It was not clear, however, how much he cared for actually being married.
Mr. Nelson’s office was large and included a sofa. He kept a drawer with a change of clothes and a little shaving kit. On nights when he worked late, he slept in his office instead of making the commute home to Connecticut. When Mr. Nelson didn’t stay late, I assumed he went home.
One morning, however, I came in early to discover my telephone was already ringing. I hurried through the large empty bullpen of the typing pool, anxious to silence its shrill ring.
“Roger Nelson, please” came an older female voice. His door was open a crack, and I could see he was not in his office, but somehow, on instinct, I knew I could not say as much. There was something in the caller’s voice, thin vibrations that revealed a kind of irritable, uptight strain, that made me think it was possible to get my boss in trouble.
“He stepped out momentarily,” I said.
“Oh,” said the woman. “This is Mrs. Nelson. He called last night to say he was working late. I assume he stayed overnight in his office, and I’m calling now regarding a personal matter.”
“Oh—of course! Mrs. Nelson, how lovely to hear your voice. You just missed him; he stepped out for a fresh shirt,” I said. Unfortunately, all signs pointed to Mr. Nelson not having been anywhere near his office in the last twelve hours. I silently prayed she would not call back before Roger was able to make it in.
“I see,” she said. “Please tell him I phoned.”
“I will,” I said, intending to introduce myself and elaborate, but she had already hung up. I could tell she was not interested in knowing who I was; perhaps she thought I was yet another Barbara. I looked up to see Mr. Nelson standing over my desk. I hadn’t heard him come in. I jumped.
“That was my wife?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you told her I’d stepped out for a fresh shirt?”
“I did.”
His posture relaxed. “Yes. Very good, then.” He smiled at me awkwardly. “Thank you, Eden.”
• • •
We never discussed this exchange further. The day I’d comforted Barbara at Delmonico’s, I had decided it was best not to stick my nose into whatever it was Mr. Nelson did outside working hours. For the most part, I liked working for Mr. Nelson. He received the house’s most literary submissions, and there were often very good manuscripts to be found in his slush pile. Though I had not yet been officially promoted to reader, he gave me quite a lot of manuscripts to take home and read, and he trusted my appraisal of their quality and promise.
During my first month or so at Bonwright, I was happy with our arrangement. I was reading plenty of high-quality stuff, and Mr. Nelson had already acquired two manuscripts on my recommendation. He praised my “sharp eye,” and I felt quite proud of myself. But then a small detail came to my attention: Mr. Nelson had a habit of praising my editorial taste only when we were in his office, alone. In the typing pool, or in front of colleagues, he never let on that I had done any of the reading, let alone had the “sharp eye” that had resulted in the acquisition of the manuscript in question.
I decided one day to ask him if I couldn’t officially be made a reader. I plucked up my courage and knocked on his door.
“Why, you’ve only worked for me for a few weeks, Eden,” he exclaimed, as though surprised. “You want a promotion already?”
I didn’t point out that it had been more than a few weeks. “I’m not asking for a raise,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I was only thinking . . . since you have me reading so many manuscripts . . . perhaps I could officially be made a reader. You know, in title.”
His lips twitched with irritation and he frowned. “I think it’s rather soon for you to be asking me this, Eden. During your interview, I meant it when I said there would be light editorial duties but that I couldn’t promise to promote you to reader right away.” He shuffled around a few piles of papers on his desk as though he were suddenly very busy. “Frankly, I don’t understand you career gals these days. My last secretary, Francine, used to read almost all of my manuscripts. She worked for me for fifteen years and never once asked me to officially make her a reader.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip, thinking carefully of how to proceed. In the instant that had passed since I’d broached the subject, one thing had become very clear to me: My ambition was not the asset I had thought it would be. Mr. Nelson wanted the kind of secretary who would remain by his side in a permanent capacity, reading manuscripts but never asking to be acknowledged as a reader. He wanted a girl who would get settled and stay put, one who he’d never have to replace.
“Look,” he said now, sighing as if to let go of a great irritation, “I can’t offer you advancement at the present moment. But if you earn it through hard work, perhaps we can work something out.” He paused, giving me a serious look. “If you work very, very, very hard, we can revisit this subject at a later date. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, Mr. Nelson,” I rushed to reply.
“If you want me to take you in earnest, you mustn’t botch a single task I give you—is that also understood? I can’t very well give you more responsibility if you aren’t ready for it.”
“Of course!”
“Fine, then . . .” He grunted. He pulled a cigar out of his desk drawer, clipped it, and set about toasting it with an elegant gold-plated lighter. I got the sense he was getting ready to dismiss me, but he seemed lost in thought, as though he had something more to say to me that he hadn’t quite worked out yet.
“You know, Eden, I’m sure you think being an editor is very glamorous, but it’s a lot of hard work, and not all of it is quantifiable. For instance, you haven’t any clue what it’s like trying to keep some of these authors happy. You have to flatter them in a serious manner and know how to stroke their egos! Oh, it’s not a woman’s job, that’s for certain. Men can hardly trust the word of a woman; that’s just science.” He shook his head and shrugged.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But perhaps I can be taught, at least somewhat. I’ve learned so much just by watching you handle people. You’re very good at it.”
This was true. It was also meant to flatter him.
“Yes,” Mr. Nelson said, smiling with smug satisfaction as he lit his cigar and coaxed it by puffing on it. “Well, at least you have a good sense of things. Back to work now, shall we?”
I agreed, and left his office to finish the tasks waiting for me at my desk.
• • •
Later that evening, I telephoned Judy. I hadn’t talked to her in a while and wanted to catch her up on things.
“Oh, that’s wonderful news about Bonwright, Eden!” she said. “I knew Miss Everett couldn’t poison everyone against you forever.”
“Well, perhaps not,” I said. “But, it’s not exactly as you might think . . .” I confessed the truth about Mr. Hightower’s two letters of recommendation, and about my name. “I just felt I deserved a fresh start,” I explained lamely.
“You do,” Judy replied, her voice sincere. “I’m glad you rolled up your sleeves and did something about the situation! To be honest, the last time we talked, I was a little worried you’d give up and go back to Indiana. Girls in New York are so funny that way; you can never tell which ones have come here just so they can turn around again and leave.”
I agreed with her, and we discussed New York’s peculiar social gravity, gossiping about girls who’d stayed and girls who’d turned tail and run.
“Well, I think I’m here for good,” Judy said. “I’d like to have a house in the Hudson Valley or maybe in Connecticut or Long Island, but I can’t imagine going much farther than that, and of course that’s only if I’m married. Speaking of which, still have your heart set on books instead of boys?”
“Yes, I’d still like to be an editor someday,” I said. “Only the
road there is a bit bumpier than I thought it would be.”
“How is—what’s your boss’s name? Mr. Nelson?”
“Oh, all right, I suppose. He has me reading a lot, and the work is top-drawer. He’s just . . . well . . .” I hesitated, then told her about his reaction when I’d asked to be officially made a reader.
“It sounds like he wants a career secretary,” she diagnosed.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
“Well, you can’t blame him,” Judy pointed out. “It’s a reasonable thing for an executive of his stature to want.”
“I suppose,” I said. “I suppose I’m only hoping for peace of mind that, if I work hard, I can move up.”
“For now, Eden, maybe it’s just best to settle in and be thankful you have a job!”
“You’re right,” I said. We gossiped for a few more moments and eventually made a date to go out for martinis the next week. It was nice talking to Judy again. And she was right: I was lucky to have a job.
28
I held up my end of the bargain: I worked hard. At the office, I typed and filed, took dictation and ran the mimeograph, dispatched correspondence, and made sure Mr. Nelson’s office was never lacking coffee—or any other variety of beverage, for that matter. I skipped lunch; I was alert at every moment. In the evenings, I stayed up all night reading manuscripts and scribbling down notes, which I typed up during the early hours of the mornings, before any of the other secretaries had arrived.
Unfortunately, however, my plan backfired, if only for a brief spell. I worked so hard, I wound up running down my immunities and catching a terrible flu. I went into the office one morning in a state of denial, working as best I could for a few hours; but when my temperature spiked and I began seeing spots, I waved the white flag of surrender. I got another girl to cover my desk and poked my head into Mr. Nelson’s office to tell him of my illness.
“Flu, Eden? Why, it’s summertime. How unusual,” Mr. Nelson said, not looking up from his desk.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s certainly unexpected.” Despite having the shivers, I could feel the heat of the fever rushing to my cheeks and forehead. My perception of things began to blur. I was dizzy and wobbled a bit in my heels. I knew I couldn’t stay standing up for very much longer. Mr. Nelson glanced up and sighed.
“Well, then, Eden, I suppose you may as well go home early today and rest up over the weekend. We’ve a lot to do next week.”
“Thank you, sir,” I managed to say. I staggered out of the office and back to my desk to gather up my things, everything around me appearing like a bizarre, faraway dream.
I’d made it all the way to the elevators when suddenly my constitution failed me. I realized I was going to faint. The elevator doors opened just in time to reveal a familiar-looking young man with sandy hair. As I lurched forward, he automatically moved to catch me and I fell into his arms.
“Cliff?” I murmured, confused. Perhaps I was hallucinating. I struggled to get my feet back under me. But it was no good; I had lost all my strength. He looked down at me, equally confused, still holding me in his arms.
“I thought this sort of business only happened in the movies,” he said, smiling, his blue eyes twinkling. I tried to laugh off my embarrassment but wound up coughing instead. The dizziness intensified as the effort of coughing overwhelmed me, and I began to see black spots. My eyelids fluttered as I fought the urge to let my eyeballs roll back in my head.
“Oh boy,” he said. “You’re not foolin’. We’d better get you to a doctor.” He bent over and I felt him slip an arm under my knees as he lifted me more fully off the ground.
“No doctor,” I murmured, dimly fearful of the extra expense. “Home, please. Just put me in a taxi. I’ll be fine.”
“Where’s home?”
“The Bar . . . bi . . . zon,” I said. Then I gave up and let the darkness close in around me. I heard the bright ding of the elevator. The last thing I remember thinking was that it sounded so very far away, as though it were at the end of a long tunnel.
• • •
When I came to, I was in a strange room. I blinked and took in my surroundings, trying to remember what had happened. I was in what appeared to be a small studio apartment. There was a kitchenette at the far corner, and it was hot and sunny in the room. Curiously, the whole place carried a distinctive scent that reminded me of a theater playhouse, like a combination of fresh paint and ancient dust and mildewed costumes. There was visible evidence of the paint smell, as the entire room—even the wooden floors—had been painted entirely black. The furnishings were both Spartan and chaotic: a mattress lying in the center of the room, a couple of mismatched bookcases and bureaus, and finally a pair of folding chairs and a card table upon which sat an old-model Smith Corona typewriter. A heap of books lay on the floor near the window, piled in such a careless, haphazard way as though to suggest their owner was less interested in reading them and more interested in starting a small bonfire.
For a fleeting moment I believed it was a weekday, and felt my body jolt more awake with cold panic. The sun was streaming in the windows; I would be late for work! But then it dawned on me that it was Saturday, and I relaxed. I sighed and lay there, gathering my thoughts and trying to recall the blurry events of the day before.
“Say—you’re awake,” a voice called from across the room as the front door opened. “That’s swell. I was just beginning to worry you’d gone comatose on me, and it would’ve been a real drag to figure out what to do with you then.”
The door closed and I found myself looking at the familiar sandy-haired, blue-eyed young man.
“Oh, it was you!” I said. “I thought I’d hallucinated that part.”
“I didn’t take you to the Barbizon after all,” Cliff said, stating the obvious and looking sheepish. “You kept mumbling, ‘No doctor,’ but I was pretty sure you were going to pass out cold and I thought I’d better keep an eye on you. Gentlemen aren’t allowed upstairs in the Barbizon, you know. So I took you here.”
“Oh!” I said, seized by a fresh rush of embarrassment. “I fainted on you!” He chuckled and puffed up a bit at this.
“Good to see you again,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Fainting aside.”
“Yes,” I replied, shaking his hand with a rather feeble grip. By then the fever had gone but I was still feeling very weak. Every muscle in my body quivered with that queer feeling you get after having a fever, as though they had all completely atrophied during the last twenty-four hours. “I’ll admit, I’m a bit mortified,” I said. “I hope I didn’t cause a scene.”
“Well, I got some funny looks carrying you down the elevator and through the lobby, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Cliff said. “Fainting’s nothing to be embarrassed about, especially for a woman.”
I nodded and began to sit up. I blushed again to realize I was wearing only a slip. I glanced around the room for my clothes and spotted them on the floor near the foot of the mattress, neatly folded, with my shoes lined up next to them. I swiveled in the bed to put my feet on the floor, but as I did, I bumped into something heavy and metal.
I looked down to see a row of canned goods stacked near the head of the mattress. “Oops. Beg your pardon. What are those?”
“‘What are those?’” Cliff snorted, his eyes wide with belief. “Are you pulling my leg? You were asking for those all night. I had to go to three different grocers to find some.”
Utterly baffled, I squinted to get a closer look. “Oh!” I exclaimed once I’d riddled out the labels. Stacked in front of me were several cans of Del Monte brand peaches and pears. “I asked for these?”
“Over and over,” Cliff said. “You kept mumbling, ‘I need canned peaches and pears. Where are my canned peaches and pears?’ So finally I went out and got some.” I chuckled. He peered at me. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I guess I was hallucinating after all. This is what my grandmother used to feed me when I was sick,” I said, picking up a can and smiling at the familiar logo. “When I was a little girl. I guess she figured they were soft and mushy—easy to eat when you’re sick—and I’m sure I liked the sweetness of the syrup. But, honestly, I don’t remember asking for them last night. I’m so sorry; I must’ve been really quite ill.”
“Well, anyway,” Cliff said, shrugging, “you asked for ’em, and here they are. How’s about I fix you some now?” He lifted a can from the floor and moved to the kitchenette. “You were pretty sick, and you haven’t eaten anything in a while.”
I suddenly felt shy. “Well, all right.” I watched as he cleaned out a bowl and opened the can and poured the contents in. He came over to the mattress and perched on the edge beside me, then handed me the bowl and a spoon. I thanked him, accepted the bowl, and took a nervous bite. He’d picked one of the cans containing pears, and the soft, grainy texture filled my mouth and slowly dissolved like sugary sand. A bit of juice dribbled down my chin and I quickly moved to wipe it away.
“Here,” he said, reaching for a shirt—one of his—and dabbing my chin as though the shirt were a napkin. I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks. “Say, it looks like you’re getting some of your color back,” he commented.
“Yes. I’m feeling a little better,” I said, embarrassed.
“Your hair’s awfully different these days.”
I put a self-conscious hand to my short hair. “I cut it.”
Three-Martini Lunch Page 18