Not Our Kind Page 7

  It was a short walk to Park Avenue and Eleanor had started out so early that she had plenty of time to window-shop along the way. In a store on Lexington Avenue, she saw a lovely raw silk summer dress with a full gathered skirt. As she continued down the street, she entertained a fantasy of buying the dress with her new salary. She’d wear it with her hair up, and her pearl and cameo choker, though the pearls were fake. But then she tried to imagine who would be escorting her in this lovely outfit, and the fantasy collapsed, like a soufflé when the oven door banged.

  At the synagogue mixer, after high-voiced Harry, she had talked to a stocky fellow with frizzy blond curls and another taller young man with wavy dark hair and the most adorable dimples. The stocky fellow did not do much for her but the one with the dimples did; unfortunately, he did not reciprocate her interest and had quickly moved on. Eleanor drank another cup of punch and sampled the rugelach—they were stale—before finding Ruth again, this time deep in conversation with a bearlike young man who had gentle brown eyes and a nice smile. Ruth seemed effervescent in his presence and talked about him all the way home. Eleanor just nodded, all the while wishing she had met someone who made her feel that way.

  “Listen to me going on and on!” Ruth said when they had reached Eleanor’s corner. “Next time it’ll be your turn to get lucky.”

  As she reached Patricia Bellamy’s apartment building, Eleanor hesitated for a moment before going inside. When Mrs. Bellamy had offered her the job, she told her to give her name as Moss, and not Moskowitz. “I hope you don’t mind,” Mrs. Bellamy had said. “It’s just that the building is—”

  “Restricted,” Eleanor supplied.

  “Yes, well, I know it’s awkward, and of course I don’t feel that way, but I’d just rather not ruffle any feathers, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Ironically, Moss was one of the names Rita Burns had suggested. Eleanor had been less open to the idea when Miss Burns had floated it but now here she was, willingly walking into a situation where the subterfuge was not just expedient, but essential.

  “She’s expecting you,” the doorman said, and directed her toward the elevator. Did she detect a slight sneer, as if he didn’t believe her? Or was she imagining it? The lobby seemed even more intimidating than it had on the prior occasions she had seen it. And she was nervous about working with Margaux—the girl was unpredictable and touchy. Why had Eleanor thought she would be able to handle her? Perhaps she’d been rash in accepting this offer.

  When Eleanor reached the ninth floor, Mrs. Bellamy was at the door of the apartment. She wore a belted china blue dress with a square neckline framed by a wide ivory collar. The collar was trimmed with miniature magenta roses and the pockets were adorned by those same roses. Eleanor had never seen such a pretty dress; it made the one she’d admired in the shop window seem quite ordinary by comparison.

  “Good morning,” Mrs. Bellamy said brightly. “Margaux’s been waiting for you.”

  “I hope I’m not late,” Eleanor said. Reflexively, she looked at her wrist. The watch was not there; since the accident she hadn’t had time to have the crystal replaced.

  “No, not at all,” Mrs. Bellamy said, stepping aside. “She’s just very eager. Let’s go into the study.”

  Eleanor followed Mrs. Bellamy down a short hallway lined with finely rendered botanical prints in thin gold frames. Eager was good, she thought. Eager meant that whatever fragile rapport she thought she had established with Margaux was not just in her mind. Mrs. Bellamy stopped at an open doorway. Unlike what Eleanor had seen of the rest of the apartment—the dining room with its long, highly polished table and graceful chairs covered in a gold silk brocade, the soigné lines of the furnishings in the living room—the décor here, though clearly expensive, was in execrable taste. Dark, stifling drapes. Leather-covered sofa and chairs. A massive desk facing a full wall of shelves lined with matched sets of leather-covered, gold-embossed volumes that looked like they were seldom—if ever—read. Over the mantel—a hulking thing in ponderous black-veined marble—hung an intricately worked antique gun; on the opposite wall, a large mounted fish with a flat black eye.

  “Here’s Margaux,” Mrs. Bellamy said. Clearly, Margaux’s demeanor was not affected by the cheerless and oppressive nature of her surroundings; she looked animated and alert. Her dark blond hair was held back by a black velvet headband and she wore a pair of slacks and a blouse with a small rounded collar. Unlike so many polio victims whose spines had been irreparably twisted by the disease, her posture was good; were it not for the walking stick, propped to her left, no one would guess that there was anything wrong. A carved library table in front of her held several books, all neatly lined up, as well as a few notebooks, a pad, and some pencils.

  “I’ve been asking Mother when you’d get here.” Margaux moved over so her tutor could sit down. Her eyes—a dark, intense blue—sought out Eleanor’s.

  “I’m going to leave you two now,” Mrs. Bellamy said. “Let me know if you need anything.” She closed the door behind her.

  “So tell me what you were working on with Mr. Cobb.” Mrs. Bellamy had actually filled her in, but Eleanor thought it would be good to hear it directly from Margaux.

  “Mr. Cobb was the most boring man in the world,” said Margaux. “Does it really matter what we talked about?”

  Margaux was right. Did Eleanor really care what the crushingly dull Mr. Cobb had said? She did not. Feeling a surge of confidence, she examined the pile of books on the table. A copy of Romeo and Juliet, an anthology of British poetry, Jane Eyre. Beneath these, several textbooks: algebra, American history, and biology. She picked up the copy of Romeo and Juliet. She’d found that, with its youthful protagonists, it was a play that often appealed to her students. She was a good teacher, she reminded herself; she could reach this girl. “So,” she said, opening the book to the first page. “Let’s begin.”

  Three hours later, there was a knock at the door and then Mrs. Bellamy’s elegantly coiffed head appeared. “Ready for some lunch?”

  “Is it lunchtime already?” Margaux asked.

  “Yes, darling, it is,” Mrs. Bellamy said. But her eyes were on Eleanor and her look clearly said, Whatever you’re doing here, would you please keep doing it?

  Lunch was lively, with Margaux an active, if not dominant, participant in the conversation. “Did you know that the first fourteen lines Romeo and Juliet say to each other form a sonnet?” she asked her mother. “And that Juliet is only fourteen when the play starts.”

  “And you’ll be fourteen next year,” her mother said with pleasure. “It seems like you’re really enjoying Shakespeare.”

  “Miss Moskowitz makes it so much fun. We’ve been reading some of the scenes out loud—it’s like we’re actors onstage.” Margaux took a large bite of her egg sandwich—made especially by Henryka without mayonnaise—for emphasis.

  Eleanor could feel Mrs. Bellamy beaming in her direction, but she did not let her gaze meet her employer’s; she did not want Margaux to feel patronized by their reaction to her enthusiasm. So instead she took a smaller and more decorous bite of her own sandwich, and nodded when asked if she wanted more lemonade. She looked forward to finishing the meal and returning to the study for an afternoon session with Margaux. They were going to tackle the algebra lesson and then biology. Tomorrow they would continue with Shakespeare and move on to history as well. And she’d promised to bring along her own Latin textbook; Margaux had been asking her about Latin and expressed an interest in studying it.

  “Why not feed her interest?” Eleanor had said to Mrs. Bellamy.

  “Why not?” Mrs. Bellamy had replied, eyes shining.

  So after the tea and cookies were served, Eleanor and Margaux once again returned to the study and closed the door. “I used to fall asleep when he would try to explain this to me,” Margaux said, settling into the sofa and fiddling with the brass rivets studding its edge. “But I have a feeling that I’ll understand it bett
er with you.”

  At three o’ clock, when Mrs. Bellamy once again poked her head into the room, Margaux was aglow with her newfound understanding of the five basic concepts of biology; she insisted on enumerating them for her bemused mother: “Cell theory, gene theory, evolution, homeostasis, and the laws of thermodynamics.” She turned to Eleanor. “Is that right?”

  “It’s perfect,” said Eleanor. She herself had needed to brush up on the topic before she had taught it to Margaux and was pleased with how quickly the girl caught on.

  Margaux’s tremulous smile was its own sweet reward and when she asked, “You’ll come back tomorrow, right?” Eleanor could answer with assurance, “Yes, I’ll see you then.”

  Eleanor walked slowly home, welcoming the chance to be outside before returning to the apartment. She and her mother took turns making supper; it was something Eleanor had first initiated and then insisted upon. “But you work all day,” her mother had said.

  “So do you,” Eleanor had replied. “And besides, my workday is shorter.”

  And so the pattern was set. Tonight was one of Eleanor’s nights, and she headed uptown and east, toward the cluster of stores under the perforated shadow of the Third Avenue El, where they did the bulk of their shopping. She bought a cut-up chicken, which she would panfry and serve with rice. A greengrocer on the same block yielded a head of lettuce and two ripe tomatoes, along with three pounds of sweet peas for ten cents, and three of yams, for fourteen. She decided to splurge on a box of lace cookies from their favorite bakery on Eighty-Second. With their thin filling of dark chocolate sandwiched by the fretwork of pastry, they were her mother’s favorites, yet she seldom bought them because of the expense. Still, tonight was a celebration of sorts—Eleanor’s first day on her new job.

  Her mother was already in the kitchen, taking the dishes out of the cabinet.

  “I could have done that, Mother,” Eleanor said, hurriedly putting down her bundles and taking off her hat.

  “I can set the table,” her mother said. “It’s enough that you’re making dinner.”

  “How was your day?” Eleanor asked as she washed her hands in the kitchen sink and put on an apron.

  “Busy,” her mother said as she laid out the everyday cutlery with its amber-colored Bakelite handles. “I had a bride.”

  “Really?” Eleanor put the rice up and began rinsing the chicken parts. Her mother’s shop did not generally cater to the bridal trade.

  “A second marriage,” Irina explained. “She’s going to be wearing a suit, and so I’m doing a little ivory toque, with silk orange blossoms and a half veil.”

  “Swell,” Eleanor said. She patted the chicken dry gently, wondering if she would ever be a bride, even once.

  “She had two bridesmaids with her,” her mother continued. “They need hats too. We’re doing those in periwinkle. But no veils or flowers; only a small crystal button on each.”

  “Sounds elegant.” Eleanor began to prepare the salad. As she sliced the tomatoes, her mother had finished setting the table and discovered the bakery box. Cutting the red-and-white string to open it, Irina said, “Lace cookies. My favorite.” Then she looked at her daughter. “You haven’t told me about your day. Did it go well?”

  “Yes,” said Eleanor. “I really like the girl. Margaux.”

  “Well, that’s a good start,” her mother said. “But what about the future? Even if this does work out, what will happen when she gets older? You’ll have no security.”

  “I told you: I can always apply for a teaching job in a school next spring. Or the fall after that. And I’m still in touch with that Miss Burns from the employment agency. Don’t worry so much.”

  “Well, at least you’re thinking ahead,” Irina said. “Women have to think ahead. Especially women who don’t have rich fathers or husbands to support them.” She took down a blue glass dish from the cupboard and began to arrange the cookies on it.

  Eleanor had heard all this before and even though she knew her mother was right, it irritated her. What if she didn’t want to think ahead for once? What if she just wanted to see where life took her? She poured oil into a pan to heat. While waiting, she dusted the chicken parts with a mixture of flour, salt, pepper, and celery seed. When the oil started sputtering, she began laying the chicken in the pan. She thought of the day’s small indignities: the slightly surly housekeeper, the cool look of the doorman when she’d given him the false name—and decided that the time spent with Margaux outweighed them all. This job was going to work, she told herself. She was going to make it work.

  “Do you remember that dark green felt hat you made?” Eleanor asked when they were seated at the table. “It had a velvet ribbon and that one perfect faux jewel?”

  “Yes!” Irina used a heel of bread to sop up juice from the chicken. “The woman who wanted to buy it asked if I could add another jewel, and another and another?”

  “And you said, ‘Madam, if I add one more ornament to this hat, people are going to think it’s a Christmas tree!’” This was an old joke, but they both enjoyed the punch line as much as they had the first time Irina had repeated it.

  “And she never came back!” Eleanor said.

  “Never!” said Irina. “And you know what? I didn’t care! Sometimes you just have to do what you think is right, even if it’s not the practical thing.”

  “I’m glad you said that to her.” Eleanor felt a flash of pride for her mother. “She didn’t deserve that hat.”

  Eleanor put the kettle on and Irina fetched the new issue of Vogue, which they looked at together while they had their tea and cookies.

  “Patricia Bellamy has a dress that color.” Eleanor pointed to a lovely pink dress with a full skirt and bow at the neckline.

  “You said she dresses well,” Irina said.

  “Very.”

  “What kind of woman is she?”

  “She seems kind. Compassionate. When she saw how upset I was, she brought me to her apartment to get cleaned up. She gave me lunch.”

  “She was probably worried you would sue her.”

  “Sue her? That’s ridiculous. She wasn’t even driving.”

  “You don’t know what she was really thinking. They’re sneaky.”

  Eleanor didn’t need to ask who “they” were—she was all too familiar with her mother’s distrust of the Gentile world. When Eleanor had been accepted at Vassar, Irina’s pride had been mingled with that same distrust. “They’ll snub you. Mock you,” she had said. “You’ll just have to show them that you’re as good as they are.”

  Her mother had not been entirely wrong about Vassar. On Eleanor’s very first day, a girl with a flaxen pageboy had stopped her in the hallway of Main Building. “There’s still time to switch rooms,” the girl had said.

  “What do you mean?” Eleanor asked.

  “You haven’t actually moved in yet, have you?” The girl gestured to Eleanor’s suitcase and pair of hatboxes.

  “No, but I’m about to.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I’m trying to warn you.”

  “Warn me?”

  “It’s your roommate. Her name is Eleanor Moskowitz. You can ask for a different roommate before she gets here.”

  “I’m Eleanor Moskowitz.”

  There had been a brief, mortifying silence during which the girl’s hands flew to her mouth, as if to cram the offending words back in. Then she’d fled.

  It had not ended there. Eleanor recalled the slights, the omissions. Invitations extended to an entire group—except her. Looks that passed back and forth between some of the girls as she walked by or took her seat in class. Certain coded words she had come to recognize: ambitious for pushy, self-confident for arrogant, principled for stubborn. But those same girls also taught her things that were valuable, things she wanted to know. They knew how to talk, to comport themselves, and to dress, even the ones without much money. She admired their manners, their confidence, their restraint. They didn’t make her want to change who she wa
s. But they made her want to be the best version of herself.

  And then there was the intellectual awakening that had been invigorating, if not thrilling. The symmetrical beauty of a line of Latin verse. A lecture hall where an impassioned professor had held forth about Pride and Prejudice and Vanity Fair. A drama department production of The Cherry Orchard in which she’d played the role of Anya. Three-hundred-level seminars in Shakespeare, astronomy field trips that brought the night sky dazzlingly into view. Vassar had been all those things too.

  The telephone rang, giving Eleanor a small reprieve. It seemed that she and her mother were never going to be in accord on this subject. Shaped by her past, Irina would always harbor a certain fear of those she considered other. But Eleanor was more curious than fearful; she wanted to find out more about Patricia, Margaux, and the world they came from. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a place for her in it.

  Six

  Patricia sat at the breakfast table, sipping her coffee. Eleanor was due to arrive any minute for her second day on the job, and Margaux was already impatient. “It’s after nine,” she said. “She should be coming soon, shouldn’t she?” she asked again.

  “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute,” her mother said. She was nervous too, about Eleanor’s arrival, but for an entirely different reason—Eleanor had not yet met Wynn. Yesterday he’d gone into the office early but today he was still in the apartment, taking what seemed to Patricia an unusually long time getting ready. What was he doing in there?

  He finally sailed into the dining room, cheerful and magnanimous, pausing to kiss the top of Margaux’s head before sitting down at the table, where he complimented Henryka lavishly on the shirred eggs. Then the doorman rang to say Eleanor Moss was coming up and when Patricia saw Wynn’s eyebrows go up, ever so slightly, she felt a rope of fear tighten inside.