by Monica Nolan
“Maxie’s a Nurse’s Aide,” Elaine put in.
“A Recreational Aide,” Maxie corrected, “at the Bay City Summer Recreation Program for Disadvantaged Youth.” There was no point in going into her unemployment with these two.
“Ah, a working girl.” Mrs.—Miss? Lindqvist nodded approvingly. “You have my admiration. It’s all too easy for those of us privileged with the means to do nothing, to do just that! But I’ve always found work is its own reward.” She gave Maxie a card. Amalgamated Enterprises, Maxie read. Velma Lindqvist, Vice President of Sales.
Had Maxie imagined the suggestive pressure as Velma’s hand brushed hers? There was no way to find out—already the maître d’ was standing by, ready to lead Elaine and Velma Lindqvist to their table. After a round of polite good-byes, Maxie sat down and sipped her martini, watching the pair covertly as they were seated across the room. Elaine’s attraction was like a feeble campfire compared to the glow Velma gave off.
Maxie couldn’t help wishing she was on better terms with Mamie. Her old boss would be sure to have the Who, What, and Where on the platinum blonde. But the ex-deb still wasn’t ready to forgive and forget, even though the other week Mamie had sent her a bonus check and a long, philosophical letter on the nature of news. Maxie had softened at the sight of her money—and then boiled over again, realizing it was the same kind of payout Mamie made to bellhops and cigarette girls who passed on hot tips.
Anyway, she had no time to research every platinum blonde that passed her way, not even if they did radiate a certain invert energy. She had to find another job!
Chapter 13
A Visit to the Pawnshop
Yet the ex-deb was still thinking of her mother’s new friend when she returned to the Arms. The preoccupied girl nearly bumped into Dolly. Right behind her, to Maxie’s surprise, was Stella McSweeney from The Step Stool, camera in hand. The pair of them was giggling and giddy.
“What gives?” Maxie greeted them. “You act like you’ve been drinking poverty punch.” Poverty punch was a concoction Dolly had devised, which involved all the girls pouring their leftover liquor into a bowl and adding boiled and strained applesauce. “I didn’t know you kids knew each other,” Maxie said, looking from one to the other.
“I came here looking for you,” Stella explained. “I was hoping you’d write another piece for The Step Stool. And then Dolly here told me how busy you were—”
“And I told her how busy I wasn’t,” Dolly put in. “And she told me about being a photographer—”
“I’m just a camera nut, really,” Stella said self-deprecatingly.
“And so I’m going to show her the art photography ropes, and we’ll split what I can sell fifty-fifty!”
Eagerly they described the theme they’d hit upon for their first series. “We’re calling it ‘Around the World, Through the Seasons’—kind of a calendar-type thing,” Dolly explained. “We’re off to collect some props now.”
“Good for you!” said Maxie heartily. But she couldn’t help feeling it wasn’t fair—she’d spotted the curly-haired, curvacious camera girl first!
She scolded herself mentally. What kind of dog in the manger am I? Panting after platinum blondes, pining for Pamela, and now begrudging Dolly a new friend?
“So we’re off on the road to fame and fortune,” Dolly finished.
“Send me a postcard when you get there,” Maxie murmured as the pair headed out the door.
She sighed as she climbed the stairs. She missed Pamela. Not the quarrelsome, critical girl of recent vintage, but the passionate Pamela of the early days, who had pursued Maxie and paraded her proudly around Francine’s. She missed the companionable Pamela who had brought her designer samples from work and shared the Waldorf salad for two at the Blue Danube; the girl who had driven with her to Loon Lake for picnics, or curled up in the opposite corner of the couch, studying clothing catalogs while Maxie read the Sentinel or perused You Can Paint! or Finnish for Beginners.
She even missed the committed Pamela, who dragged her to Step Stool fundraisers, who pestered her to move in, and who gave her the bracelet engraved with the Millay quote “Here such a passion is.” Would any of those Pamelas ever come back?
Phyllis was in Lois’s room, and both girls called to Maxie as she passed. Lois was sitting on the scarlet-and-white patchwork quilt that covered her bed with a letter in her hand. She’d evidently been reading it to Phyllis, who sat in the rocking chair. A faded Walnut Grove High School pennant hung over the desk, where a studio portrait of Netta held pride of place.
“You need another room, just for your filing cabinets,” Maxie observed, as she entered and dropped on the foot of the bed.
“I know.” Lois glanced at the wall of gleaming metal cabinets. “I can’t wait until Netta and I are settled in our own place this fall. I’ve been writing her about some of the possibilities, but it’s hard to pin down her preferences—she’s so preoccupied with that voter registration drive.” She scanned the letter with professional rapidity. “ ‘Uphill struggle . . . new arrival, so we’re overcrowded . . . another bomb threat . . . Gwen was jailed briefly. . . .’ Here, all she says is: ‘It’s hard for me to imagine life in Bay City right now, and those apartments you describe sound off-puttingly luxurious when I think of the harsh realities of life down here, so I’ll leave it up to you.’ ” Lois sighed. “That’s not very helpful, is it? And the apartments aren’t so luxurious, really—the two-bedroom on Forty-ninth, just around the corner, or the one-bedroom with the huge living room and darling fireplace that’s closer to Pamela’s place.”
“Read Maxie what Netta says about the Summer Recreation Program,” Phyllis suggested.
“Oh yes.” Lois shuffled the sheets in her hand. “ ‘Tell all the gang hi for me—they seem like a mirage at times.’ ” Lois looked up to remark, “That’s her big theme these days—how life in Bay City is a big mirage. ‘And kudos to Maxie for getting a job, even if it’s just Recreational Aide. Tell her from me that the hardest jobs are always the lowest paid. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, and none of us are getting paid a dime. . . .’ ”
Maxie decided it was time to make her big announcement. “Well, here’s hoping that my next job is easy and highly paid,” she said in her blithest way. “And if any of you have the inside scoop on the perfect position, tell me now—I was let go today.”
“Let go!” her friends cried. “Oh, Maxie, no! What on earth happened?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Maxie lied. “Mrs. Olssen has a niece who needed the job, and so I got eased out. Bay City politics.”
She’d decided on the way home that she needn’t share the blackmail and threats with the gang on the fifth floor. It was a nasty business. And the truth was, she felt a little ashamed of taking the money, even if she hadn’t had much choice.
Phyllis urged, “You should report this to the Good Government Commission! Why, this is the very kind of corruption they’re trying to stamp out in Bay City bureaucracy.”
If only you knew, Maxie thought as she begged, “Can’t we just forget about it for now? Honestly, I just want to go to Francine’s and have a beer and not think about jobs, lost or found.”
“Of course, Maxie,” said Lois immediately.
“Whatever you want,” Phyllis echoed.
“Only, isn’t there someplace besides Francine’s?” Lois wondered. “It’s just not as much fun, knowing the boys in blue may walk in!”
The three girls pondered the lack of places a girl and her friends could get a drink in Bay City without being bothered by men, in or out of uniform.
“We really ought to go to Francine’s,” Phyllis finally declared. “Show them they still have loyal customers.”
Lois looked down at her letter. “Netta said the time has come for every American to stand behind his principles,” she murmured.
This was beginning to sound more like a crusade than a night out to Maxie, but at least there was a cold drink involved. “Let�
��s go then!”
The jukebox echoed loudly in the mostly empty room as the three girls hesitantly descended the familiar stairs and entered their old hangout. “Look,” whispered Lois, clutching Maxie’s arm. There was a stranger behind the bar, an acne-scarred woman reading a magazine. Maxie asked her, “Is Tobey off tonight?”
“Retired,” said the new bartender laconically. She drew their beers and returned to her reading—True Adventure magazine, Maxie saw.
They took their beers to a corner table and conversed in hushed voices. The other patrons had either drunk themselves into a state of oblivion, or wore the same strained, alert expressions Maxie felt on her own face. They all flinched simultaneously at the squawk of a siren, and relaxed as it receded into the distance.
“There’s the new girl.” Phyllis nodded toward the end of the bar. Lois and Maxie turned. Sure enough, there was Kitty with an untouched glass of beer and a notebook, listening intently to barfly Terry, who was undoubtedly holding forth about her love life. When she saw them looking at her, she gave a little wave. Maxie wondered irritably if she’d followed them.
“I didn’t realize she was one of us,” Lois said, turning back.
“She told me she’s just doing research on her thesis—‘The Maternal Urge and the Consequences of Its Suppression, ’ ” Phyllis reported.
“There’s something funny about that girl,” Maxie declared. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s really a student of psychology at all!”
“Oh, Maxie!” Lois scolded. “You’re suspicious of everyone these days.”
Maxie couldn’t defend her sudden conviction. It had sprung into her mind full blown. Maybe Lois was right, and it was just the sense she had these days that nothing was as it seemed. Everything was a cover-up for some other activity.
“Call it a hunch,” she insisted stubbornly. “But I say there’s something odd about her. This research bit could just be an excuse—”
“Some girls are shy and need an excuse.” Phyllis made allowances.
“—for something sinister. Didn’t she arrive the day after the raid?” Maxie raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Maybe it’s more than a coincidence! Maybe she’s an undercover cop!”
“Now you’re going too far,” Phyllis reproved her. “You can’t condemn her on such slim evidence!”
The conversation shifted to other topics, but Maxie kept her eye on Kitty. Wasn’t it suspicious the way she sat there so serenely, while the other patrons started at the least noise or flashing light?
She was still sitting there when her three neighbors gave up and went home. Lois said she had a letter to write, Phyllis needed to darn some socks, and Maxie supposed she ought to outline a few job possibilities. None of them admitted what each was privately thinking—going to Francine’s just wasn’t fun anymore!
The next morning Maxie called Miss Watkins, who seemed to take Maxie’s firing personally. “The supervisor’s niece! I thought I had some pull at Parks and Rec!” Then her poise reasserted itself. “Well, let’s look at the silver lining. While you’re free, I’d like to do a Psychographic Recorder Interview. It’s a new kind of test that Mrs. Spindle-Janska recommended I try.”
Maxie agreed readily—she hated the thought of another inactive day at the Arms, without even a Ping-Pong partner. After the test was over and Miss Watkins was removing the electrodes from her temples and the pulsome-ter from the crook of her arm, Maxie begged the career counselor, “Can’t you find something for me? If I have to sit home all day, biting my nails, sooner or later I’ll succumb to the temptation to spend money I shouldn’t. I need something to keep me busy!” Already in her budget book the unemployed girl had recorded the purchase of a perfectly unnecessary pair of espadrilles.
Miss Watkins counseled patience again. “I don’t want to commit you to a full-time job until all the results of your tests are in, aggregated, and analyzed.” She tried to cheer Maxie, adding, “And I have something brewing that might be just the ticket!”
On a whim, Maxie took out Velma Lindqvist’s card and called the number for Amalgamated Enterprises. Hadn’t Velma said she admired Maxie? Perhaps there would be a place for the ex-deb in the big company. But the attractive executive was away—”on a business trip,” a secretary told her.
It was Lois who came to Maxie’s rescue. The receptionist at Sather and Stirling was taking her vacation. With a little training, Lois thought Maxie might take her place.
Maxie brightened at the prospect. A pleasant office, no kids pelting her with clay, and good old Lois, who would wink at her mistakes. If only she didn’t have to be there at eight thirty A.M., it would be perfect!
As it was, it wasn’t bad. Repeating “Sather and Stirling, how may I direct your call?” all day long was a little dull, but at least no one threw up on her shoes.
Working for Lois was no cakewalk, however. Lois seemed to take on a new persona when she entered the gleaming advertising office. No longer the lovesick girl who pored over Netta’s letters, she was brisk, businesslike, and buzzing with efficiency. The secretaries jumped to attention when she moved through the office.
Maxie understood their zeal the morning she was late and found Lois covering the switchboard. She felt positively cowed by the look Lois gave her; and even though all Lois said was, “Try not to let this happen again,” Maxie began setting two alarms in order to make sure she wouldn’t oversleep. If only Kitty wouldn’t type so late every night, endlessly working on her thesis! Night after night, the ex-deb lay in bed, her worries about money taking on the rhythm of the pounding keys. And the worries followed her to work, where between each call she asked herself again, What will I do next?
Her last day on the job, with nothing else in sight, Maxie decided it was time to part with her pearls. Her hush money was gone, and next month’s rent was fast approaching. The calls from Grunemans about her overdue charge account had become positively threatening.
She’d thought about this moment so often that Maxie felt oddly excited when she walked into the pawnshop she’d picked out. It was between the old bus terminal and the office, so she could do the deed on her lunch hour. She looked around at the orphaned goods—a tuba, an old-fashioned fur coat, bicycles, more musical instruments, television sets, radios. The balding pawnbroker stood behind a glass counter that contained trays of brooches, rings, and bracelets—and ropes and ropes of pearls. Maxie laid hers on the countertop. “How much can you give me on these?” she asked.
The pawnbroker ran them through his fingers and rubbed one of the pearls against his yellowed teeth. “Fifty dollars,” he said.
“Fifty dollars!” Maxie was aghast and outraged all at once. “Why, it’s worth several times that!”
The man shrugged. “That’s my price.” He waved at the stuffed jewelry case. “The law of supply and demand.”
Maxie wasn’t interested in his economic observations. “I’ll try elsewhere,” she said shortly, scooping the pearls back into her pocketbook. What kind of pawnshop was this?
“Sure, try your luck,” he said indulgently.
There was a sound, as faint as a lizard rustling in the underbrush, and Maxie felt a curious prickle on the back of her neck even before she heard the velvety voice: “Fancy meeting you here.”
She turned and there was Lon, lounging against an ancient armoire. Where on earth had she come from? The shop bell hadn’t made a sound. Lon was wearing a striped polo shirt and faded Levi’s, and her hair had gotten bleached by the sun, which had also freckled her nose. The all-American girl-boy looked as out of place in the seedy shop as a birchbark canoe in an industrial canal.
“Buy you a drink?” Lon held the door for Maxie and nodded at the pawnbroker. “See you, Pete.”
On the pavement, Maxie found her voice. “You were there all the time!” she accused the handsome he-she. “Peddling stolen goods?” Maybe that’s why the pawnbroker hadn’t been interested in her pearls—he was a fence!
Lon smiled. “Pete does some appraising for me.�
�� Maxie wasn’t sure if that meant she was right, or if Lon was kidding her. It was just so darn difficult to believe someone so clean-cut could actually be knee-deep in dirt!
Lon guided the suspicious girl into a dim bar down the street and they slid into a corner booth. The men at the bar looked them over and then turned back to the television overhead. Maxie realized with a start that she and Lon were being taken for a boy-girl couple! She felt offended, then uneasy, and, finally, rather deliciously naughty.
“So you need money,” said Lon, playing with a toothpick.
The waiter came by to take their order, and Maxie asked for a martini, hoping it wouldn’t fog her mind too much when she got back to work. Lon ordered a beer.
“Be careful, he might ask to see your driver’s license,” Maxie said. “What does it say, anyway?”
Lon took out her wallet from her back pocket and extracted her identification. The picture looked just like Lon, but the name read Yolanda Laney. Maxie turned it over hastily and slid it across the table to Lon. “Put that away!” she ordered.
Lon laughed as she pocketed her wallet. “Scared? I thought you were ‘Madcap Maxie’ who lived for thrills.”
“Who’s been telling you about me?” Maxie demanded. “Anyway, I’m not afraid. You’re the one who’ll get it in the neck if you’re careless. I can just pretend I was taken in too.” She thought of Elaine, pushing her away in the powder room.
“You wouldn’t do that—they said ‘madcap,’ not ‘mean.’ ” Lon slid over so she was right next to Maxie. “The bartender’s looking at me funny—let’s convince him.”
Lon put her hand on the back of Maxie’s neck and her lips on Maxie’s. Maxie went still with shock, feeling the velvety stimulus through a layer of disbelief. Then, like a frostbitten pioneer rubbing snow on his frozen feet, sensation began to flow, a tingling that was half pleasure, half pain. As Lon’s hand twisted into her hair, a shiver went through the temporary receptionist, and her initial coldness was completely cured—she was ready to kick over the bucket of snow and sink down in front of a raging fire on a bearskin rug. “Why, you’re bound!” she murmured in surprise, as her hands traveled of their own free will around Lon’s torso.