Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  Thanking Irina for her help, Patricia paid six dollars in cash for the hat, which would have cost three or even four times that at Bergdorf’s or Bonwit Teller. She stepped out into the still glorious day. It was almost five o’clock so she hailed a cab. As she leaned back against the seat, her packages tucked safely beside her, she looked again at the hatbox and put her hands on it possessively.

  She felt the thrill of the hunt that shopping often gave her and today there was the added frisson of having snared something that none of her friends would have. But there was more to it than that. This hat, and its maker, were two more pieces in the puzzle that was Eleanor.

  The taxi dropped her off in front of her building and the doorman hurried out as she was handing the driver a bill. She took the elevator up to her apartment, and let herself in quietly. She was not sure if Eleanor was still here, but she took the precaution of going straight to her bedroom and stowing the hatbox out of sight. She’d disperse the gifts she bought at some later time. Today’s outing was her secret, and it was not the only one. She had not revealed herself to Eleanor’s mother, and because she hadn’t, she realized that she couldn’t tell Eleanor about the visit either. Why did this make her so agitated, as if she had committed some petty crime?

  “Patricia?” That was Wynn’s voice coming from the foyer; he must have just gotten home. “Coming,” she called back. And closing the bedroom door behind her, she went out to greet him.

  Seven

  On the fifth of July, Eleanor met Ruth at B. Altman, where together they scoured the sale racks. It was a successful mission: Eleanor found a lightweight dress, two skirts, a pair of summer trousers—not unlike those worn by Katharine Hepburn, one of her favorite movie stars—and a navy blue Cole of California bathing suit with white polka dots and a halter neck. In the May issue, Harper’s Bazaar had shown a very daring photo of a young woman in a two-piece swimsuit called a bikini; Eleanor could not imagine ever wearing such a thing and thought the one-piece was revealing enough. After they finished shopping, they stopped at Mary Elizabeth’s Tea Room for lunch.

  “I’ll miss you this summer.” Ruth drew deeply on her straw and the iced tea in her glass subsided in response.

  “I’ll miss you too,” said Eleanor. “But I’ll write.” Her new employers had already left town for Connecticut; there hadn’t been enough room in the car for all of them, so Eleanor was taking the train up tomorrow. She was glad to be spared the ride with Henryka, who she was certain disliked her, and Mr. Bellamy, who, while never anything but polite, still made her uneasy. His was the kind of civility that radiated insincerity and she did not trust it—or him. He’d only be up on weekends, and since the house had a guest cottage—where Eleanor would be lodged—she hoped she would not have to see all that much of him.

  “Do you know what the house looks like?”

  “White, with dark shutters,” Eleanor said, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Patricia says there have been additions made over the years, like a third story and a sunporch out back. And there are at least two gardens. The pictures I saw showed a lot of flowers.”

  “Imagine having all that and a swanky apartment on Park Avenue.”

  “There’s a guest cottage too; that’s where I’ll be staying. Two whole rooms, all to myself.” There were two overlapping pickle slices on the side of the heavy blue plate; Eleanor speared one and popped it neatly into her mouth.

  “I’ll bet it’s really posh,” Ruth said. “Do they have a pool?”

  “No, but there’s one at their club.”

  “A club sounds dreamy.” Ruth took a large bite of her own sandwich. “I’ll bet they have dances and parties too. Maybe you’ll even meet someone.” Another bite and half the sandwich was gone.

  “None of those clubs will admit Jews,” Eleanor pointed out. “I use the name Moss when I’m with the Bellamys.”

  “Really? What does your mother have to say about that?”

  “I haven’t told her,” Eleanor said. “And I’m not going to either, so don’t you bring it up in front of her.”

  “I won’t, don’t worry,” said Ruth. “But do you really have to do it, Ellie? What if you said no?”

  “Not possible,” said Eleanor. “Not if I want this job. And I do. Working with Margaux, helping her break through that shell—I can’t tell you how satisfying that’s been, even in the short time I’ve been doing it. And there’s something about Mrs. Bellamy too. I can’t imagine being her friend exactly but I wish I could get to know her better. So if I have to pretend about my name, it feels like a small price to pay.” She finished her own sandwich. “Would you do it? If you were in my place?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ruth said. Unlike Eleanor, she’d stayed in the city after graduating from high school, and gone to City College for two years before she left to start working. “I can’t really imagine myself with people like that.”

  The waiter appeared with dessert menus.

  “I shouldn’t order anything.” Ruth was always struggling to lose a few pounds. “But I’ll have the lemon pound cake if you’ll share with me.”

  When the waiter had gone, Ruth reconsidered the question. “No, I don’t think I would change my name,” she said. “But, Ellie, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. You’ve always wanted something different. That’s part of why you went to Vassar, isn’t it? To get out of the neighborhood, meet new people?”

  “It’s true,” Eleanor said. “But at Vassar, I was still Eleanor Moskowitz. I didn’t have to pretend to be someone else.”

  “You’ll always be Eleanor Moskowitz,” said Ruth, who looked enchanted by the slice of cake that was set before her. “No matter what you call yourself.”

  And that, Eleanor realized, was true.

  When she got home, Eleanor laid out all her new purchases on her bed; she’d show her mother when she came upstairs. Irina was working late, putting the finishing touches on the hats for the bridal party. Eleanor had picked up an inexpensive skirt steak on the way home; she’d broil it and fry onions to go on top; scalloped potatoes would be the side dish. For dessert, she’d slice some strawberries and sprinkle them with sugar. Dinner was pleasant, even festive. Irina took out a bottle of sweet wine she’d stowed away and they each had a glass along with their strawberries. After the dishes were done, Eleanor took her mother into her room to see the day’s purchases. Irina approved of the dress, which was made of light blue eyelet. “It’ll look fresh even on a hot day.” She fingered the material in a professional sort of way. “I’d like to make you a new hat before you go.”

  “I have plenty of hats, Mother,” Eleanor said. “You work too hard as it is.”

  “I want to,” Irina insisted. “The right hat can make any outfit.”

  “So you’ve said.” Eleanor smiled. “More than once.”

  Irina moved the clothes aside so she could sit down on the bed. “It’s not just your clothes I’m thinking about. It’s everything. I’m worried. You hardly know these people after all.”

  “That’s not true. I feel like I know them quite well. At least Mrs. Bellamy and Margaux. And I don’t have to deal with the husband very much.”

  “But you’ll be stuck up there, not knowing anyone else. No one of your own kind.”

  “Really, Mother, do you think that matters anymore?” Eleanor was not being truthful; she knew it mattered quite a lot. Hadn’t she admitted as much to Ruth?

  “Anyway, I’ll miss you.”

  Ruth had said that too. But hearing it from her mother was harder. When Eleanor had gone off to Vassar, her father had been alive. Now Irina would be alone. “It’s not for that long,” she told her mother. “And you could always come to visit,” she offered, though she could not imagine how that was going to work.

  “No, tochter, I don’t think so.” Irina only reached for Yiddish in moments of stress or sorrow. “You go hobnob with the goyim. I’ll stay here.”

  Eleanor began folding her new clothes. “Maybe it would be nice to have a new h
at after all,” she said. “Something summery.”

  “I can start it tomorrow.” Irina brightened. “First thing, before I open. The hats for the bride and her friends are done.”

  “All right,” Eleanor said. “And even if no one else notices, Mrs. Bellamy will appreciate it.”

  “Does she wear nice hats?” Irina asked.

  “Very nice. She shops at Bergdorf’s and Bonwit’s. Saks too. But I still think your hats are more original than theirs. That little egg-shaped one you made? From the gorgeous Italian paisley? I can see it in the pages of Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar.” With the folding completed, she turned to the valise—leather, somewhat battered—that waited on the floor.

  “Did I tell you I sold it?” Irina said. “To a very elegant woman. I’d never seen her before. She wasn’t one of my regulars.” The valise, which Eleanor had put on the bed, was now open, and Irina began putting the new clothes inside.

  “No, you didn’t tell me,” Eleanor said.

  “Sometimes these rich ladies come back. And when they do, they bring their rich friends with them.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  “No. I’d recognize her right away if she came in again though. She was a little taller than you. A little older too. Blond hair in a twist. Pearl earrings. And such a beautiful dress—blue, with little satin roses on the collar and pockets.”

  “What color were the roses?” Eleanor stopped, a white shell sweater and matching cardigan draped over one arm.

  “Magenta, I think. With dark green leaves. Why do you ask?”

  “Patricia Bellamy has a dress just like that. What kind of hat was she wearing?”

  Irina described it and Eleanor said, “That was her. Patricia Bellamy. She came to your store, but she didn’t tell you who she was?” She laid the sweater set on the bed before sitting down.

  “Maybe she didn’t realize I was your mother.”

  “That’s not possible,” Eleanor said, puzzled. “I’ve mentioned the shop—where it was, the name—to her. She must have known.”

  “If she knew who I was, why didn’t she introduce herself?”

  “I have no idea,” Eleanor said. And she didn’t. Why would Mrs. Bellamy conceal her identity from Irina? It made no sense. But it did suggest that Mrs. Bellamy was as curious about Eleanor’s family as Eleanor was about hers.

  Eight

  The snug guest cottage just behind the Bellamys’ house in Argyle was ready; Opal, the girl from the village who did the heavy work, had swept the brick path that ran across the lawn and between the two houses, as well as scrubbed, dusted, and aired out the entire place. Then she had changed the sheets and put a stack of fresh towels next to the claw-footed tub in the bathroom. Patricia had set a white ironstone pitcher filled with wildflowers on the table, flowers that Margaux had insisted on gathering herself. The sight of her daughter, on her knees in the grass, dragging her damaged leg behind her, made Patricia want to bury her face in her hands and sob. But then she thought of Eleanor, who would no doubt have a different way of viewing the scene, Eleanor who had called Margaux plucky. How they needed Eleanor—all of them. Patricia was as glad as Margaux that Eleanor was arriving tonight, on the 5:57 from Grand Central; she’d be here before dark.

  Patricia was on the sunporch when Glow, a large ginger cat, jumped up to sit beside her on the wicker settee. Glow was their summer-only cat; in the off-season, she lived with Opal and her family. Stroking the smooth orange fur, Patricia checked her watch; it was only a little before 5:00, which gave her plenty of time to change and get to the station. She’d told Henryka to hold dinner until their guests arrived. Wynn would not be coming up until tomorrow, which was a good thing—she wanted to let Eleanor settle in before she had to deal with him. But even that didn’t seem like it was going to be a problem. “Margaux seems . . . better. More like her old self,” he’d said just a couple of days ago. “I have to admit that this girl you picked up has had a very good effect on her.”

  The other person she was expecting tonight was her brother, Tom, who was driving down from Maine. She wasn’t sure when he’d get here though; Tom was virtually impossible to pin down about anything. A free spirit, he held no real job, able to live on the generous inheritance their father had left him. In fact, Tom had been left a disproportionately large share of their parents’ money, but he’d chosen to give a portion to Patricia so that it was evenly divided.

  With the money—quite ample—that was left over, he dabbled, buying paintings from his downtown artist buddies, which he collected, almost warehouse style. He tried his own hand at painting too, as well as poetry, pottery, and writing plays. Wynn called him a dilettante and said he was just waiting for him to grow up. “You’ll have to wait a long time, old man,” Tom had said. “A very long time.”

  But Wynn was charmed by Tom, as was everyone else. Tom mocked everything and everyone, most of all himself. His upbringing on Sutton Place, his years at boarding school and then at Princeton—he shrugged it all off, like an overcoat on the first warm day of spring. He adamantly refused to live anywhere respectable and instead inhabited a puzzling warren of rooms that he called an apartment, on Jane Street in Greenwich Village. For the last few months, he’d been in Paris, consorting and, for all she knew, living with an older, divorced woman he’d met when he was over there during the war. He’d fought, valiantly it would seem, inasmuch as he’d come home with a special commendation. But he never spoke of his experiences, no matter how much or how often Patricia badgered him.

  “Can I go with you?” Patricia looked up to see Margaux standing in the doorway leaning on her walking stick. Her white dotted-Swiss dress was stained with grass and her braids were loose. “To the station?”

  “If you change your dress and comb your hair, yes.”

  “All right.” Margaux turned to go back inside. She had been relocated to a room on the first floor; she could take the stairs one at a time by holding on to the railing and using her good leg, but for what? To prove she could?

  Patricia was debating whether to pour herself a gin and tonic—she did not like to drink alone, but she was really in the mood for one—when the front door slammed and a deep male voice called out, “Hello, hello, hello!” Tom! She stood, and the cat, whose nap had been disturbed, gave her a reproachful look before jumping down and darting away. “Trish?” he called. “Are you home?”

  “It’s Uncle Tommy!” Margaux cried. Tom strode into the room, almost colliding with her.

  “Margaux, my kumquat! Let me look at you!” Tom scooped her up and spun her around; the walking stick clattered to the floor.

  “Uncle Tommy!” Margaux squealed, her arms still encircling his neck.

  Finally he set her down, using his arm to steady her while he reached for the walking stick and handed it to her. Then he turned to Patricia. “Your turn.” And although he did not lift her off her feet, he spun her around in a tight, dizzying embrace. “How the hell are you?” he said and then added, “Sorry,” when he saw the slight frown about his language crossing her face. He wore a linen shirt, very wrinkled, and khaki trousers. No jacket, no tie, no hat. Wynn would have teased him about his “bohemian” pretensions.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her momentary irritation dissolving. And now that he was here, she was. It was just so good to see him.

  “Where were you, Uncle Tommy? And how long are you staying?”

  “Damariscotta, and I’ll stay as long as your mother will have me.”

  “You know you have an open invitation,” Patricia said. “Do you want to get your things from the car so Henryka can take them upstairs?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’ve been exiled from my cottage by another, more important guest. A usurper, it would seem.”

  “She’s not a usurper—whatever that means,” said Margaux. “Her name is Eleanor and she’s wonderful. You’ll love her; we all do. She’s so smart and interesting and pretty. Even Mother thinks so. And she wears the best little hats in the world becau
se her mother is a hatmaker.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to meet this paragon, this tutor-with-the-best-little-hats-in-the-world,” Tom said.

  “You’ll have your chance,” Patricia said. “She’ll be here soon.” And then added, “Is it time for a drink?”

  “Is it ever!” Tom said. “I’ll just get my things and then we can settle in.”

  “We’ll have to make it quick; I need to change before heading over to the station,” Patricia explained. “Margaux, you still need to put on a clean dress if you’re coming with me.”

  Patricia linked her arm through Tom’s as her daughter went off to her room. “It’s not what you think,” she said softly to her brother when they were outside.

  “And what is it that I think?” Tom asked. Always teasing her. But with such affection that she didn’t mind; she never had. It was just his way.

  “That she’s some ordinary little drudge. But she’s not. She’s really quite special. And she’s worked wonders with Margaux.”

  “I can see that,” Tom said. He pulled one valise from the backseat, and another from the trunk. “In any case, she’s bound to be prettier than Mr. Cobb. The man was a gargoyle.”

  “Tom.” Patricia swatted his arm. “You’re terrible.” As they began walking back to the house, she added, “Eleanor is pretty. But you just keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Why, Patricia, are you implying that I’m not a gentleman? You wound me, yes you do.”

  “She’s a Jew,” Patricia said, and stopped walking. “Eleanor Moskowitz. But I’m introducing her as Eleanor Moss. So please don’t cause any trouble and don’t give me away, Tom. I’m counting on you.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Tom. “Does Wynn know? He must. But your tony neighbors and pals—that’s a different story, isn’t it? I detect a hint of deception in the air. Yes . . . What fun.”