Abbie stared at the cards, and then at Marie, as if trying to decide which was lying. Marie wanted to reshuffle the deck and start again. Looking back at her life, it seemed to belong to someone else. She’d forgotten how much she’d forgotten.

  Marie didn’t know who first called him Hollywood Sid—for all she knew, he made it up himself—but no one could say that he didn’t wear it well. The night they met, Ann and Dee hadn’t come with her to the dance. When he asked to escort her home, she didn’t refuse. Mama had been waiting up, and the three of them talked for an hour. It was after midnight when Marie went to bed, leaving Sid with Mama in the kitchen, drinking coffee; it was after four when she woke to go to the bathroom and found them talking still. Suffice it to say, Mama approved. Some months later, Marie and Sid were married.

  In her mind, Marie hadn’t said yes to Sid as much as she didn’t say no. It didn’t seem like a terrible idea. It didn’t seem like an idea at all, but a circumstance that would arrive sooner or later, like winter or a rainy day. Her parents hadn’t chosen someone for her, but they could refuse her choice, for any reason or none at all. Mama had been in love in the old country, but the family had decided otherwise for her. She lived through her daughters, saw in them a life she might have had.

  Sid was made for Mama—motherless, with such a faccia bella, cheeks made for pinching. He was from Hell’s Kitchen, on the west side of Manhattan. His father had walked out, and his mother had died young. And while his brothers were each adopted by different aunts, Sid was passed between relatives like a stray dog. He didn’t have a job when they were married, but he was already living in the other half of the attached house, rent-free. Marie couldn’t imagine how Papa agreed. The only time she remembered Mama crying in childhood was after she begged Papa for a nickel for soap—the girls’ school clothes weren’t just worn, they were dirty—and he muttered as he left, “Maybe tomorrow, maybe . . .”

  For Marie to have refused the marriage would have taken more willpower than she possessed at the time, and the reasons only became obvious after it was too late. The reception was in her parents’ basement, and everyone gave cash, as was the custom. There must have been five hundred dollars in the borsa, and Marie wasn’t sure whether to spend it on a trip somewhere, or maybe on new furniture—there wasn’t much more than an army cot in the place. Sid had his crowd up from Hell’s Kitchen, and they were carousing like it was the stag night instead of the wedding. She was afraid something would happen to the money. She asked him, “Maybe I should hold on to the bag, honey?”

  She never forgot the look he gave her, his eyes cold and wild, as if he were on the knife-edge of a decision to double over in laughter, or to punch her, or both. She touched his arm and said, “I guess if you want to hold it, that’s fine, too.”

  Someone pulled her away to dance, and she wrote off Sid’s reaction to wedding-day nerves. She was nervous herself, thinking about what lay ahead. Or trying not to think about it. She wondered whether it would hurt, whether he’d be gentle. Of the thousand ways she’d imagined her wedding night, ranging from Technicolor ecstasies to any number of ghastly embarrassments—What if she turned out to be frigid?—all of the scenarios included her husband being there.

  Instead, when all the rowdies and relations cleared out, she found herself alone. She sat on the stoop in her white dress and tried not to cry, and her sisters felt too bad to talk to her. Mama withdrew, and Papa—well, it was no longer his place to say. Walking her down the aisle was a transfer of custody. Marie didn’t see Sid for two days, and he lay in bed with a hangover for two days after that. The money was gone. Sweet Jesus, how this strega made her think about things!

  Sandy tugged gently at her hand. “Mommy?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Am I in the cards?”

  Marie laughed and leaned over to hug her. “Of course, baby!”

  Mrs. Abbie drew more cards from the deck, placing them at angles from the arrangement on the table. “Yes, my dear Sandy. I see you here, where the swords cross the hearts. You were lucky, so lucky to be born.”

  “What does that mean, Mrs. Abbie?

  “Only what I said, child. We are all lucky to be born.”

  Marie glared at Mrs. Abbie, who smiled in response. Did Marie catch a glint of spite? She braced herself for what the cards would tell next. While she knew the strega was a swindler and a thief, with the heart of a viper and the conscience of a gnat, she hadn’t been wrong yet.

  Marie was in no hurry to become a mother. Work was the best part of her life, before marriage and after. She was a secretary at the mason tenders’ union, where she learned how to render the broken Neapolitan tirades of her boss—Tell this cafone, he no gonna tell me nuttin’—into “Dear Sir, regarding the matter discussed, I regret to inform you . . .” He’d tell her, “You got it perfetto, just like I say.” He’d take her out for lunch at Luchow’s with the boys, and he’d laugh at how she could tuck away the beefsteak. At work, no one dared disrespect her; work brought her into Manhattan, with its thousand daily diversions; work put money in her pocket and won her the freedom that money brought. But when she was laid low for a month with fever—St. Anthony was again enlisted for a cure—that was resolved with the removal of an ovary, Marie decided that it was now or never.

  “Now.”

  The voice was not in her head. How long had Marie been gone this time? She checked her watch: 1340. Decades had moved through her mind in minutes, all her time in no time at all. Wasn’t that supposed to happen when you were drowning?

  “Now, now, now,“ said Mrs. Abbie. “I really don’t see how I was wrong about the dance. Hmm! But maybe it would be better to move on to other areas.”

  Two months into her pregnancy, Marie felt like she was suffocating, in a caul of sadness. She ran away from home and took a room at the Barbizon Hotel, where only women could stay. She didn’t know what she wanted, what she needed, what she intended, only that she couldn’t be at home right then. After a few days, she called her sister Ann, who listened to her tearful screed with sympathy, as she’d always done. Ann pressed her to say where she was, swearing that she’d never tell.

  An hour later, there was an army at the door. No, not an army, but a posse, of Ann, Mama, and the parish priest. Marie was brought home like an escaped convict. Ann wept when she left, saying she was sorry, but that it would all work out in the end. Marie found it hard to forgive Ann for a long time.

  How long? Until Sandy arrived, and Marie was happy for a while. The baby was all she was supposed to be,
a wonder, a refuge, love. But as the months passed, Marie felt herself decline. As the baby stretched out, Marie grew smaller; for every new expressive sound she heard, her own silences grew longer, her wants fewer. She didn’t read books any more. On many days, she didn’t dress. She cried as often as the baby did, and over much the same things. If the market was out of carrots, it was enough to make her sob. Didn’t anybody care? One afternoon, she heard about how Radio Free Europe sent thousands of balloons behind the Iron Curtain, showering the captive nations with messages of hope. She spent the afternoon sobbing in bed. For a long time after, the sight of a balloon made her ill.

  On July 4, 1955, at a picnic at her parents’ house, Ann brought a copy of the physical fitness standards for the civil service exam for policewomen. None of the sisters had known that policewomen existed; none had been inside a police precinct. Sid, who had gone on the job just before Sandy was born, confirmed the truth of these unlikely creatures, though he assured everyone that they were kept far from the rough-and-tumble of the streets. “It ain’t safe out there for ladies,” he opined, to general assent.

  The absurdity of the idea made everyone laugh, and even Marie joined in the improvised Olympics of sack races and horseshoe tosses to test their agility and strength. She-cops! The sisters might as well join the circus. Only Mama didn’t think it was funny, muttering, Che stupido, che stupido as they kept up their antics through the afternoon. Other insults, as well, of which Marie only remembered one—Masca-femina!—meaning “man-woman,” because she’d never heard it before. Marie didn’t take it seriously. She’d enjoyed herself for a few hours, which was triumph enough, at the time.

  Six months later, on a frigid Monday morning, Dee frog-marched Marie downtown to take the test. Dee had filed for her, knowing she lacked the drive to complete even the simplest tasks. Vera never seriously considered it, and Ann, who had several years with the United Nations, decided against giving up her seniority and pension rights. When a telegram arrived, announcing that Marie had placed third on the test, it was exhilarating and intimidating. As she was, she could barely do a sit-up. She spent a great deal of time in the gym before her academy class began, in June 1957, with five women and over five hundred men—Dee had placed ninth, and would follow her in the next class—and she hoped never again to be the person she had been back then.

  “And yet I see there will be another child,” said Mrs. Abbie.

  Sandy cried out with joy. Marie did not.

  Mrs. Abbie drew out more cards. “I see the number seven. Seven days, seven months, seven years, I can’t say. But there will be another child. A boy. You will have a little brother, dear Sandy.”

  Sandy leapt up and ran to hug Mrs. Abbie. Marie refused to believe that the wretched woman had insight into anything beyond what feebleminded females disclosed to her unawares. Still, Marie would have handed over her last nickel, just to be sure. Mrs. Abbie could switch the money for shredded newspapers right in front of her. Marie didn’t care, as long as she didn’t have to go through another pregnancy. “It is quite clear to me,” said Mrs. Abbie.

  “There must be some mistake, but I can’t really discuss it now,” said Marie, inclining her head down to her daughter. “Come here, Sandy, honey.”

  Marie was thrilled to see that Sandy’s hands were quite clean when she returned to the couch. Mrs. Abbie might have been able to see the future, but she failed to notice the brown smear that traversed her once-elegant shawl.

  “I don’t see any medical reason, at least from the cards,” said Mrs. Abbie, with a self-assurance that would have made the head of the Mayo Clinic sound like a sophomore. “The future isn’t fixed, like the past. With great efforts—many prayers, of course, but more than that—we may be able to change the course of events. It will not be easy, I warn you, if you take this journey with me.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Abbie, I would be so grateful for anything you could do,” Marie gushed, rising to her feet. They were finished, each having obtained what they needed. Mrs. Abbie drew back the bead curtain, patting her chest on the spot where her heart should have been. Marie wished she had handcuffs. If Sandy hadn’t been with her, Marie would have clapped them on the old monster right there. Hell, if she had Marino’s copy of the encyclopedia, she’d have given her a great clout across the chops with it. This was a witch she’d be glad to burn. Others might claim that their card tricks were a harmless diversion, an entertainment, but Mrs. Abbie sold false hope on the black market, like the crooks who sold sugar pills as penicillin during the war. When the medicine is real, you don’t need so many miracles.

  Sandy asked to use the ladies’ room, and Mrs. Abbie sent her down the hall with a dismissive wave. Mrs. Abbie turned to Marie and seized her wrist. “Call me in three days. No more, no less. Next time, leave the kid at home.”

  “I will, Mrs. Abbie.”

  “Now, be honest. Was I right about what happened at the dance? Are you happy in your marriage?”

  Marie felt a tug toward a more candid reply, but it would have allowed Mrs. Abbie an equal satisfaction in her own gifts. She didn’t think she was kidding herself when she believed that things could get better with her marriage. There was no choice but to hope, for one thing. For another, people did change, despite themselves. She didn’t know why Sid hated her sometimes, but he was usually very sorry after; if he was an enemy to her, on occasion, he was a mystery almost always. Marie was a mystery to herself. She didn’t know why the baby that had made her so miserable once delighted her now, or why she’d thrived in this often-awful job. Newborns didn’t change as much as Marie had in the last two years. And Sid encouraged her to become a policewoman. He bragged about her when she was in the papers, and when she was on TV, though he laughed a little when he told people, to show that he didn’t take it too seriously. Who knew what would happen to Sid, what might touch his heart? Greater wonders had been worked, though not through Gypsy spells.

  And she didn’t want to stop fooling herself altogether. Her job was a confidence game, and she was the primary mark—I can do this! Maybe she should reconsider how she saw the divisions in her life—the crackerjack cop and the weeping wife—and try to take herself on a case. She’d solved every one assigned her so far, hadn’t she? At very least, none of the bad memories would go back into the cheap suitcases. She’d examine the evidence with cold eyes, no matter how it hurt to see, no matter where it led.

  “No, my husband makes a wonderful living, he treats me like a queen. He bought these outfits for me and my daughter. Shopping runs in the family, you might say! But there has to be more to life than spending money.”

  Mrs. Abbie nodded piously at the mention of disposable income. Marie clasped her hands in gratitude. She would have preferred to have them around the woman’s neck. Twenty bucks wasn’t a bad price for all she’d been given to think about, but to rob an old woman of eight thousand, along with her family, her sanity, and her health? She’d show Mrs. Abbie no more mercy than she showed in turn, picking idiot pockets as she scared them into the graveyard.

  “I noticed the dresses right away. They’re quite fetching.”

  Gifts of clothing were Sid’s customary apology after a dustup. He had excellent taste, and he never had any trouble getting advice from shopgirls. Hopefully, all of that was in the past. Sandy joined Marie at the door. “Thank you again, Mrs. Abbie. The next time, do you see—no, let’s make it a surprise.”

  “Don’t be fretful, my dear,” Mrs. Abbie offered, as a parting gift. “Not all the news is worrisome. I also see much good fortune. New furniture, a car, perhaps.”

  Sandy crowed, “We just got that!”

  “Yes, child?”

  “Mommy won it on TV! Did you see her?”

  Marie made an overbroad smile of false modesty. Could Mrs. Abbie be a viewer? Would she have to arrest a fan? “Yes, Mrs. Abbie, I was on a game show, Treasure Hunt, and I was quite fortunate. Did you see it, by any chance?”

  “I don’t waste my time with that nonsense,�
� came the reply, with unexpected asperity. “They’re all fixed. I could always tell. You read in the papers, everybody’s investigating, even Congress! They say the pretty one always wins, so the audience is happy. I can see why you were successful, Marie.”

  Sanctimony was not something that Mrs. Abbie wore well. Yes, a grand jury had been hearing evidence that answers had been given out beforehand on Twenty-One and a few others, but Mrs. M. was still sending her girls to appear on the shows. Marie didn’t quite understand all the fuss. Besides, Treasure Hunt was mostly a guessing game. Marie’s first rival had been slightly older, a butcher’s wife from Newark. A bit frumpy, she supposed. Now that she thought about it, there was a question about the Mona Lisa, and the travel magazine in her dressing room had an article about Leonardo. And the conversation she overheard in the elevator about the Hoover Dam also proved to be quite helpful. As for the boxes, well—any hustler in Times Square knew how to rig that one. But why was Mrs. Abbie so invested in her scorn? Perhaps to impress upon Marie that, no matter how much skill or luck she brought to the table, Mrs. Abbie ran the game.

  Mrs. Abbie nodded sagely as they left. Had she a true knack for prophecy, she’d have seen herself in handcuffs a few days hence, shrieking as if the steel seared her skin. She’d have seen that Marie had arranged for three patrol cars to respond with lights and sirens, for the entire neighborhood to witness. She would have known that her address book would be “misplaced” in the precinct, so that she wouldn’t have her clients’ phone numbers any more. She would have foreseen her eviction from her little blue house in Silver Beach, so pretty in the August sunlight, under the shade of the elms, beside the sea.

  When Marie and Sandy had walked two blocks, she clutched her daughter by the shoulder and said, “Do you know who that lady was?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what a strega is?”

  Sandy gasped, but she saw her mother smiling and knew it was all in fun.

  “We should tell everybody!”