“Mabel,” Miss Everett said, still staring at me, and I realized she was addressing the girl with a pencil tucked over her ear.
“Yes, Miss Everett,” the girl said.
“Show Miss Katz to Personnel. We’ll have her start as Mr. Frederick’s new secretary.” Then a second idea appeared to occur to her and she snapped to attention. “No! Wait. Isn’t Mr. Turner also looking for a new girl right now?” Mabel nodded hesitantly. A curious expression appeared on Miss Everett’s face. Finally, she said, “Yes, that’ll be better for you, dear. Let’s have you start there.” She carefully fixed a hat over her hairdo and departed without another word.
6
Rising in front of the entrance to the Torchon & Lyle building on Fifty-eighth Street was a large phoenix cast in copper. For being stationary, it nonetheless implied a great deal of motion; its wings stretched wide as if to take flight, its neck arched to strike downward at a serpent or some such creature with its beak, and one talon lifted free into the air while the other still touched the ash heap from which it perpetually rose. I’ve been told that since my time at Torchon & Lyle the company swallowed up many of its smaller competitors until the whole outfit was so big it was forced to relocate slightly uptown to a more modern and muted-looking glass skyscraper where there is no mythical phoenix poised to take flight out in front. This is one of the more tragic outcomes of progress. The old building was all limestone and brass with that giant terrifying phoenix you had to step around to enter the revolving door. Somehow I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Most of the phoenix had turned the milky green color of pale jade, save for one spot on the first knuckle of the phoenix’s lifted talon. In contrast to the rest of the statue this one spot gleamed with a well-polished brilliance, and eventually I discovered an old office superstition was responsible for it. The superstition went that if you touched the statue’s talon before entering the revolving brass door in the morning, then you were protected from being fired for the rest of the day.
No one could tell me how this superstition got started, but the logic made sense somehow. After all, the phoenix was Torchon & Lyle’s colophon. A silhouette of it rode the lower spine of every book the publisher printed. It appeared again in the middle bottom of every book’s title page. I must say, even in miniature silhouette the Torchon & Lyle phoenix was a beautiful, powerful-looking creature, with flames burning brightly from the tips of its wings like stray feathers licking up in the wind, so you can imagine the statue version was that much more impressive, standing as it did fifteen feet tall. Though I didn’t know about the superstition on my first day, when I saw the people walking ahead of me pause to give the statue a strange abbreviated rub, I found myself standing at the base of the phoenix reaching up to touch its talon.
“Oh!” a girl next to me said. “You already know about the phoenix!”
“I’m not sure I do. What about it?” I asked.
“That it’s good luck,” the girl said. She explained about the superstition while I nodded.
I looked more closely at the girl. Her face was scrubbed clean and, except for a swipe of very red lipstick, she could’ve just as easily been taken for a high schooler as a secretary. She wore her hair in a ponytail that fell in a straight line and was the color of wheat. The heavy weight of it caused it to swing subtly as she talked and moved her head, shimmering slightly with every perky tremor. “Whose secretary are you going to be?” she asked.
“Mr. Turner’s,” I said.
“Oh, in that case you’d better rub it twice.” She reached for my hand and put it back on the shiny spot on the phoenix’s talon. “He’s famous for being awfully strict with his girls.
“I’m Judy,” she said when I had finished rubbing the talon to her satisfaction. We shook hands. “I’m on three,” she continued as we proceeded into the building and stepped into an elevator. “Come and find me at lunchtime; I’ll give you the tour!”
“Won’t they have already given me the tour?” I asked.
“Not if you’re Mr. Turner’s girl. He’s always in early and he’s dreadfully serious. He’ll want you to get to work right away and the other girls on that floor will steer clear for a few weeks—just until it’s safe. Don’t take it personally.” The elevator ticked off the third floor with a cheerful ding and the doors slid open. “See you at twelve-thirty!” With that, Judy stepped out and merged into a stream of girls scurrying about, tugging off gloves and unpinning hats and removing the stiff vinyl dustcovers from a row of typewriters.
When the elevator chimed its announcement of the fifth floor, I stepped off and reported to the same personnel office where I had ended up at my previous visit. In short order, I was told Mr. Turner was located on the sixth floor and I was to occupy a desk right outside his office. I oughtn’t bother to knock and introduce myself, the other girls in the typing pool told me; he didn’t like to be disturbed and would call for me when he had need of me. I went up to six, did as instructed, and spent the morning arranging and rearranging the contents of my new desk.
With several hours surrendered to the art of aimless sorting, my stomach had begun to launch into a minor soliloquy of grumblings. The clock on the wall showed twelve-twenty before I got my first glimpse of Mr. Turner himself. He was a tall, stiff-jawed man with wire-rimmed glasses and pepper-gray hair. He came out of his office with a stack of manuscripts in one arm and a pile of correspondence in the other. He carried an air of cold, calculated precision about him that put me in mind of a Swiss watch.
“Miss Katz,” he said, and my spine straightened, surprised to hear him speak my name so forcefully when we had not yet been introduced. “All of these need to go back to from whence they came. Very short and concise notes of declination will do just fine.” He transferred the stack of manuscripts onto my desktop with an efficient grace. “And these,” he continued, holding out the pile of correspondence, “want for a reply. I’ll dictate my responses later this afternoon.” He paused and glanced at me over the rim of his glasses. “You do take dictation, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” I said. Mr. Turner had a curious effect on people. It was clear he was rigid and uncompromising, but seconds after meeting him I found I desperately wanted to win his approval.
“Fine. Let me make one thing clear: I don’t know you, and I didn’t pick you to be my secretary. Miss Everett did,” he said, crisply pronouncing her name Miss Ev-er-ett, with equal emphasis on each syllable. “You have her to thank for that. But she knows better than to send me dunces, so that must mean you must’ve impressed her somehow. As for my expectations, I don’t enjoy excuses, and I expect you to prioritize my assignments before anything else you might receive from the typing pool. You’ll find I run a very tight ship here. I’m sorry to say you won’t be able to take any long lunches or indulge in any afternoon shopping trips on account of my being asleep at the wheel. The bar is certainly not open in my office. However, I will tell you this: If you understand this business is all about working very hard and spending long hours doing it, we’ll get along just fine. Got that?”
I nodded.
“All right.” He glanced at his watch. “You have one hour for lunch, so you’d better get to it. I expect to start that dictation precisely at one-thirty.” He turned and strode back into his office, shutting the door behind him with the same air of forceful efficiency with which he’d emerged. I stood up from my desk and, feeling a bit wobbly-kneed, gathered my things.
When the elevator doors slid open on three, I found Judy standing there waiting for me.
“There you are! Twelve-thirty on the nose,” she said, holding up her wrist as if to prove it. “Well, if there’s one thing I can say about Mr. Turner, it’s that you sure can set your watch by him!” She motioned for me to step off the elevator. “C’mon. I’m sure he reminded you: We don’t have all day. We’ll start the tour here and I’ll give you the skinny on who does what.” Clutched in her
left hand was a white paper bag marked with two small grease spots. She unrolled the top and reached into it. “Speaking of skinny, you are, awfully . . . Here’s something to fatten you up.” She handed me a pastrami on rye and kept what looked like turkey for herself. Just peering at the paper wrapper rendered translucent by all that oily meat and mayonnaise gave me indigestion. I would’ve much rather had the turkey, but I accepted the sandwich gratefully.
Between bites, Judy gave an otherwise steady monologue as she took me around. Torchon & Lyle’s offices took up the better part of seven floors of the twenty-four-storey high-rise. “We’re the second-biggest publishing house in New York,” Judy announced proudly. I learned where to make coffee and how to make it in a specific fashion so that nobody would complain. She told me which of the other secretaries you could trust to help you out of a jam if you botched a task, and which of them offered to send out for the lunch order but then pocketed your extra change. Judy also repeated details about each of the editors—not so much what authors they’d edited and what they’d published but rather personal details that would help me handle myself. Alcoholic . . . she said, pointing to one editor’s office . . . works better in the afternoons, best not to approach him in the mornings if you see his hand shaking . . . Shrewish wife . . . she said of another, we’ve all got to pretend like we don’t know he sleeps in his office most nights. She rolled her eyes as we passed another. Editor-in-chief’s nephew . . . she said, thumbing towards another office, rarely in and practically useless but be careful what you say in front of him; it all gets back to the Big Cheese. When she got to Miss Everett’s office, she stopped.
“And I take it you’ve already met Miss Everett,” she said, and paused. There was a cautious note in her voice, and I found myself thinking of the phoenix and how Judy had instructed me to rub its talon twice. I waited for Judy to go on but she didn’t.
“Yes; Miss Everett was the one who hired me,” I finally said. It was an unnecessary statement, but I couldn’t think of anything better and the silence of Judy’s pause was beginning to unnerve me. She glanced at me and smiled stiffly.
“Well, something about you must’ve caught her attention if she chose you to be Mr. Turner’s girl,” she said. Like a dummy, I mistook her warning for a compliment. I shrugged and smiled and felt my cheeks color.
“Perhaps she likes her girls to be ambitious. I told her I wanted to become an editor,” I confessed.
“Oh! You told her that? That’s awfully bold!” It seemed there was more Judy wanted to say on this subject, but she took a quick glance at her watch and flinched.
“Golly! Time flies. Better be getting back to your desk or Mr. Turner will have your head. He’s a stickler, but I’m sure you know that already. I’ll walk you back to the elevator.” As we walked, I thanked her for her hospitality. “Don’t mention it!” she said, waving my gratitude off. A ding sounded and the elevator doors opened. Judy gave my arm a friendly squeeze. “You’ll see—it’s really swell here. Once you figure out who to steer clear of, it’ll all be cake.” The red lipstick she was wearing earlier in the day had now been mostly rubbed off by the bread of the sandwich she’d been eating. I stared at the freckled apples of her cheeks and sincere blue saucers of her eyes. We smiled at each other as the doors slid shut.
I was still smiling when the elevator stopped on four, and a rather rotund, red-faced man in a plaid sports jacket stepped on.
“Well, don’t you look jolly!” he said, noting my expression. As he spoke, a strangely sweet yet rank, overripe scent filled the elevator. I realized with a shock he must’ve been drinking during the lunch hour, and not in moderation. He leaned towards me in a mock confidential manner, the alcohol causing his features to slide into an ugly leer. “Oh, don’t pull a serious face on my account! I like a girl who knows how to have a good time.” He winked and then suddenly declared, “You’re new. Whose girl are you?”
“I work for Mr. Turner.”
“Ah. Well, he’s no fun. Not compared to Yours Truly. I see I’ll have to come visit you on six more often just to save you from that sourpuss.”
We were alone, and an uncomfortable silence filled the elevator as he continued to regard me. I forced a smile. When another ding announced we had reached the sixth floor, I felt myself exhale.
“Oh, but where are my manners! And I call myself a gentleman,” he called after me as I stepped through the elevator doors. He gave a little bow in my direction, swaying a little as though the elevator car were really a small boat pitching upon a rolling wave. “Harvey Frederick. Pleasure to meet you!”
Before I had a chance to acknowledge his introduction, the elevator doors slid shut. I recalled on the day of my hiring Miss Everett had mentioned a “Mr. Frederick.” And to think everyone seemed to pity me for having been assigned to Mr. Turner! Surely working for Mr. Frederick could be far worse. Perhaps Miss Everett had done me a great favor, and a surge of gratitude passed over me as I made my way back to my desk.
7
The next morning I made sure to stop and rub the phoenix’s talon, happy for my new career and hopeful to keep it. Mr. Turner stuck his head out of his office exactly three times that day: once to give me some reports to type up, and two additional times to inquire with great irritation why I wasn’t finished yet. Rising to his challenge, I picked up the pace, completed the task in no time flat, and knocked on his door. I figured since he seemed to be in a great hurry, he would want to know the instant I was done.
“Somebody ought to have informed you, Miss Katz, I loathe unnecessary interruption. You are never—ever—to knock on my door if it is not open,” he scolded me. “If it’s an absolute emergency you may buzz me on the intercom.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said.
“Well, now you do,” he sniffed.
My cheeks colored and I left his office immediately, closing the door behind me.
During the months that followed, though I got used to my duties, I found Mr. Turner impossible to please. There were a great many annoyances in his life that I was personally responsible for, according to him.
“For God’s sake!” he complained on one occasion, nearly giving me a heart attack as he burst through his office door and shook an angry finger at the radiator near my desk. “Why do you insist on letting that infernal thing clang away until we are all deaf instead of calling for the janitor?” Sure enough, I listened, and the radiator was rattling ever so slightly. But it was hardly the kind of apocalyptic racket Mr. Turner was ranting about. I’d hardly noticed it myself, and I couldn’t understand how he’d managed to hear it from all the way inside his office, behind a closed door. Fearing both Mr. Turner’s sensitivity and his wrath, I called for the radiator to be fixed immediately, and stood over the janitor while he worked.
I would have believed he hated me, save for the fact I knew it was much more likely he didn’t care about me at all.
“He’s just like that,” Judy remarked, during one of our quick lunches together. She looked thoughtful for a moment and frowned at the half-moon lipstick stain rimming her paper coffee cup. She wiped at it with her thumb. “He’s like that, but . . . perhaps a little more so with you.”
“Why more so with me?” I asked.
Judy shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, and changed the subject to an evening radio soap she’d recently begun to follow. Judy lived in a women’s hotel similar to the Barbizon, but with a few more niceties. She had a radio in her room, and there was even a big black-and-white television in the lounge the girls could gather around to watch things like American Bandstand. I had none of these distractions, but that suited me; Mr. Turner let me take the slush pile home with me, and I spent my evenings reading manuscripts.
“If any of them show promise, you are to write up a reader’s report and submit it to me,” he had instructed. “Then I’ll be the judge of whether they are worth our time.” I’d written up a
small handful of reports, but so far nothing I liked tickled Mr. Turner’s fancy. That’s the thing about taste: It’s rarely shared, and Mr. Turner made it clear he did not share mine. But if Mr. Turner did not want to play mentor to me, that was all right, because Miss Everett seemed to want the job.
By the time I’d been at Torchon & Lyle for a few months, Miss Everett had cultivated a habit of calling me into her office once or twice a week for the purposes of having, as she called it, “a little professional chat.” She did this so regularly, I soon had the walk to her office memorized: the sailboat paintings that hung on the wall in the corridor that led to Miss Everett’s door with their flaccid cheerfulness; the plant that sat on her window ledge with its waxy-leaved tendrils curling down into the slats of the radiator below it; the pungent, lingering tang of the Russian dressing I knew Miss Everett used on her daily salad. Miss Everett would sit just as she had on the day of my interview, leaning back in her oversized swivel chair, leveling a cool stare at me. “I take it, Miss Katz . . .” she always began when we sat down for one of our little professional chats. Miss Everett had a peculiar habit of phrasing her questions as observations. I don’t know whether this was a calculated maneuver, but the result was it made it difficult to introduce information not contained in her observational statement lest it sound like you were disagreeing with her. Even now, my brain is still filled with examples of these conversations.
“I take it, Miss Katz, you are enjoying your time here at Torchon and Lyle?”
“Oh yes, ma’am.”
“I take it you’ve been enjoying all the book signings and publishing parties?”
“Oh absolutely, ma’am.”
“I imagine our little soirees must be rather different from what you’re used to in Iowa.” (Miss Everett often used the state names Indiana and Iowa as though they were entirely interchangeable, and I knew enough by then not to correct her.)
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