Sheila picked the folder up and let herself in. During a few minutes sitting by herself at the glass-topped table, she studied the room, enjoying Eleanor’s crystal vases, copper-bottomed cookware, original still life oil paintings. She’d never liked the strange wallpaper with trellises and clinging plants and mysterious shapes. Why this claustrophobic design?
When Nick came in, he said, “Do you want a mug or a teacup?”
“Definitely a teacup.”
He filled a pink rose-patterned one from Eleanor’s collection, adding a dollop of cream without asking because that’s how he took his coffee.
For the next few minutes, they sat across from each other, comparing thoughts on movies. The group had recently seen They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? at Eleanor’s suggestion. Other than cursory remarks like, “What a downer,” no one had said much.
“So you liked the movie?” Nick said.
Sheila responded with, “I didn’t like it, but I thought it was interesting … maybe a warning about what a person chooses to commit to. Times were hard, they were trying to improve themselves. What did you think?”
“Depressing … all that Depression stuff. I liked Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid a whole lot better.”
“I agree. That’s a fun movie.”
Books weren’t mentioned. She wondered what he and Eleanor talked about when they were alone. Eleanor constantly read. She passed along several books to Sheila, the most recent being I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. It gave her a better understanding of a different, and more horrific, type of entrapment.
Sheila sensed that all Nick read were car magazines.
Cheryl often laughed behind Eleanor’s back about her “library,” and her “weird job planning all those boring programs.”
When Sheila finished her coffee, which did happen to be exactly how she liked it, and got up to go, she handed Nick the folder. “Be sure Eleanor gets this.” She headed over to the sink with her cup and saucer.
“Why rush off? She’ll be here soon.”
“My cat needs some attention.”
“I could use a little attention.” He stood and moved closer.
Sheila backed away, but her heart beat faster.
“Why are you here? You knew Eleanor would be gone.”
“I did not.” Her skin flushed with anger.
“I thought she told you everything.”
He put his hands on her arms, gently pushing Sheila against the sink’s edge. “You want to stay,” he said in a soft voice like the rumbles of a lion.
Even though she hated his attitude, her skin warmed and tingled at his touch. She hadn’t been this close to a man since dancing with him that first night she stayed at their house. Sheila stared at his sweatshirt. Nick’s chest was every bit as broad as Jim’s.
He pressed her harder against the sink.
“Hi you two. What’s going on?” Eleanor said from the doorway.
“She got something in her eye,” Nick answered without pause.
“Are you all right?” Eleanor rushed over to check.
Sheila, playing along, rubbed an eye, hoping it would look red. “I’m fine. Got some dust in it, helping your husband with the lights. You know how that is—a tiny speck feels like the Key Bridge.”
“You helped with the lights? Thanks so much … and for waiting.”
“Here’s the information you wanted. I have to get back to Silver Girl.”
“You treat that cat like a baby.” Eleanor smiled. “Come over later. Chad and Cheryl and the rest will be here for fried chicken.”
“You’re cooking for everyone again?”
“Sure. And I want you here.”
“We’ll see.” All of a sudden some of the words and gestures between Nick and Cheryl made sense. Times when Sheila had seen him standing close to Cheryl, and talking softly. How many others had there been? A wave of loyalty came over her. Realizing how close she’d come to falling into Nick’s arms, she decided, I can’t let Eleanor be treated in this way.
This wasn’t the first time Nick came on to her. He called Sheila often over the next few months, wanting to get together because “You must be lonesome living all by yourself, after being married.” Each time she told him that they had no business seeing each other without Eleanor. Once, he stopped by her apartment, unannounced, and said, “El sent me over with this music for the minstrels in the Renaissance Faire.” Then, “Can I please come in? I’ll be good.” His voice sounded as coaxing as a sweet little boy begging for a cookie.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate.” She picked up Silver Girl, feeling stupid, yet holding her cat like a shield between them.
“Appropriate?”
“Eleanor is my friend. She’s done so much for me. I never want to hurt her.”
“Eleanor doesn’t need to know.” He looked straight into Sheila’s eyes, challenging her.
As her body dizzily swayed, she braced her hand on the molding of the door.
Suddenly, the exterminator man walked up the steps. “Here to spray for cockroaches.”
“Thank goodness.” It was getting warmer. As Eleanor predicted, being above the garbage room had proven to be a problem. The night before while Sheila and Silver Girl nestled together in bed, the cat popped up her head and wiggled her nose, before pouncing on an enormous creepy crawly wriggling across the floor. Spraying wouldn’t get rid of them permanently. Still, they would dash off to some other apartment for a while.
“I’ll get going.” Nick hung his head in apparent disappointment.
After this, Sheila debated what to do. Eleanor should know that her husband was unfaithful. That he was only with her because of the benefits offered to him. What if she has a child? How could Sheila tell her and not cause hurt feelings beyond belief? What would happen if Nick moved out? Sheila could move in with her, could stand by her, could help her get through what would be a horrible time. She envisioned living in Eleanor’s house, sleeping in that beautiful green and white guest room, looking out on sunny mornings at the ever-changing apple tree.
She hesitated. There were many opportunities to bring up Nick’s bad behavior—while they drove to and from work, or at one of their many lunches together. Yet Sheila couldn’t bring herself to broach the subject.
It was on the last day of the Renaissance Faire. She had been playing a mandolin with the group of strolling musicians. Resting at a temporary fence, their arms crossed on the top, Sheila and Eleanor, who had been seeing to details of the event, watched a jousting match. Men with lances in hand, dressed in blue and gold tunics, galloped on horses decked out in matching fabrics, aiming to catch a hanging ring.
“I know that knight,” Eleanor gestured toward the winner in blue. He walked a dapple gray horse in a circle. A bouquet of red roses lay across his crooked arm. After acknowledging the crowd’s cheers, he trotted over a makeshift bridge to where they stood. With a flourish, he leaned down and presented the flowers to Eleanor.
“Why didn’t you give these to one of those fair maidens?” She nodded to a group of costumed young women with peaked, scarf-wrapped hats, who had been clapping loudly every time a rider came close to the target.
“You deserve these more than anyone else here—for all the work you do on every event.” The man had thinning blond hair that fell over his forehead, and a long face with a kind, eager expression.
After he rode away, Sheila said, “He really likes you.”
“Adam’s a good guy … works in Admin.”
“Is he married?”
“Divorced a while back. Want me to introduce you?”
“No! I just wondered.” She hadn’t dated since coming to D.C. There’d been a couple of invitations to go out with guys from work, but none of them appealed to her. Each time, she decided, It’s better to be with Silver Girl and practice my music.
From th
e way he looked at Eleanor, as well as his words, Sheila could tell that this man did genuinely care about her.
Later, when Eleanor pulled up in front of the apartment, Sheila, who was holding the roses, said, “I have something important to talk to you about.”
“Golly, why so serious?”
“This is hard for me to say.”
Eleanor turned toward Sheila, her hands dropping from the steering wheel.
“It’s about Nick.”
“What about Nick?” Red splotches surfaced on her cheeks.
“He’s been coming on to me. Nothing’s happened. But I can’t believe I’m the first.” There had been more phone calls since he had dropped over. She was saved by the bug man that time. Despite being tempted, she told herself, The guy is a jerk! His wife’s my friend! “I’m so sorry … and …”
“I don’t believe you.” Eleanor’s voice grew louder.
“I didn’t want to say anything. I was afraid if I didn’t, you’d be hurt much worse. Today, that nice guy could tell you’re a wonderful person. All kinds of people know that. You don’t need to put up with bad treatment.”
“Nick was only being friendly. Sometimes he goes too far because he doesn’t realize how women will react. He didn’t mean a thing. You took it the way you wanted to take it. Like all the rest. I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Get out of my car!”
Sheila carefully placed the roses on the passenger seat and hurried away.
She gave a two-week notice at the Smithsonian the next day. Those weeks, silently working next to Eleanor, were some of the hardest of her life. Sheila would update Eleanor on planned projects. Other than that, they had no communication. It was a relief when her replacement was hired—an older woman who transferred in from another department. She wasn’t musical but was great with the paperwork.
On Sheila’s last day, Eleanor never even acknowledged that she was leaving. Sheila put a letter on her desk, apologizing again, thanking Eleanor for all her help, and saying she hoped they could be friends someday. She didn’t tell her about Nick stopping by the apartment on a recent evening when Eleanor was at a meeting. This time no one interrupted them.
“I hear you and El had a falling out,” he said.
“What did she tell you?”
“That it was about a screw-up at work. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“No. That would be a terrible idea.”
“I’m not going to beg … I don’t have to beg.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Why not go see Cheryl?”
“Bitch!”
“Just leave!”
And he did. This was the last time she saw him. Sheila wondered if she should have clarified what had happened between her and Eleanor but decided he was too dense to comprehend his part in their rift.
About this time, Sheila dug out the book friends had given to her when she first left Minneapolis for California. The Feminine Mystique. Stories of women unhappy in their marriages and feeling oppressed made sense to her now.
CHAPTER 23
Horse Country
DESPITE THE FRACTURE OF HER FRIENDSHIP WITH ELEANOR DILLINGHAM, DESPITE THE fact that she and Eleanor would probably never speak again, despite being forced to leave the Smithsonian, Sheila felt grateful to her estranged friend for an introduction to Robert Newell.
She sat across a huge, oak desk from this man with eyes as kindly as Robert Young’s in Father Knows Best. Trying to keep her wits and nerves in check, Sheila grew more tense with each word he spoke. Stymied at the prospect of additional interviews if this one didn’t work out, she ordered herself, Concentrate!
“As head of building management at L’Enfant Plaza,” Robert Newell said, “I’m bringing in new tenants all the time. We’re still only half occupied. The assistant I hire will be dealing with many strangers.” He didn’t look at all like a retired army three-star general. He wore a dark business suit rather than a uniform.
What would people from the peace movement think? Followed by, Who cares! “I’m not shy. It’s very easy for me to meet new people.”
“Eleanor spoke highly of your abilities.”
This, at least, proved to be a relief. Eleanor’s referral hadn’t been a token gesture as her way of ending their friendship.
“I’ll get back to you in a few days.” Robert Newell stood.
Sheila got to her feet. Do I salute? “Thank you so much. I’m confident that I will be able to do excellent work at this position.” She smiled.
They shook hands.
“That’s a nice picture.” She gestured to a young woman in riding clothes sitting atop a bay horse.
“My daughter Polly. She’s quite the competitor.”
Sheila left the office, thinking, Confident? Hmmm.
Those few days anticipating his call reminded her, worry-wise, of when she waited for a job to materialize in order to stay with Jim after he was first stationed in Long Beach. Now, she wanted to stay in Washington, D.C., even if it was all by herself. The worst thing, as always, would be to hear her father say: “I knew you’d be back for good.” Going back to Minneapolis under these circumstances would mean an immense amount of groveling. She was doing more than fine on her own. I’m doing excellent. Even with this setback. I will find my way!
During those days, after she left the Smithsonian, with no job and trying to conserve her money, Sheila spent a lot of time alone, except for Silver Girl, in her new, even smaller, more expensive apartment that she had rented month-to-month with money saved. Often, she took long walks around the Washington, D.C., neighborhood as she’d done in Long Beach and San Francisco. She found a Catholic Church that she visited sometimes when it stood empty—to light a candle for her future, and the wellbeing of those she cared about, especially Eleanor.
She lived on canned soup and crackers. She read. She played her guitar and sang favorite songs. And she was thankful that at least her ex-friend hadn’t come to hate her so much that she wouldn’t even give her a decent referral.
Sheila did get hired by Robert Newell at $700/month, a nice raise over her $600/month in Eleanor’s Performing Arts Department at the Smithsonian. When he called her with the offer, which she readily accepted, she hung up the telephone and lay down on the blue sofa, staring at the white ceiling, breathing deeply for several minutes. Thank God. I won’t have to go back to Minneapolis.
A few months later, after witnessing her capabilities firsthand, Bob called her into his office and said, “There’s a community college close by. Why don’t you think about some night classes? A business degree would help you to advance faster.”
What about a music degree? She rubbed her hand across the smooth wood of his desk. Her opportunities were coming from the direction of business. She could continue practicing her music during free time. It looked like she could go far working with Bob, so she decided to take his advice.
“That sounds like a good idea. Thanks for thinking of it and appreciating my efforts.”
She returned to her office next door to his. It was half the size of the reception area. She split her time between desks in these two rooms. Her office had a shiny window that overlooked a cement patio accessible through sliding doors from the reception area. This is where she often ate her lunch brought from home, sitting on one of the comfortable folding chairs, listening to the piped-in classical music, and reading one of the many books that had become available on the women’s movement and the human potential movement. A gardening service took care of huge pots of flowers and greenery that changed periodically. Her favorites were the pink peonies, so sweetly fragrant, that had been in bloom when she first started work with Robert Newell.
To her surprise, she thoroughly enjoyed the classes she took. It was so good to finally be in a classroom environment, even if it was studying business of all things. The professors were kind and interested in helping student
s who worked during the day and worked even harder at night. There wasn’t much time for socializing, even though she did receive a couple of dinner invitations from another student, Philip, a guy around her age who worked for the government in some secret capacity.
After she told him for the second time, “I can’t fit dating in right now,” he gave up, but was always pleasant to her and they both joined a study group with two other students—one a woman, the other a man. They met in the library after classes and before tests. So, on those nights Sheila was particularly exhausted when she took the bus back to her apartment. Even so, she would awaken the next morning alert and eager to go to work.
Early that summer, after completing her first course in accounting, Sheila was sitting in Bob’s office with paperwork for a project he’d given her. It entailed plans for electrical work requested by a new tenant. She didn’t tell him about her father’s electrical company. The less he knew about her family, the better.
After they were done discussing this project, he said, “There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” His voice softened. “Polly has been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease.” She was only nineteen years old.
“I’m so sorry.” Sheila had no knowledge of the disease and could see Bob’s bewilderment.
“I hope she’ll be okay.” He cupped a hand over his mouth as if covering trembling lips. “I keep trying to think how to help her.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“That’s what I’m getting at—Polly’s concerned about keeping Sparky in shape for competitions with the Sweet Briar Vixens next fall.” He’d told her that Sparky, one of many horses at the Newells’ Fairfax County farm, the horse in his office photograph, was Polly’s favorite. “You’ve done some riding, right?”
Sheila hesitantly nodded.
“Would you consider coming out on weekends to exercise him? He likes girls—gentle hands.” Bob smiled. “Polly doesn’t want friends to know how serious her health problems have proven to be, so she won’t ask any of them.
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