by Joani Ascher
Jane rushed to him. He hugged her close, and seemed unwilling to let her go. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured into her hair. Holding her at arm’s length, he stared at her. “You look wonderful.”
Self-consciously, Jane pushed back a tendril that had escaped from behind her ear. “I look—” She stopped, seeing a hungry look in Mr. Weaver’s eyes that caused her heart to thump and made her stop to catch her breath. “Why didn’t you tell me you were home?” she stammered.
“I didn’t want to call. I had to come to see you.” He smiled. “I’m glad I did.”
“It’s so strange,” said Jane, still trying to believe this man was really here. “I just got a letter from you yesterday. You said it might take a while to get back.”
“It did. But I wrote that letter three weeks ago.”
Jane bit her lip. Was he back for good? Would she see him every day? The thought thrilled her. “Have you been discharged?” she asked.
“Almost. I’ll be back to work in a week. I can’t thank you enough for keeping my business going for me. Or maybe I can. I would like to start by inviting you to dinner, in the fanciest restaurant in New York. We’ll go tonight.”
Jane felt her bubble of joy dissipate. “I can’t. I have to go home after work. Olivia—”
“How is your sister?”
“She’s been having a very hard time.”
“I’m sorry. I know how much Horace meant to both of you. His death must have been hard for you, too.”
“It was, but so much worse for Olivia.”
“I’d love to see her.”
Jane smiled. “I have an idea. Mr. Weaver—”
“Prescott.”
“Prescott.” The name felt so strange on her lips. “Would you like to come to our—” She broke off, remembering there was someone at home whom he knew nothing about.
But he jumped at her idea. “I’d love to. Seven o’clock?”
Jane had no choice but to agree. After he bounded out of the office, she told herself it was about time to introduce Z.Z. to her boss anyway. He was a good man. He would understand, somehow.
Toward five o’clock, though, doubts began to replace Jane’s hopeful attitude. Not only would she probably be demoted back to secretary, she was going to reveal a secret she had kept for over four years. She began to regret calling Olivia and telling her they would have a guest for dinner.
“Who?” Olivia had asked.
“My employer.”
“Mr. Weaver is back? Is it really true?” Olivia sounded happy for once.
“Yes.” Jane felt the same way, only much more so. Mr. Weaver—Prescott—had become so much more than an employer through his letters. Jane felt very close to him and even a bit embarrassed that she had never told him about Z.Z.
It hit her that she felt emotions she had never thought she would feel again. Feelings of love. How could that be? Shaking her head at her silliness, and knowing full well she was not in his social class, she attributed it to relief at seeing him well, and home.
Now it was time for the truth. She could only hope he would understand, since the circumstances of Z.Z.’s birth, and her blind trust in a person who did not love her, were not something of which she was proud.
But she wondered how she had worked for him all those years and not let herself notice how attractive he was. While she knew the answer was her certainty that she was not of his class, there was no doubting he was attracted to her. Maybe class did not matter to him. She had never felt her heart beat so hard as when she saw him, and the look in his eyes seemed to say the same thing.
“I’m so glad he’s coming,” said Olivia. “I watched you when you read his letters, and I think you feel something for him.”
Jane couldn’t contain herself. “I do,” she confided. “Mr. Weaver, er, Prescott,” she said, trying out the sound of his name on her lips, “means so much to me. I didn’t know, myself, until I saw him today.”
Olivia smiled. “I’m happy for you.” Then she fussed over Jane until she was pleased with the results. “You look beautiful,” her sister said, despairing again that Jane had somehow lost their grandmother’s cameo.
Prescott arrived at precisely seven, still wearing his uniform. For once, Olivia did not pale when she saw it.
Jane was pleased with the way he looked at her, and she suddenly felt prettier than she ever had. She could barely stop smiling enough to remind Prescott of Olivia.
“You’ve grown up,” he said. “And I understand you got your degree. Congratulations.”
He turned to Jane. “There are no words to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I know it probably took time away from your sister.”
Jane saw Olivia’s eyes widen. While it was true, the person who had sacrificed the most was still unknown to Prescott. She bit her lip.
Olivia fluttered around, serving drinks and canapés. She had found the recipes for them in a magazine, and was looking more alive than she had in almost two years.
When everyone was comfortably seated, and dinner was still a half hour from being done, Jane took a deep breath and prepared to introduce her son.
“Mr. Weav—, Prescott, I have someone I would like you to meet. I haven’t told you about him before, but I’m sure you two will get along well.”
His brows knitted in confusion. Shaking, Jane went to get her child. She wondered if she should have explained more, but what could she say? This is my illegitimate son?
Z.Z. was wearing a new sailor suit. Jane took a moment to straighten his collar and brush his soft, flaxen hair before she led the child into the parlor. “This is Z.Z.,” she said. “My son.”
Prescott looked up at Jane’s words, his face clouded by questions. “Your what?” And then his gaze fell on the child, and he gasped.
He jumped up. “Oh, my God.” He stared at the child, then turned away.
Olivia stood up and went to Z.Z. “I’ll bet you’re hungry. Would you like some bread and butter?”
“Um, good,” said Z.Z., as he followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” said Prescott. “I was just surprised. You poor thing.”
Jane was not sure she liked having him sympathize with her about her child’s problems. But she gave him the benefit of the doubt, since he had been so surprised.
“I didn’t know you had married,” he said huskily, his disappointment evident.
Jane considered telling him the same story she had told so many others, but she could not bring herself to lie to this man. “I’m not. I wasn’t. Z.Z. is the product of my own stupidity.”
Prescott’s forehead vein throbbed, and his face turned red. “When?” he asked, his voice no more than a croak.
He was not asking about the child’s birthday, Jane was sure. He wanted to know when she had gotten pregnant. “The spring of 1941.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jane had been honest so far, and she did not want to start lying now. “I was afraid you would fire me. I needed to work.”
Prescott remained rigid. Turning to look at Olivia, who stood wide-eyed in the kitchen doorway, he said, “I can’t believe you hid all of this from me.” He picked up his hat. “I can’t believe it was all a lie.” He took four swift strides, and went out the door.
Jane burst into uncontrollable tears and fell to the sofa, covering her head. Olivia tried to calm her, saying Prescott would get over it. She had seen when he arrived how much he loved Jane.
But Jane had seen the truth when he left. Any love he may have felt was gone. No, it was dead.
****
Prescott went to the nearest bar and drank until he was numb. The thumps on his back from fellow officers and civilians alike were like blows. He kept hearing Jane’s lies, seeing her beauty and knowing it was false, and even feeling her heartbeat when he’d held her that morning. He now knew she had hidden from him its deepest truth.
Later he walked home, over the bridge to Manhattan, stopping at several more bars on the way,
whenever he felt he was starting to sober up. He worked his way uptown, where he found a bed in the University Club.
His shattered dreams mocked him while he slept off his drunkenness. He kept seeing Jane’s face, and seeing her as he imagined her in bed with another man. He kept seeing himself, naive as a child, all while he had worried about Jane, while she was sick, and then expanding. Filling out, he had thought. And when he left for the war, he had begun to fall in love with the woman whom he did not know carried another man’s child.
Self-loathing and revulsion replaced his pain. Anger pushed away his dreams. The family ring he had begun to think she might wear would stay in the vault forever.
****
It did not surprise Jane when a telegram came the next evening saying that her services were no longer needed at the brokerage:
SISTER’S HUSBAND NEEDS JOB STOP YOUR SERVICES NO LONGER REQUIRED STOP. PRESCOTT WEAVER.
Jane wanted to respond, YOU ARE BREAKING MY HEART STOP AND YOU DON’T EVEN CARE WHETHER OR NOT YOU’LL BE PUTTING US OUT ON THE STREET STOP. She held her aching head in her hands. Please stop.
****
For two solid weeks Jane beat the pavement searching for a new job. Even with the money she had realized from her formerly worthless stock, plus Olivia’s salary, she needed employment. She was told in no uncertain terms that she could not possibly fill a position such as she had held while Mr. Weaver was away, nor were there any related secretarial jobs. In many cases she was not even allowed to leave a résumé. “Those jobs are all reserved for our returning boys,” she was told.
Chapter Fourteen
Martin turned away from the window. “There are no jobs out there,” he said. “I have pounded the pavement endlessly.” His dull, washed-out blue eyes, untidy dishwater hair, and weak chin spoke of a beaten man, and Jane was not surprised he couldn’t find work.
She tried not to smile at this melodramatic speech. Martin was convinced it was nothing he did, nor the way he looked, spoke, or carried himself, that kept him from finding work, although if he had ever asked her opinion, she would have been happy to explain to him that no one owed him anything, despite his beliefs. He had managed to avoid distinguishing himself in his service to his country, and had managed not to acquire any skills. Yet the thought of unskilled labor did not appeal to him.
“Martin,” said Olivia. “They have to get to know you.”
If her sister only knew him, Jane thought. But Olivia was out of other prospects and left with this poor excuse for a suitor. The other boys had pride, and, upon finding Olivia so distraught over Horace’s death, had given up trying to win Olivia’s love. Not so with Martin. He had no pride, no drive, and no redeeming features. Olivia, who had managed to get her college degree in teaching only one year later than planned, had a job, and she did not mind that Martin had not found one. She never seemed to expect anything from him, or care. Her emotions were dead, as was her free will. She would do as expected, marry and have a family.
Although the ardent light that had been in her eyes before Horace died was gone, a small flame burned when she talked of the children in her class. Jane was so grateful her sister had been allowed to finish her degree even with all her absences. Those children were the best medicine for her. If only she could be content with that and forget about her poor excuse for a fiancé. With time, another young man would come along, someone who would love Olivia more than himself, and someone whom she could love.
“Some people who have jobs to give,” Martin said, “are stingy. How am I supposed to deal with that?”
Jane ground her teeth. She knew who Martin meant. Mr. Dobbin had come to her with a problem of his own. “The war is over,” he had said, in his quiet way, “and the demand for uniforms is declining. What should I do?”
“There are many people who still wear uniforms,” Jane told him. “Maybe you could convert your business to hospital clothing supplies and other kinds of uniforms. Police wear them, and so do bus drivers and many others.”
The old man’s eyes had gotten that spark that Jane knew meant he was energized. “That’s a good idea. I could even expand. But I don’t know where to start. And my bookkeeper left when her husband came back from overseas. I know this is asking a lot, Jane, but could you possibly help me out?”
Jane had the sense he was sparing her feelings and avoiding giving her the idea she was a charity case, but she chose to ignore the implication. She swallowed her pride and gave up her idea of working on Wall Street, at least for now, in order to keep the books in Mr. Dobbin’s factory and help him in any way possible. He allowed her to work whatever hours were convenient, because of Z.Z.
Martin seemed to think Mr. Dobbin should give him a job too, and the man had offered him a position in inventory, but Martin told him, “It wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Jane thought he would have agreed if it were not an entry level position. But what else could Mr. Dobbin do? Martin had no business skills. His suits were always rumpled and his shirts yellow and wrinkled. Just because he thought he should start out as president of the firm did not mean he should be given that position. Any reasonable person would realize that, but not Olivia’s fiancé.
Martin sighed, loudly and obviously. “If I can’t get work, we can’t get married.”
Jane hoped he would be unemployed for a long time.
“Don’t worry,” said Olivia. She turned to Jane. “Couldn’t we move in here after we’re married? Then we would help you pay the rent, and since there is such a housing shortage anyway, wouldn’t it make sense?”
She looked hopeful, Jane thought, as she searched for a good excuse to prevent that ever happening. It was puzzling. Maybe Olivia could be happy with Martin. Jane wondered if she was projecting her own feelings onto the relationship, which wouldn’t be fair at all.
In considering the idea of them living there after they were married, Jane acknowledged that Olivia was already paying more than half the rent. Jane made much less working for Mr. Dobbin than she had for Mr. Weaver, and if Olivia and Martin did marry and move out, Jane and Z.Z. should probably move to a smaller place. Her new salary was not enough for this apartment, and she refused to dip into her small nest egg. It was for Z.Z.’s future care. Feeling full of defeat, Jane nodded.
Olivia jumped up, more animated than she had been in a while. “Great! Then I can see Z.Z. and you every day.”
It occurred to Jane that Martin looked even less happy about the idea than she felt. But he got over it. “I thought we had to wait until I have a job.” He frowned, although it seemed to Jane it was an effort for him to keep the corners of his mouth turned downward.
“That’s silly,” said Olivia. “Now you have to leave. We have a wedding to plan.”
****
All through the months before the wedding, Jane had to hide her dread. She told herself it was just because she hated the thought of change, but she knew there was more to it. Martin was not the man for Olivia; he was barely a man at all. Nevertheless, Jane did everything she could to make the event joyful for her sister. Olivia deserved no less. Jane even suggested they switch bedrooms, so that Olivia and her new husband could have more space and a window that faced the street, not just an alley.
“I couldn’t do that to you and Z.Z.,” Olivia protested.
“I’m sure it would make Martin happy,” Jane told her, giving Olivia no choice but to accept the offer.
Jane also found Martin a job. She swallowed her pride and called one of Mr. Weaver’s clients. After introducing herself, and evading questions about why she no longer worked for Mr. Weaver, she asked the man if he could find Martin a position in his insurance firm. The man agreed. After a short training program, Martin would be an insurance salesman. For several weeks he was a much more interesting person, less self-centered, and Jane’s doubts diminished.
But one afternoon when she was downtown, on a beautiful June Saturday, Jane ran into one of the young men who had been friends with Olivia at college. He
had also been, Jane knew, close friends with Horace, but was a year or so older.
“Miss Baldwin?” he said, as if his eyes had deceived him. “Is that you?”
“Sam Roberts,” Jane replied enthusiastically, “it certainly is. The last time I saw you was right before you shipped out. How are you?”
“I’m well. I just finished college, finally. How are you?”
“Fine. And congratulations.”
Sam blushed. Of all of Olivia’s friends, he was the one Jane favored after Horace. He had a gentleness and a sense of humor, with a sparkle in his eyes. But his brow furrowed.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve heard that Olivia is not well, though. We all miss Horace. Please tell her I hope she feels better soon.”
Jane saw such sincerity and concern on Sam’s face that she felt she should reassure him. “She did have a horrible time after Horace…” Jane bit her lip, trying not to let her emotions interfere. “But she is improving,” Jane added. “She’ll be married shortly, to another young man who returned from the service.”
Sam’s worried expression diminished. “That’s wonderful. Is it anyone I know?”
“His name is Martin Roche,” Jane said, wondering if Sam might have met him at Brooklyn College.
“Not—” Sam broke off. “Is he a short guy with dirty blond hair?”
Jane could think of a few more unflattering things to say about Martin, but she just nodded.
“Oh, you can’t let her go through with it,” Sam said, the sparkle in his eyes gone. “Didn’t she tell you how he used to bother her at school? A group of us made sure to stay with her when Horace wasn’t around, to keep old Marty from talking to her—he got her so upset.”
Even though the sun beat down from above, Jane felt chilled to the bone. She remembered how hard Olivia had taken that boy’s rude advances, even to the point of considering leaving college. After saying goodbye to Sam, who told her his new wife, a girl he’d met in Italy, was expecting, she hurried home to confront her sister.
“You know you must call off the wedding,” Jane demanded, throwing out her resolve not to interfere.