by Robin Talley
Janet hadn’t had two moments to herself since her lunch shift started, and as soon as she arrived home, Mom was bound to make her sit straight down to dinner with the family. This short walk would be her only chance to think.
She hadn’t spoken to Marie since her cab had sped off from Silver Spring the day before. Janet still felt just as warmly toward her as ever, but ever since their fight outside the bus station a crumb of regret had begun to linger in her mind.
There must be a word for this. Some singular term that encompassed everything Janet felt for Marie. The fondness, the passion, the admiration—and this strange new discontent, too.
A true writer would’ve known precisely how to describe it. Janet, though, was at a loss. Just as she’d been unable to find the right words to persuade Marie to stay that day.
After she’d taken a separate taxi home and listened to Grandma complain about her parents’ club over dinner (“A dress-up shop for the bourgeoisie to forget the world’s problems and drink gin dandies!”), Janet had run straight to her sweltering bedroom. It had only taken her an hour to read the book she’d bought in the bus station, A Deviant Woman—which was a very different book, as it turned out, from A Love So Strange—and after that she’d scribbled in her notebook until her grandmother ordered her to bed.
Later that night, out on the porch and unable to sleep, Janet had waited until Grandma’s snores on the next cot grew soft and even. Then she’d tiptoed back inside and down the stairs to the darkened den where her father kept his papers. Her parents were still out, and everything Marie had said that day kept running through her mind.
Janet wanted to find out what she’d meant about the senator’s son. A vague memory had crept into her mind, and she now believed she’d overheard her parents talking about that senator late one night the previous summer. Her father had been describing a newspaper column by that writer he hated. The man was a troublemaker, Dad always said, part of the cadre who’d brought down McCarthy. If her father’s dinner table rants were to be believed, this columnist wouldn’t stop crusading until every Republican in Washington had been put out to sea.
Nevertheless, Dad saved his every column. He always said it was important to know the men who were out to get you.
So that night, after she left her grandmother sleeping upstairs, Janet had pulled open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet in the den. She carefully searched through one folder after another, making sure to mark the place where each file belonged. Dad was meticulous about his papers, and if there was any indication that she had touched them—if her parents somehow discovered what she was looking for...it didn’t even bear thinking about.
The folder Janet wanted was the second one from the back of the drawer. Her hand trembled as she sorted through a thick pile of clipped-out newsprint pages. Within minutes, her fingers were gray with ink.
When she finally found it, she wished she’d never gone looking.
The column was a year old. It was about a Senator Hunt, a Democrat from Wyoming, whose son had been arrested on a “morals charge.” Janet waded through long paragraphs talking about McCarthyites and Republican blackmail until she reached the section she was looking for.
The senator’s son had been arrested in a park, the column said, for “soliciting” a plainclothes police officer—another man. The boy had been put on trial, and the senator had promised to “straighten him out.”
After the trial, the senator’s wife—the boy’s mother—hadn’t eaten for a week. The senator’s political opponents had pressured him to resign, threatening to spread rumors about his son during his reelection campaign. Until the senator brought a rifle to his office one morning and shot himself to death.
The first reports had said he’d committed suicide because of an illness. This columnist, though, had decided people ought to learn the truth.
Janet reread the column about Senator Hunt and his son again and again, as though it might make more sense than it had the first time. It never came to be.
She supposed she’d heard that certain kinds of men did things—terrible things—in parks at night. Her mother had always given her strict instructions never to enter a park after dark, most likely for that very reason. But Janet hadn’t realized that the sorts of men who skulked around those parks could also be the sorts of men whose fathers served in the United States Senate.
The government would think of Janet and Marie no differently than they did those men. For that matter, they could be right. Perhaps men like Senator Hunt’s son felt the same way toward the men they met in those parks that Janet felt toward Marie.
She’d stumbled to her feet, reaching blindly for the newsprint clippings on the floor. The pages crumpled in her hands.
Her parents could come home from the club at any minute. Even if they didn’t, Dad would notice if one of these columns was missing the next time he checked his files. Janet had to put everything back neatly so he didn’t find out what she’d done. Rationally, she knew that was what she should do.
Instead, Janet grabbed the column about Senator Hunt and ripped the page in half.
She tore it again, and again after that. She ripped it into smaller and smaller pieces until the column was no more than confetti scattered across the den floor.
She stood in the middle of it all, her face flushed and her breath coming in pants, as though she’d just run up the streetcar line all the way to Holy Rood and back. Then she scooped up the tattered papers into a pile, making sure she got every fragment, and stuffed the pieces into her fist.
Janet ran out of the den, through the kitchen and into the foyer, taking the stairs two at a time in her bare feet. When she reached the bathroom, Janet flung the papers into the toilet and flushed it as hard as she could. Then she flushed it again.
She moved slowly, thoughtlessly, as she went back downstairs and put the den to rights. The headlights of her parents’ car trailed across the living room wall just as she was climbing the stairs once more.
There was no sense dwelling on Senator Hunt’s son. Or Senator Hunt himself.
The past was already written. Only the future mattered.
Janet had to make sure there was no risk to her own family, or Marie’s. She had to come up with a plan to win Marie back, too. Now that Janet understood her fears, it should be a simple matter.
Yet so far, Janet had thought of nothing that could help her. And as she darted in and out of the drugstore and started toward home, she still had no ideas.
“Janet! Good, you’re here,” Mom called as Janet stepped inside the foyer and laid her packages on the entry table. Behind her, she could see Grandma and Dad sitting in different rooms, reading different newspapers. “I need you to set out the silverware.”
At least at the Soda Shoppe she got paid to do side work. Janet moved wearily into the kitchen and retrieved the knives and forks while her mother checked the roast.
“Has your friend started work at the State Department yet?” Mom asked as she passed her the clean glasses.
Sometimes Janet wished her mother wasn’t quite so interested in Marie. “Yes. Last Wednesday.”
“She already passed her security clearance?” Dad called from the den.
“There’s no need to bellow across the house, George,” Grandma shouted from the living room.
“Not yet, Dad,” Janet answered. “She said it should come soon.”
Dad started grumbling about the nitwits at State, and Grandma shushed him again as Mom called everyone to the table. Janet was still stuffed from the hamburger and onion rings she’d gobbled down at the end of her shift, but she didn’t mention that.
Dad leaned in to kiss Mom before taking his seat at the head of the table, and Janet looked away. She always found it terribly embarrassing when her parents kissed.
“They’re all as slow as molasses over in Foggy Bottom,” Dad said as Janet’s mother slic
ed the chicken. “If you call State on a Monday and ask for a report, you’re lucky if you get it by Friday. Not that Friday, but the next Friday.”
“Well, I’m sure Marie will fix all that.” Mom always tried to make their dinner conversation pleasant. She was the only one. “You remember her, George, she was one of the very best students at St. Paul’s. No doubt she’ll type everything so quickly the place will soon be shipshape.”
“I have no doubt Miss Eastwood will do excellent work, but she’s only a girl. How old is she, Janet? She was in school with you, wasn’t she?”
“She’s one year older.” Janet avoided meeting her father’s eyes. “Nineteen.”
“Yes, you see, Helen? The girl’s only nineteen. Besides, State is sinking, and it’ll take a lot more than one good secretary to patch that particular ship.” Dad chuckled at his own joke as he struck a match against the side of the table.
“Well, you can blame your old friend McCarthy for that.” Grandma pointed her knife at Dad, waving a forkful of potatoes in her other hand. “How many did he force out of State with those disgraceful inquiries?”
Dad grimaced. “Must we do this yet again, Mother?”
“I’m merely saying, George, anyone could’ve seen the man was only out for his own gain. He had all of you fooled but good, thinking you were fighting the Soviets every time you held a hearing. McCarthy didn’t care about catching Communists any more than a nun at St. Paul’s cares about catching herself a curling iron.”
“May I borrow the typewriter tonight?”
Silence fell across the dining table.
Janet had thought Dad would simply agree and go back to arguing with Grandma. Instead he, Mom and Grandma all turned to stare at Janet.
She squirmed in her seat, trying not to look over at the entry table where her purchases were neatly stacked in their brown wrappers. She’d bought one hundred sheets of typing paper at Peoples—the most she could afford out of that day’s tips—and a packet of carbon paper, too. It should be enough to write fifty pages total. To type an entire manuscript, she’d need to buy more paper, but at the moment she could barely imagine writing fifty entire pages of anything resembling a book.
“I mean,” Janet added, since the rest of her family was still silent, “if you aren’t using the typewriter yourself, Dad.”
“Well, I just might need to.” He lifted his chin.
Janet had never known Dad to use the typewriter that sat perched on the small square desk in the den. He often sat next to it while reading his newspaper and drinking his coffee, but she’d never heard the keys tapping. Janet wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to type.
But she didn’t try to argue. Dad was the man of the house, and no one ever argued with him. Well, except Grandma, but she said she’d earned that right since Dad had taken his sweet time being born.
Mom jumped in. “Why do you need the typewriter?”
Janet had carefully prepared a lie for this. “I’d like to write to my friend from camp last summer. Lois Bannon.”
“Bannon?” Grandma raised her eyebrows. “That was the name on that letter that came for you, wasn’t it? From New York?”
“Er, yes.” Janet had made up the name Lois Bannon in case Mom had seen the letter when she brought in the mail. It hadn’t occurred to her that Grandma might have noticed it, too. “You see, Lois’s eyesight isn’t very good, and she can’t read handwriting. She has to type all her letters, and for me to write back I’ll need to type, too.”
Grandma cocked her head, but it was Mom who answered. “I don’t know, Janet. Typing is noisy. The rest of us won’t be able to hear ourselves think with you making a racket in the den.”
It was exactly what Janet had hoped she’d say. “Then perhaps I should write in the attic. Up there I wouldn’t bother anyone. I can pay for the typing paper and ribbons out of my tips from the Soda Shoppe.”
“Ribbons?” Grandma’s eyes were still locked on Janet’s. “Just how many letters do you plan on sending this girl?”
Dad set down his drink. “When’s the last time you went to the attic in the summer, honey? It’s sweltering up there, even with the windows open. We don’t want you getting heatstroke.”
“I’ll put on the fan.” Aside from Grandma’s questions, this was all going exactly as Janet had hoped. “It will help cover up the noise, too. Please, Dad?”
“Odd, isn’t it, that this girl waited until a year after camp to start writing to you,” Grandma said.
But once again, Dad ignored her. “All right, honey. I’ll bring the typewriter up to the attic after dinner, but bear in mind that if I need to use it you’ll have to give it back.”
Janet nodded fast, glad she didn’t need to add further falsehoods to her story. “Of course. Thank you, Dad, you’re marvelous!”
“Oh, now I’m marvelous.” Dad sawed into his chicken, smiling. “Good to know.”
When they finished dinner, Janet leaped up to clear the table instead of dragging her feet the way she usually did. She washed the dishes thoroughly, too, ignoring the strange looks Grandma was still giving her.
Soon, Janet would be a real novelist. She’d have a neat stack of typed pages, and she’d wrap them in brown paper and tie them with string, the way writers did in the movies.
In truth, though, the idea was a little intimidating. What if Janet couldn’t write something Bannon Press thought good enough to publish? What if Nathan Levy read her story and realized Janet was nothing but a young, naive girl who didn’t know the first thing about how to write a proper book?
A rejection from Mr. Levy would devastate her. If Janet didn’t have the talent to be a real writer—well, she didn’t know what she’d do. Writing was the only future Janet could imagine that might bring her happiness.
She’d begun saving as much as she could from her earnings at the Soda Shoppe in a small box in her dressing table. It wasn’t much yet, but if she kept working after she started college in September, perhaps eventually she’d have enough to move into her own apartment. Then her real life could begin. She’d be on her own, and she’d publish book after book.
First, though, she had to write one. Even if only to show herself she could.
When the dishes were done and Mom had drifted off toward the back porch, Janet began straightening the pile of discarded newspapers in the living room. She heard Dad lift the typewriter and carry it up the stairs behind her, but she didn’t turn to watch.
She’d go up and start writing in a minute. Once she was finished with these newspapers.
“I thought you had a letter to write, girl?”
Janet spun around. Grandma leaned against the living room door, a light smile playing across her face.
“I do.” Janet stood, sliding the last newspaper into place. “I’m going right up.”
Grandma didn’t say anything, but her smile grew as Janet backed out of the living room with an awkward wave and started toward the stairs.
She grabbed her package off the entry table and climbed up slowly. As she reached the second floor and moved toward the attic stairway, Janet sniffed and realized she really ought to clean her uniform before her shift tomorrow. She’d just wash it out in the bathroom sink before she started writing.
The detergent was downstairs, though, so first she had to go back down and get it. She should wash the blouse she’d worn to church that morning while she was at it, too, and there was underwear to wash as well. There was always underwear to wash.
She changed into her pajamas and began to scrub her pile of clothes. Janet could hear her parents and Grandma moving around in their rooms, getting ready for bed. Well, that was for the best. She’d just as soon write once everyone else was asleep. That way, she wouldn’t be disturbed.
“Oh, Janet.” Dad glanced into the open bathroom door. “I thought you’d gone to the attic. Are you going to write that
letter after all? I set up the typewriter for you.”
“Yes! Yes, I am.” Janet scrubbed with renewed vigor. Her uniform would be the cleanest it had ever been. “I’m going up just as soon as I’ve finished this washing. Thanks for bringing the typewriter upstairs.”
“All right, well, make sure you’re in bed by ten.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad cast a dubious look down at the sink, but Janet ignored him. She doubted Dad had ever so much as attempted to wash his own underwear.
She yawned as she wrung out her clothes and hung them on the line above the bathtub. Perhaps it was too late to start writing. Besides, she should probably read A Love So Strange one more time first, to make sure she was familiar with the sort of book Bannon Press expected.
It might even be useful for her to take another look at A Deviant Woman, though she didn’t much want to. Kimberly Paul was clearly a much less skilled writer than Dolores Wood. The sentences in A Deviant Woman were shorter and choppier than in A Love So Strange, and the book’s characters didn’t seem to act like any people Janet had ever met. Besides, none of them seemed interested in anything but, well—sex.
It made Janet blush to think of, but it was true all the same. There was a great deal more sex in A Deviant Woman than in A Love So Strange. Even so, Janet didn’t find herself longing to return to it. Kimberly Paul seemed much more interested in describing the size and shape of her characters’ breasts than the feelings they aroused in each other.
The book’s plot—if it could be called that—centered around a married couple who invited a young girl to board in their spare room, leading to a number of increasingly unlikely scenarios in which the girl found reasons to walk about the house without clothes. She later seduced both the husband and the wife, though neither of them had ever been tempted into such scandalous behavior before. In one memorable instance, she’d even seduced them both at once, although before they’d even finished undressing the girl had produced a gun and attempted to steal a valuable diamond that turned out to be hidden in the couple’s root cellar.