“No, not that sweater, Lenore,” she scolded with a calmness that was deadly. “Lydia can wear that.”
“But it’s my favorite,” Lenore argued, “and the softest one I own.”
“Wear the green one.”
“The green one itches.”
“Then wear a blouse. That sweater is too tight. You don’t want to flaunt yourself or you’ll attract the wrong sort. It’s bad enough that we have to live among neighbors like these, but I refuse to have you stoop to their level.”
At times like those, Lenore wondered if “their level” could be half as bad as her level. The mother who had once been so indulgent had become a shrew. She rarely smiled and her features were pinched. If there was any warmth in her it was iced over by the rigid will for vengeance that seemed to keep her going.
Lenore needed warmth. She was lonely. Where once she and her sister had been close, the three-year difference in their ages came to seem huge. Lydia was as unsatisfactory company for her as, increasingly, her dreams were, and since Greta discouraged her from making local friends she was frustrated. Even the disgrace she had hidden behind since her father’s death began to pale. When her mother spoke of the “wrong sort,” Lenore could only reflect that she didn’t attract any sort, and that bothered her.
The public library was the one spot her mother allowed her to visit during what little spare time she had, and it was there that Lenore met Natalie Slocum. The girls were both thirteen, both alone and craving companionship. What began as a simple exchange of books grew into friendship. While Lenore was at first reticent to open up, Natalie’s quiet charm and lack of pretentions soon won her over.
As opposed to Lenore, Natalie had never known wealth. She had been raised in a shabby, wood frame house in an even poorer part of town than the one in which Lenore had spent the last three years, and rather than condemn Lenore for her family’s downfall, she was wide-eyed and hungry to hear about life in the Back Bay. It was a dream to her, as it was now to Lenore, and the two sat for hours reveling in it.
Natalie’s life had been hard. Her mother had died when she was two and her father had tried his best to raise his only child with the meager means available to him. But he was a milkman, working long busy days, and he was incapable of giving Natalie the guidance she needed as she approached womanhood.
Nonetheless, he had always doted on her, as Natalie was the first to admit. On a cold winter’s night he would hold her close beside him and read her stories from the books one of his more benevolent customers had passed down. At the first snowfall of the year, he would wrap her up in layers of clothing and take her sledding on a makeshift flyer. In the spring he would make picnics for them to share beneath the neighbor’s oak, which sprawled into their tiny yard with a breath of shade. And in the summer he would always take her to the beach.
The irony of it was that his doting did her in, particularly when she began to blossom and his cooing over her childlike charms was replaced by a more mature, if every bit as intense, praise for her intelligence and beauty. He was her father and as such he was biased, she reasoned; she came to wonder if she had a serious lack that he was desperately trying to cover up.
She wasn’t beautiful as he always said she was. The mirror that he had given her for her twelfth birthday told her so. She had dark hair that waved where it shouldn’t, brown eyes set too far apart, a nose that had a bump in it, a fleshy mouth and skin the color of the flour paste she used in school. No, she wasn’t beautiful, certainly not like Mary McGuire, who lived down the street and was a year ahead of her in school and had everyone in the neighborhood at her beck and call.
Nor was she brilliant. She was smart, perhaps, in a common sense way, but not brilliant. Or, if her father was right and it was so, her teachers certainly didn’t think so. They never sought her out for the right answer the way they sought out George Hollenmeister, and they never let her skip reading to help with the younger children the way they let Sara French.
Reaching her own conclusions and being sensitive about them, she kept to herself, which suited her because the books and magazines that were her constant companions didn’t mind the way she looked or dressed or that she didn’t have a mother or that she would never grow up to be a Ziegfeld Girl.
Just as those books and magazines couldn’t talk back to her, though, neither could they provide the human companionship that increasingly, if subconsciously, she craved. Meeting Lenore Crane that fateful day in the library, on the other hand, perfectly fit the bill. The fact that they went to different schools and had never set eyes on each other before gave them each a fresh start. Beyond that, Lenore’s insecurity was something with which Natalie could easily identify. The shyness and caution that characterized their initial interactions quickly faded as the need they shared emerged.
They became secret pals, delighting in the knowledge that their friendship was private, an exclusive club for two. Meeting at the library several times a week, they would sit in a quiet corner with books open on their laps while they whispered back and forth about anything and everything.
Natalie told Lenore about the stuck-up Nola Wurtz who always shunned her, and about Mary Melanson, whom she had seen one day behind the school kissing a boy. She told her about doing odd chores for the Belskys on Friday nights and Saturdays for which she received fifty cents a week, and about saving up to buy a pair of saddle shoes. She admitted that she wished she had a mother, or, if not that, a brother or sister, or, if not that, a dog like Little Orphan Annie’s Sandy.
In turn, Lenore confessed that having a mother wasn’t so wonderful if she was angry all the time, and that sisters were fine until they starting asking questions you didn’t want to answer, and that the worst thing about having come from the Back Bay was that you could never go back once you’d left. She asked Natalie’s opinion on whether she should cut her hair into a more stylish bob (though it was a moot point, since her mother would never have permitted it), whether her sweater was indeed too tight, and whether she thought Greta Garbo was really as beautiful as they said.
The girls saw eye to eye on practically everything, but most vehemently on their plans for the future. They were going to make it, and make it big. They were going to marry well and one day have everything they were missing now. They were going to be respected and admired and sought after by the cream of society. Or so the dream went.
Their friendship, while precious to them both, was viewed as anything but by Lenore’s mother.
“You were at the library again today?” she asked with the quiet sharpness Lenore knew so well.
“I do my schoolwork there.”
“Was the Slocum girl there too?”
“Yes.”
“You spend too much time with her, you know.”
Lenore kept her voice low, because she didn’t like the way her mother’s nose was tightening around the nostrils. A fight was brewing. “I only see her at the library.”
“What’s the point of it?”
“I like her.”
“But she’s nothing—”
“You’ve never met her!” Which was a happy state as far as Lenore was concerned. For once Greta’s embarrassment over their home suited Lenore’s purpose because she didn’t want to subject Natalie to Greta any more than Greta wanted to be subjected to Natalie.
“She comes from nothing,” Greta specified.
We come from something, and look where we are now, Lenore thought, but she knew better than to say it. As it was she’d raised her voice more than was wise; in a minute Greta would be telling her to be still lest the landlord heard every word. “She has a wonderful father.”
“Who has neither money, connections, nor power. When you pick friends, Lenore, you have to pick wisely. If someday you’re going to meet a man who can provide for you well, you won’t do it through girls like Natalie Slocum.”
“Mother, I’m barely fourteen! What difference does it make who my friends are now?”
“Keep your voice down,
Lenore, or Mr. Brown will hear every word you say. And in answer to your question, it does make a difference. Believe me.”
Lenore didn’t, not for a minute, and nothing her mother could say or do, short of penning her in the house, could keep her from seeing Natalie. Their friendship was the brightest light in Lenore’s otherwise drab life. It was emotionally rewarding and fun; thanks to Greta’s narrow-mindedness, it also satisfied Lenore’s adolescent need to rebel.
By the time the girls reached sixteen, they were visiting each other’s house regularly. Robert Slocum was warm and welcoming to Lenore, and if Greta was more standoffish with Natalie, at least she was civil. She hadn’t given up the war, Lenore knew; she had simply yielded in this one particular skirmish. Which was understandable, because by the time the girls were juniors in high school another major battle loomed on the horizon.
Boys. Lenore and Natalie spent hours talking about them, speculating about who would ask them to the dances, rehearsing seductive smiles, experimenting with their hair, the hemlines of their skirts, the way they walked.
The four years since they had first met had seen changes in them both. Lenore had come to terms with her body, able to appreciate its shapeliness. She had, indeed, cut her hair, and even Greta had had to admit that the pains of curling it were worth the effort. Her once round face had slimmed, emphasizing features that were patrician and fine. She was a stunning young woman, and given the looks she had begun to receive from the boys at school, she knew it.
Natalie was every bit as attractive in her own way. Her once unmanageable dark hair now responded to her skilled hand, falling over her shoulders in gentle waves. She had learned to clip and pencil her eyebrows and add a touch of color to her cheeks, and when she wore deep red lipstick, the mouth she had once considered far too full was luscious.
They were a riveting duo as they walked from class to class together. While Natalie was the more outgoing of the two, Lenore was just that little bit prettier. They complimented one another, gave each other strength, and that self-confidence added a special aura to their looks so that, indeed, they often had company walking home from school.
Which made Greta nervous. She was working as a bookkeeper for a local businessman and was rarely home in the afternoons. But Lydia, a teenager herself and more than a little envious of her sister, was a ready-made spy for her mother, reporting everything that happened and with whom.
“So it was Lewis and Joe today?” Greta asked as she was making dinner. By that time she had taken Natalie under her wing, reasoning that since the two were fast friends what one did affected the other, and since Natalie was without a mother she could benefit from the advice of one older and wiser.
The girls were reading a magazine at the kitchen table. Lenore had actually come to enjoy the times when her mother would lecture the two of them, for the force of the attack was far blunter than it would have been if mother and daughter were alone. She suspected that, as much as Greta had initially resisted, she had grown fond of Natalie, and that gave Lenore, who deep down inside did want to please her mother, a warm feeling. Moreover, when Natalie was there, Lenore had an ally.
“Lewis and Joe?” Lenore repeated, looking smugly up at Natalie. “Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know about Lewis,” Greta went on skeptically. “From what I’ve heard,” and she made it her business to hear everything, “he’s been something of a problem in school over the years.”
“But he does well, Mrs. Crane. His father teaches at Harvard, and his mother is a Fenwick. You can’t find better qualifications than those.” Natalie knew just what to say to ease Greta’s worry. Not that either she or Lenore were madly in love with Lewis—because Lewis was madly in love with himself—but he knew how to put on a show of chivalry, which, to a seventeen-year-old girl, was something. “He’s always polite, and he’s very good looking.”
“He’s a senior, isn’t he?”
Lenore nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“What are his plans for next year?”
“He’ll probably go to Harvard.”
“Not on his grades he won’t.”
“He doesn’t need grades, Mother. He has money and connections. He’s in.” There was a faint note of bitterness in Lenore’s voice; from time to time she recalled that she, too, had once had money and connections.
Natalie, who understood Lenore well—indeed, often felt bitter about her own lot in life—also understood that Greta wasn’t one to be antagonized. She sought to soften her friend’s words, saying, “It doesn’t matter where Lewis goes to college. He’ll be a success. He has the drive.”
“Thank goodness for that, at least,” was Greta’s quiet murmur. She turned to face the girls. “How about you, Natalie? Have you thought about what you’re going to do after graduation?”
“I have,” Natalie said, frowning, “but my father and I can’t see eye to eye on it. He wants me to work because of the money, but I don’t see that closing myself off in some office is going to get me anywhere but older.”
Greta gave a limp smile. It wasn’t that she didn’t legitimately feel the smile, just that she had gotten out of practice. But she was pleased now; Natalie was on the right track. “Then you’re considering college, too?” That was what Lenore was doing, with her mother’s urging. Although it would be costly, it was one way for a girl without status to meet a man with it.
“I’d like to go to Mass. State,” Natalie declared. “I can train to be a teacher.…”
“Until something else comes along,” Greta finished. “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling Lenore. Haven’t I, Lenore?” Of course, Greta hadn’t been thinking in terms of Mass. State, she’d been thinking of terms of something a little more exclusive, like Simmons. After scrimping for years to save money she wanted her daughter to have the best that it could buy.
“Yes, Mother.”
“And it won’t be as expensive if you live at home,” Greta added, failing to add that if Lenore lived at home, Greta would be able to sort the good prospects from the bad.
Lenore had other ideas. “I was thinking that it might be nice to live at school.”
“Very expensive,” Greta drawled in immediate refusal.
“Either that or take a room of my own.” She needed to get away from Greta, whose watchful eye and pained expression were like shackles, a constant reminder of where they had once been and how far they had fallen.
“Rooms cost money, too.”
“I’ve been working weekends and summers at the A&P, so I’ve saved enough to get me started. I can earn extra money by tutoring once I’m at college. Of course,” she slowed, lowering her eyes, “if Nat and I were to room together, we could split the rent.”
Natalie’s eyes bulged. “What a great idea!” Then her face dropped as quickly. “I can just imagine what my father will think of that. I mean, in his heart I’m sure he’d like to see me in college. He wants only the best for me. But the best costs, and he gets nervous.”
“If you go off to live somewhere else he’ll be alone,” Greta pointed out. “That’s something to consider.”
“Don’t add to her guilt, Mother!”
“I was simply making a statement. And it is worth some thought. Besides,” she twitched her nose, “nice girls don’t live in rooming houses.”
“I’m not talking about a rooming house,” Lenore argued, “but a room in a house, or a small apartment.”
“You have a room in this house, and you don’t even have to pay for it.”
“It’s not the same.”
“If you’d like, I could ask you for rent. Some parents do.”
“Mother, you’re making too much of this.”
“I’m sorry, Lenore, but I simply believe that girls your age shouldn’t be off on their own.”
Lenore couldn’t believe what she was hearing, or, rather, she could believe it since it had come from her mother, but she found it laughable. “We’ll be eighteen. Half of the girls we know will probably be getting mar
ried and having babies right from high school.”
“Maybe you will, too,” Greta said hopefully. Indeed, she had dug into the oatmeal box for the funds to dress her daughter in the latest styles, and she didn’t begrudge the expenditure, seeing it as an investment for the future.
But neither Lenore nor Natalie shared her hope that the investment would pay off so soon. They weren’t interested in the boys they knew who were just starting out in life. They wanted to meet mature men, men who were already established, who could give them all they had dreamed about for years. They wanted to live in Louisburg Square and drive Cadillacs and dance their Saturday nights away at the roof garden at the Ritz. They wanted elegant clothes and fur mufflers and servants to do the work they had had to do for years. Above all, they wanted security, which was something that had been relentlessly drummed into their heads.
As the months passed, Greta came to agree with Lenore’s assessment of the high school boys. Alex Walter, who took Lenore to her junior prom, was handsome enough, but had neither money nor training and was bound for the Civilian Conservation Corps after graduation, which didn’t bode well in terms of ambition as far as Greta was concerned.
Will Farino, who took Lenore to the fall harvest dance, was positively charming, as was his father, a slick salesman who Greta was convinced would eventually find his way into prison. If Greta wanted respect for her daughter, tangling with the likes of the Farinos was not the way to gain it.
Hammond Carpenter, who invited Lenore to go carolling on Christmas Eve and was as beautiful a male as even Greta could remember seeing, had his heart set on entering West Point in the fall. While Greta had no argument with the honor of a career in the military, she had no desire to see her daughter shifted from place to place for a lifetime, much less living on government wages.
George Hastings, who took Lenore to her senior prom, was positively idolized by every girl in the school. Captain of the football team, he was built well, had strong features, a swarthy complexion and thick black hair that ranged over his forehead. He was also nearly illiterate. And when a boy was kept in school solely for his athletic prowess, Greta reasoned, the man that boy would become had few hopes of success—not to mention the fact that his father was a drunk.
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