Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  Eleanor came to their building. The window of Hats by Irina was dark and the gate was down. She let herself in and went up the stairs. She’d just stepped inside the apartment when she saw her mother, seated in the lamplight with the evening newspaper spread across her lap. “Have you eaten?” Irina asked. Eleanor wanted to scream, Yes! No! Please don’t ask me that ever again! But looking at her mother’s worried, loving expression, she said only, “No, but don’t get up. I’ll fix something for myself.”

  In the weeks that followed, Eleanor harbored her plan in secret, adding money to her account faithfully every payday. Not that anyone would have been interested. Ruth was busy planning her wedding and wanted to talk of nothing else. Tom was still away and she’d received only a folded sheet of paper with the words, Thinking of you, penned in a bold, sloppy hand. The postmark was from neither Martha’s Vineyard nor Nova Scotia, but Quebec. She looked at the note for a few minutes before ripping it in half.

  By October, the weather had turned cooler, and Eleanor pulled out the black princess-style coat she’d had since college. She remembered how pretty she’d thought it was when she purchased it, but that had been several years ago. Now the coat seemed to droop on its hanger, and its cuffs and collar were starting to fray. A new coat would have been so nice, but her own apartment would be even nicer; she put the purchase on hold and hunted through Irina’s trimmings for some black velvet ribbon with which she could conceal all the fraying. That, combined with black jet buttons, freshened the whole look.

  “What a nice coat,” Patricia said when Eleanor arrived wearing it for the first time. “The trimming just makes it.”

  “Thank you.” Eleanor hung the coat in the hall closet and continued on to the study.

  It was shortly after lunch that Eleanor heard the apartment’s front door opening and then closing. “Good day to you, sir,” said Bridget, the cook who’d been hired to replace Henryka. Her voice, with its strong Irish brogue, was loud enough to carry. Eleanor didn’t hear the reply, but she didn’t have to. She knew it came from Wynn Bellamy; he must have been home early from the office.

  “Eleanor, I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear me?” said Margaux.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. What did you say?” Eleanor tried to blot out the knowledge that Mr. Bellamy was here. Since that evening at the Carlyle, she’d been doing what she promised Patricia: keeping mum and putting the incident in Argyle out of her mind. This had proved less difficult than she expected, especially when she made sure to time her arrivals and departures to avoid her employer. She hadn’t seen him for weeks. Well, if she were careful, she wouldn’t have to see him today either. Hearing him was quite enough.

  Still, knowing he was in the apartment unnerved her and she had trouble keeping her mind on Margaux and their lesson. She managed to get through the rest of the afternoon, relieved when it was over. Margaux accompanied her to the foyer, where she retrieved her coat and pocketbook from the closet, anxious to leave as soon as possible. She wasn’t yet out the door when Patricia, resplendent in a velvet opera cape, swept into the room.

  “Mother, you look so beautiful,” said Margaux.

  “Thank you, darling.” The cape was lined with ivory satin, visible as she moved, and her hair was gathered into a black, sequin-encrusted snood. “But I can’t find my pearl drop earrings anywhere. Have you seen them?”

  “No,” said Margaux. “Not since the last time you wore them anyway.”

  “I just can’t imagine where they could have gone. I always keep them in the jewelry box right on top of my bureau.”

  “I hope you find them.” Eleanor’s hand was on the doorknob. “And that you have a lovely evening.”

  “Where are you going?” Margaux asked.

  “To a formal dinner.” She checked her reflection in the mirror above the demilune table. “I suppose I could do without them. But I’d still like to know where they are.”

  “So would I,” said Wynn Bellamy as he walked in adjusting his bow tie. He wore a tuxedo, a highly starched white shirt, and an expression of sorely tried patience. “They came from Harry Winston and were very expensive.”

  “Really, Wynn, no need to harp on about how much things cost—”

  “Except when I’m the one who paid for them!”

  Patricia said nothing, but Eleanor saw her lips compress into a thin, tight line.

  “It’s all right, I’ll look for them when we get home.”

  “No, you should find them now.”

  “But I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Maybe Bridget would know.”

  “She’s been in the kitchen all day. I don’t think she went into the bedroom once, and besides, she’s gone now anyway.”

  “What about you, Miss Moss?”

  “What about me?” Why was he bringing her into this?

  “Have you seen my wife’s earrings today?”

  “Not today or any other day, for that matter. I don’t even know what they look like.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Wynn, what’s wrong with you? She said she hasn’t seen them. Now really, let’s go. It’s getting late.”

  “Eleanor would tell us if she’d seen them,” said Margaux.

  “Of course I would,” Eleanor said. This badgering was perverse, it was cruel, it was—

  “Miss Moss, I’d like you to show me the contents of your purse—”

  “Have you gone mad?” Patricia said. “She’s not going to do any such thing. I don’t understand why you’re making such a scene—”

  “It’s all right,” Eleanor said, though of course it wasn’t. “I’d be more than willing to show you.” She walked over to where he stood and snapped open the clasp of the black leather purse. She felt revolted as he pawed through its contents—worn leather wallet, comb, lipstick, compact, keys. “There,” she said. “You see? No earrings.”

  “Daddy, I don’t know why you’re treating Eleanor like this. She’d never, ever take anything from Mother, not even a hairpin,” Margaux pleaded.

  But Mr. Bellamy just said, “Your pockets. Could you please turn them inside out?”

  “No, Eleanor. Don’t.” Patricia walked swiftly to the door, causing the cape to ripple around her ankles. “Wynn, I am leaving right now, with or without you. I won’t stand here while you insult Eleanor—”

  “No, really, it’s fine.” Eleanor set her purse down on the console table under the mirror and reached into her pockets. “Here, you can see for yourself—” From the left pocket, she pulled out a subway token and a half-finished roll of Pep O Mint LifeSavers, and from the right, a glittering pair of pearl-and-diamond earrings.

  Twenty-One

  Patricia spoke not one word to Wynn during the short walk to Audrey’s apartment building on Fifth Avenue, and as soon as they were greeted at the door by her friend’s roly-poly little husband, she took off, determined to ignore him for the rest of the evening as well. Fortunately, there were plenty of distractions to make that goal easier to attain: champagne, a glorious view of the Metropolitan Museum of Art from the oversize windows, and the dinner for twelve served in Audrey’s spacious dining room. The room had been newly decorated—cabbage-rose chintz drapes, a shiny black ceiling, acid green woodwork, and a cherry red floor—by none other than Dorothy Draper, the most sought-after decorator in town.

  Thankfully, Audrey never seated husbands and wives together, and Patricia found herself next to a translator on one side and a scholar whose specialty was Byzantine mosaics on the other; the translator, who spoke several languages, was quite entertaining, and the scholar, soft-spoken and serious, had the manner of a fourteenth-century monk. Audrey’s dinner guests were always more interesting than the bankers, stockbrokers, and lawyers that Patricia was accustomed to; Tom would have enjoyed himself here. But she hadn’t heard from him in weeks.

  After the dessert—a pavlova piled high with berries and whipped cream—the men went into the library to smoke their vile cigars whi
le the women went to the living room. Audrey found her way over to Patricia and sat down next to her. “Good to see you, darling. I’m so glad you could come.” She squeezed Patricia’s hand.

  “It’s good to see you too. Married life seems to agree with you—you’re looking wonderful.”

  “It does. Second time was the charm for me. When I think of what I used to put up with . . .” Her smile vanished and then reappeared again, wider than before. “But why am I dwelling on the past? Harold is just a lamb. An angel. He’s letting me hire Dorothy to do this room as well; don’t you just love what she did with the dining room? I mean, a black ceiling?” And without waiting for a reply, she continued, “And we’re renting a villa in the hills overlooking Florence next spring. It sleeps six very comfortably—maybe you and Wynn will come and stay.”

  “That sounds lovely.” The thought of being in such a remote place with her husband made Patricia feel as if someone were pressing down on her windpipe, and when Audrey got up, she went in search of another drink.

  It was past one a.m. when they left the party and began their walk home. Wynn seemed inebriated and was humming softly to himself, whereas despite the many drinks she’d consumed at the party, Patricia felt thoroughly and disappointingly sober. The anger she’d been able to fend off all evening sifted back down over her like ash.

  “How much do you think he’s got?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Audrey’s new husband—Howard, Hal—”

  “It’s Harold, and how would I know such a thing?” She was so tired of the unutterably crude way he went on about money.

  “I thought you ladies talked. Isn’t that what you do best? Get together and gab, gab, gab?”

  “Honestly, you’re being—”

  “And in all that time you spend gabbing, the subject of Harry’s money never came up—?”

  “Why did you plant my earrings in Eleanor’s pocket?”

  “Excuse me?” He had the offended air of someone who’d stepped in dog excrement.

  “Stop pretending. You put my earrings in Eleanor’s pocket. Did you want to smear her entirely?”

  “She doesn’t need me for that—she can do it well enough on her own.”

  They came to a red light at the corner of Madison Avenue and she remained on the sidewalk. But Wynn walked on ahead.

  “What are you doing?” As soon as she had the light, she hurried across, cape billowing around her.

  “There weren’t any cars,” he said. “It was perfectly safe.”

  “You want to distract me,” she said. “But it’s not going to work.”

  “Fine.” He stopped, a few feet from the awning to their building. Eamon, the night doorman, nodded in their direction. “I didn’t plant them. She took them, plain and simple. I told you she was trouble—”

  “That is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.” She swept past him and into their building. He followed her to the elevator and they rode up in silence. But once they were back in the apartment, she turned to him again. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, so you believe her—a girl you picked up in the street—”

  “That’s hardly what happened, and anyway, she’s done wonders for Margaux, you know that, and yet you’re doing your best to undermine her at every turn. First you go barging into the cottage—”

  “The cottage, you should remember, is mine. Mine, and I’m free to visit it whenever I like—”

  “Barging in, drunk no doubt, trying to make a pass at her and when you fail—and I find out—you decide you’ll do anything you can to discredit her, even stooping to something as obvious as to put those earrings in her coat pocket. As if she’d have done that! My God, you’re not only a liar and a bully, you’re an idiot—”

  He was across the foyer in seconds and his hand shot out, delivering a clean, smart slap to her face. “Never say that to me,” he hissed. “Never, do you understand?”

  Her own hand flew to her cheek, which was stinging and no doubt red. He’d hit her—he’d actually hit her. It hadn’t been that hard, and so it wasn’t the pain that made her recoil. It was the shame of it, the shame and the blatant disregard for the sanctity of her—what? Her being.

  “Why are you shouting?”

  Patricia turned to see Margaux, leaning heavily on her walking stick and regarding them in horror.

  “Darling, why don’t you—” Patricia started.

  “Go back to bed,” Wynn said sternly. “Now.”

  “But I want to know what’s going on.” Her pillow-mussed hair and flannel nightgown made her look so young. So vulnerable.

  “Do as you’re told.”

  Something in his voice made her obey. Watching her retreat, Patricia moved to follow. Then she realized she was still wearing her velvet cape, which felt like it belonged to another evening, another life; she hastily unfastened it and draped it over her arm.

  “Come back here,” said Wynn.

  “I’m through talking to you tonight.”

  “Come back!”

  From the darkness of the hall, she turned to look back at him; he stood there, bulky and massive, his feet planted on the parquet floor like some latter-day Henry VIII. “And if I don’t? Are you going to hit me again?”

  “Tricia, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I never wanted . . . But you were goading me and—”

  “I’m going in to see Margaux—God knows what she’s thinking—and then I’ll go into the guest room. Or you can. We can talk in the morning.” And then she left him, standing alone in the light. Again, she felt that flash of anger at Eleanor, irrational as it was, for being the cause of yet another ugly quarrel.

  The next morning, Patricia stoked the embers of last night’s fury as she dressed. To think he had raised a hand to her, struck her . . . she would leave him, yes she would. She’d take Margaux and go to Argyle. Or they would go somewhere, anywhere else. She finished buttoning her dress and gave her chignon a final pat.

  But when she walked into the kitchen, there was Wynn, freshly showered and smelling of bay rum. He wore a pale blue shirt that looked well with his ruddy skin and blond hair, even if the latter was thinning. Margaux was seated very close to him, the Times spread out between them, and they were doing the crossword puzzle. He didn’t look up when she came in but Margaux did. “Good morning, Mother.” She sounded surprisingly cheerful; did she remember the ugly scene from the night before? If so, it didn’t show. “Do you want a cinnamon bun?” She indicated the plate where the glazed, raisin-studded buns were piled high.

  “Where did those come from?” Patricia knew Bridget hadn’t baked them.

  “Daddy went out early and brought back a bagful. I’ve already had one and they’re delicious.”

  “That was very nice of you,” Patricia said uncertainly.

  Wynn looked up at her then, an apology written all over his cleanly shaved face. “I know they’re Margaux’s favorite,” he said. “And I just want to make my girl happy.”

  He was trying, Patricia realized. Trying very hard. But if Margaux seemed to have put the previous evening aside, Patricia was unable to shake off the unpleasant memory as easily. Then she looked at Wynn again, arm now draped casually over Margaux’s shoulder. If he was making an effort, maybe she needed to make more of an effort too. “Let me try one of those buns,” she said as she sat down. “They’re my favorite too.”

  Twenty-Two

  The next day Eleanor approached the Bellamys’ apartment with dread. She waited long enough to be sure Mr. Bellamy would not be home, and gave her name to the doorman, aware that this was the last time she would need to use the false moniker. Margaux was at the door to greet her with a hug. “Eleanor, I’m so sorry about what Daddy said. Mother and I know you would never have taken those earrings.” Eleanor had no reply. Of course there was no question of her continuing to work for the Bellamys after what had happened. She was just here to say good-bye to Margaux.

  Last night, when she first saw the earrings,
she was so startled that she dropped them. But in the few seconds it took her to kneel and retrieve them, indignation overpowered any fear or embarrassment.

  “You put them in my pocket,” she said to Mr. Bellamy.

  “Me? I would never—”

  “How else would you have known they were there?” She handed them to Patricia.

  “Daddy, did you really do that?” Margaux looked horrified.

  “Wynn, can you please tell me what this is all about—” Patricia interjected.

  Eleanor wasn’t going to listen to another minute of this. Maybe she was even a little relieved—her little minuet of avoidance would be over. “I’ll be going now,” Eleanor said. “Good night.”

  Now Eleanor was back in this apartment for what she imagined was the last time. Patricia came into the foyer. “Margaux, darling, Eleanor and I are going to need to talk—alone.”

  “Why can’t I be there too? You’re going to be talking about me.”

  Eleanor looked at Patricia. “She’s right, you know. Can’t she join us?”

  “I don’t think it would be suitable,” said Patricia. “I’d like you to go to your room, Margaux. When we’re done, I’ll call you.”

  “No.” Margaux planted her walking stick firmly in front of her. “I’m not going.”

  “Why don’t you do what your mother asks? We’ll have a chance to talk later,” said Eleanor.

  “Promise?” Margaux asked.

  “Promise,” said Eleanor, and after a brief hesitation, Margaux went to her room.

  Eleanor followed Patricia into the study. She had never liked the room, but in these past months, she’d been so engaged by her work with Margaux that its offensiveness had receded. Today, however, it loomed large again: the monstrous black mantel, the hulking desk, the dead fish on the wall. She sat down on one of the leather chairs and Patricia took the other.