* * *
—
After work, I took the long route home so I could pass Hecht’s. Their elaborate window displays were my favorite in the city: mannequins dressed for the ski slopes atop a tiny hill of cotton snow in winter, searching for Easter eggs in their prettiest pastel frocks in spring, lounging in their bikinis by a blue cellophane pool in summer.
As I passed, a man with a tape measure in his back pocket was arranging a trio of mannequins dressed as witches behind a black plastic cauldron. I told myself I was just going to pass the window and be on my way. When I went inside, I told myself I was just going to browse. When I started browsing, I told myself I’d just look to see if I could afford anything that didn’t look handmade—something that looked like something Sally Forrester might wear.
I passed my hands over the racks, fingering the silks and linens between my fingers, and ran my hand along a skirt’s perfect stitching. If my mother had been with me, she’d have shown me how machines had cheaply achieved this uniformity and how, over time, the seams would fray, the buttons would fall off, and eventually the ill-informed shopper who’d purchased the overpriced skirt would come to her so she could fix it. She’d have held up a calloused sewing finger and told me there’s no replacement for hard work.
As I pressed a red blouse with a red-and-white paisley scarf under its Peter Pan collar against my chest, a salesgirl asked if I needed help. “Just looking,” I said. Salesgirls always intimidated me, which is why I hardly ever went into department stores in the first place—that, and I never had the money to spend.
“Lovely blouse,” the salesgirl continued. She was dressed in a fit and flare black skirt and white blouse, her bangs shellacked into a high arch above her forehead. “It would look fabulous on you. Like to try it on?” She took the hanger from me before I could respond, and I followed her to the dressing room. She placed the blouse on a hook. “Let me know if you need another size.”
Before undressing, I checked the price tag. I couldn’t afford it, but I stayed in the dressing room for a few minutes to make her think I at least tried it on. I’d tell her red just wasn’t my color. But when I opened the door, I found myself saying, “I’ll take it.”
* * *
—
Mama inundated me with questions when I walked through the door. “Where were you? On a date with Teddy? Has he proposed yet?” Any time Mama brought up Teddy, I felt unnerved.
“I went for a walk.”
“Has he broken up with you? I knew this would happen.”
“Mama! I just wanted to go on a walk.”
“Such a long walk! Always such long walks for you these days. God only knows what you’re up to.”
“You don’t believe in God.”
“No matter. You shouldn’t walk so much. You’re already too skinny. And who has time to walk anyway? I needed your help finishing the beading on Miss Halpern’s prom dress. This is a big opportunity for me to get into the American teen market. I do a dress for Miss Halpern and all her friends see her in it, and then they want one too. Next thing you know, a USA Dresses and More for You dress will be on American Bandstand next to that handsome Richard Clark.”
“Dick Clark?”
“Who?”
I sat at the kitchen table next to her, careful to place my purse under my feet so she wouldn’t see the bit of tissue paper sticking out of the zipper. “Wait,” I said. “I know that dress. Yellow chiffon, right?”
“Not a good color for such a pale girl, but who am I to say?”
“But that dress doesn’t have much beading. Just a little on the straps. You can finish something like that in an hour.” Instead of answering, Mama got up from the table. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
She turned and looked at me, her brow furrowed. “I’m just tired.”
* * *
—
I wore my new red blouse to work the next day, hiding it under an oversized beige sweater before leaving. Mama didn’t see the blouse, although she did comment on the sweater. “That ugly old thing?” she asked. She pretended to look out one of the half windows of our basement apartment. “Is it snowing outside? You’re not going skiing, are you?”
“You’re back to your old self.”
“What other self would I be?”
I kissed her cheek and hurried out.
Sweating, I waited until I reached the bus stop before taking the sweater off. I held my coat between my thighs and wiggled out of it. A woman passing with her two children dressed in Catholic school uniforms gave me a look. It wasn’t until I was on the bus that I realized my blouse was misbuttoned and a portion of my bra was exposed.
The elevator dinged and I stepped out into reception with my coat draped over my arm, my shoulders back, looking straight ahead instead of at my feet in an attempt to convey that I was as breezy and confident as the woman in the Ban Roll-On Deodorant ad. I glanced toward reception, ready to say hello to Sally, but was disappointed to see the regular receptionist.
“Cute blouse,” she said. “Red’s a lovely color on you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Got it on sale.” I was always doing that. If someone told me they liked my new haircut, I’d tell them that I wasn’t sure about the length. If someone said they liked an idea I had or a joke I told, I’d attribute it to someone else.
* * *
—
Sally didn’t come in the next day, or the day after that. Every time I stepped out of the elevator, I braced myself to see her; but still no Sally. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The typing pool took her absence as proof she had another role at the Agency. “Part-time receptionist my ass,” Norma said. I laughed with the rest of them, though I couldn’t help but wonder what they might say about me behind my back.
A week passed, but I still found myself thinking of her. Something about Sally Forrester lingered.
Another week passed and I’d given up on seeing her again. But when the elevator opened, there she was, seated at the reception desk doodling on a yellow steno pad. She waved hello and I faked a coughing fit to cover my reddening face.
I sat at my desk and went right to work, telling myself not to look in her direction. Even without looking, I could feel her presence all morning. When I got up to use the restroom, I was keenly aware how my body moved, how I held my head, what I looked like walking across SR. It was as if I was seeing myself through someone else’s gaze. Then it happened: she spoke to me. I thought she was speaking to someone else, but it was my name she’d called out.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were talking to me,” I said instead of saying hello.
“Are there many Irinas in SR?”
“I don’t think so. No. Maybe?”
“I’m teasing. Anyway, since I’m the new gal in town, I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch. You could give me the lay of the land.”
“I brought my lunch,” I said. “Tuna.” Stop, I told myself, just stop.
“Eat it tomorrow.” She picked a piece of lint from the front of her fuzzy chartreuse sweater. “Show me what’s good around here.”
* * *
—
We walked in the direction of the White House, Sally leading the way although she’d been the one who’d asked me where to go. “I know a great deli nearby. A rarity in Washington, believe me,” she said. “They slice the ham paper thin and pile it six inches high. Only people from here know of it, and no one is actually from here. You know what I mean? Do you have to get back soon? It’s still a bit of a walk.”
“We have an hour for lunch, so we have about forty-five, maybe forty minutes left.”
“You think Company boys look at their watches during their liquid lunches?”
“No, but…” I paused a beat too long, and Sally turned on her heels as if heading back toward the office. “No,” I said. “Let’s go.”
>
She looped her arm through mine. “That’s the spirit.” I could feel the hot stares of men as we passed, and even a few women looked our way. I was with her. I liked being with her. My surroundings blurred as if we were no longer in the city—the endless car honking and bus screeching and jackhammers pummeling concrete ceased. It was noon on a Thursday, and the world slowed on its axis.
We passed a tour bus stopped at a light and I could hear the guide’s microphoned voice direct the attention of the passengers toward the famous Octagon House. Sally surprised me by waving to the tourists, who enthusiastically waved back. One took a picture of her. She put her hand behind her head to pose. “Still can’t get used to this city,” she said. “Everyone flocks to the seat of power.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“On and off.”
We turned down an alley off P Street I’d never noticed. Narrow brownstones with ivy-covered chimneys lined the street. Halloween was approaching, and the residents had decorated with cotton spider-webs spread across their hedges, paper black cats and skeletons with movable joints hung in the windows, and yet-to-be-carved pumpkins on their stoops. On the corner was the deli. Over the door hung a green-and-white-tiled sign: FERRANTI’S.
A bell tinkled as we opened the door. The owner, a man as long and thin as the dried sausages hanging from the deli’s ceiling, slapped a sack of semolina flour and a tiny cloud erupted from the bag. “Where have you been all my life?” he asked.
“Off somewhere waiting for a better line than that,” Sally said. The man kissed Sally on both cheeks with big, wet smacks.
“This is Paolo.”
“And who is this exquisite creature?” Paolo asked. It took me a moment to realize he was talking about me.
Sally playfully slapped away my extended hand. “What do I get if I tell you?”
Paolo held up a finger, then disappeared into the back room. He emerged holding two wooden chairs, which he placed in the small space between the front window and the shelves filled with canned tomatoes, glass jars of bright green olives, and stacks of packaged noodles.
“No table?” Sally asked.
“Patience.” He left and returned with a round table, just big enough to seat two. Like a magic trick, he reached behind his back and pulled out a small red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. He spread it over the table and gestured for us to take a seat.
“What, no candle?”
Paolo threw up his hands. “What else? Linen napkins? Salad forks?” He pointed to the ceiling. “Perhaps I should invest in a tiny chandelier?”
“That would be a start, but we’re actually getting our food to go. It’d be a sin to be inside on such a gorgeous fall day.”
He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye with the corner of his apron. “What a disappointment. But of course I understand.” He moved a wax-coated cheese wheel aside to get a better look out the window. “I’d be out there myself if I could. Actually, maybe I’ll close early and join you two ladies for a sandwich. Reflecting Pool? Tidal Basin?”
“Sorry, this is a business lunch.”
“Such is life.”
We ordered: turkey and Swiss on rye with a dill pickle plucked from a barrel for me, and an olive tapenade and some kind of meat I’d never heard of on a baguette for Sally. Paolo handed us our sandwiches in a brown paper bag. We said our goodbyes, and as we left, I turned back. “I’m Irina,” I said.
“Irina! Sally broke her deal with me, didn’t she? Such a beautiful name. I’ll see you back again with Sally soon?”
“Yes.”
We walked for another fifteen minutes, not thinking of the time left in our lunch hour. Sally stopped at the foot of an enormous building on Sixteenth I’d never noticed before. It looked like something out of ancient Egypt. Two giant sphinxes flanked the marble stairs leading up to a large brown door. “Museum?” I asked.
“House of the Temple. You know, Freemason secret society kinda stuff. I’m sure there’s a lot of funny hat wearing and chanting and candle lighting going on in there. Just ask a few of the men we work with. To me, these steps are just the perfect place to have some lunch and watch the world pass by.”
As we ate, I could feel myself becoming more comfortable, though still keenly aware of her presence. Sally finished her sandwich and wiped the corners of her mouth. She ate nearly twice as fast as I did. “How do you like the typing pool?”
“I like it. I think.”
She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a compact and red lipstick. She puckered her lips. “Any on my teeth?”
“Oh, no. It looks perfect.”
“So, you like it?”
“Red’s a great color on you.”
“I mean the Pool.”
“It’s a good job.”
“Do you like the typing or the other stuff better?”
A flash of heat traveled down my throat to my stomach. I looked at Sally with what I thought was a blank stare, though I must have looked nervous.
“Don’t worry,” she said, placing her hand on mine. She had the softest hands, her nails painted the same shade of red as her lips. “You and I are the same. Well, almost.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anderson told me when I joined back up. But he didn’t really have to tell me. I could tell from the moment we met that you were different.”
I looked from side to side, then behind us. “You carry messages too?”
“More of a message sender.” She squeezed my hand. “Us gals gotta stick together. There aren’t many of us. Right?”
“Right.”
* * *
The day after our lunch on the Temple steps, Anderson informed me that instead of my meeting with Teddy, as I’d been doing, Sally would continue my training. “Surprised?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, biting my lip to keep from smiling.
The day after that, Sally stood outside the Agency’s black iron gates, applying her red lipstick in the driver’s-side mirror of a pale yellow Studebaker. She looked impeccable in a tartan wool cape and long black calfskin gloves. She saw me approach in the mirror and turned, lipstick applied to only her bottom lip. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, kiddo,” she said and pressed her lips together. “Let’s go for a walk.”
As we made our way through Georgetown, Sally pointed out the stately homes of some of the Agency’s higher-ups. “Dulles lives up there,” she said, pointing to a red brick town house obscured by a wall of maple trees. “And that big white one with the black shutters across the way? That’s Wild Bill Donovan’s old house that the Grahams bought. Frank lives on the other side of Wisconsin. All of ’em spitting distance from each other.”
“Where do you live?”
“Just up the street.”
“To keep tabs on the men?”
She laughed. “Smart girl.”
We took a left into Dumbarton Oaks and walked the park’s winding path into the gardens. Descending the stone steps, Sally pulled on a dead wisteria vine hanging from the wooden arbor. “In the spring, this whole place smells absolutely delicious. I open my windows and hope for a breeze.”
We walked until we reached the swimming pool, which had been drained for the season. We sat on a bench across from an elderly man who was working on a crossword puzzle in his wheelchair, parked next to his milk-faced caretaker. Two young mothers wearing almost identical belted red princess coats smoked and chatted at the pool’s far end while their toddlers, a boy and a girl, tossed pebbles into the pool, screaming with glee when their stones reached the small puddle in the center. A pensive-looking young man sat in a black iron chair near the fountain at the pool’s head reading a copy of The Hatchet.
“See that man over there?” Sally asked, without looking.
I nodded.
“What do you think his story is?”
/> “College student?”
“What else?”
“College student with a clip-on tie?”
“Nice eye. And what do you think that clip-on tie means?”
“He doesn’t know how to tie a real one?”
“And what does that mean?”
“He’s never been taught?”
“And?”
“He doesn’t have a father? Maybe he doesn’t come from money? He definitely doesn’t have a girlfriend or a mother close by to tell him that clip-ons look ridiculous. Perhaps he’s from out of town? On scholarship maybe?”
“Where?”
“Given our location? Georgetown. But given his choice of newspaper? I’d say George Washington.”
“Studying?”
I looked the man over: clip-on, cowlick, maroon sweater vest, dull brown leather shoes, smoking Pall Malls, legs crossed, his right foot turning slow circles. “Could be anything, really.”
“Philosophy.”
“How do you know?”
Sally pointed to his open leather knapsack and the book inside it: Kierkegaard.
“How did I miss that?”
“Obvious things are the hardest to spot.” Sally stretched her arms over her head to take off her cape, and the space between her blouse’s buttons parted to reveal black lace. “Wanna do another?”
I looked away. “Sure.”
I said the mothers were childhood friends who’d grown distant after marrying and having kids. “It’s the way they smile at each other,” I told Sally. “Like they’re forcing some previous connection.” The elderly man was a widower, clearly in love with his caretaker, who didn’t share his feelings. When a gardener appeared and carefully plucked leaves out of the fountain, I suggested he was a leftover from the days when the garden was owned by the Bliss family, perhaps the only household employee to have been kept on. “That explains his diligence,” I finished. Sally nodded approvingly.
The Secrets We Kept Page 16
