Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  “I’m at a loss,” Patricia said. “But I do want to apologize for Wynn’s behavior last night. He was entirely out of line.”

  Was Eleanor supposed to say, That’s all right, I understand? Because it wasn’t and she didn’t. “I don’t know why he’s so dead set against me.” She chose her words carefully. “I only know that he is—and that I can’t work here anymore.”

  “I understand,” Patricia said. “It will be hard for Margaux though.”

  “For me too.” Eleanor touched the chair’s dark, hobnail-studded leather. “I’ll miss working with her. I think you know how close we’ve become. But she’s ready for the next step now.”

  “And if she won’t agree to Oakwood?”

  “If I’m not here, she will. It would be best for her. Really.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “There’s one more thing . . . I’d like to be able to stay in touch with Margaux. With your permission, of course.”

  “I don’t see why that wouldn’t be possible . . . eventually,” Patricia said.

  “Eventually?”

  “Of course I want you two to be in touch. But right now it may be . . . problematic. I want to give Wynn a chance to settle down . . .”

  “I see.” What Eleanor saw was a roadblock; Patricia was going to control her access to Margaux and Eleanor would have to accept that. Was there anything left to say? She stood up.

  Patricia got to her feet as well. “I’ll write you a check,” she said.

  “You can prorate the amount.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She went to fetch the checkbook. Margaux slipped into the study as soon as she’d gone.

  “You didn’t go to your room,” Eleanor said.

  “No,” said Margaux. “I tried to listen at the door. But I couldn’t hear anything. You’re leaving us, right? You’re leaving me.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. I’ll always care for you. Always. And we’ll be able to be in touch again. Just not—now.”

  “What am I going to do without you?” Tears had formed in Margaux’s eyes.

  “I told your mother about a boarding school upstate.”

  “Boarding school? I won’t go!”

  “All the students have had polio. You won’t feel out of place.”

  “I still don’t want to go.”

  “Will you try it? For me?”

  Patricia reentered the room holding a check in her hand. “Margaux, I thought you were in your room.”

  “We were talking about Oakwood,” Eleanor said. “She’s willing to give it a try. Isn’t that right, Margaux?”

  Margaux said nothing at first and then muttered, “Maybe. All right. If you want me to.”

  “I do,” Eleanor said. “Because I think it’s exactly the kind of place where you should be.”

  Margaux didn’t answer, but clomped angrily out of the study.

  After she had gone, Patricia said, “I’ll telephone the school today.” Then she handed Eleanor the check.

  Eleanor looked at the sum Patricia had filled in. “This isn’t right,” she said. “You’ve given me too much money.”

  “Consider it severance,” Patricia said.

  Once she was back out in the chilly morning, Eleanor had to figure out what to do with her day. She felt exiled and furious—all because of Wynn Bellamy. After several minutes of indecision, she realized she was close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so she walked over and spent a tranquil hour looking at Etruscan statues and another with the ancient Greeks. But even then it was only a little past noon; she couldn’t show up at home until late in the afternoon. She thought again about the luxury of having her own apartment, and the freedom it would grant her.

  Maybe she could get in to see Rita Burns again. Yes, that was a good idea. She’d even save the nickel and walk downtown. By the time she reached Rita’s office in the Chrysler Building, she was cold, and hungry too, but she didn’t want to spend money on anything to eat. The office was as crowded as Eleanor remembered, but she took a seat in the waiting room and stayed until it emptied out. It was close to five o’clock, and the sky was already darkening, by the time she was face-to-face with Rita again.

  “I remember you,” Rita said. “But we didn’t place you. What did you end up doing?”

  “I found a position as a private tutor, but now it’s ended.”

  “Can you get me a reference if I need it?”

  Eleanor thought of Patricia. “Yes,” she said. “I can.”

  “All right then. I’ll be in touch if something comes up.”

  “There’s just one thing—you won’t be able to telephone me.”

  “No?” Rita seemed surprised. “Why not?”

  “I’d rather not bore you with it,” said Eleanor. “Can I phone you or stop by to check in?”

  “I suppose that would be all right.” Rita regarded her with some speculation but Eleanor just picked up her coat and left.

  The next morning, she left the apartment as she always had, only she surreptitiously slipped an apple and a hard-boiled egg into her bag so she wouldn’t have to spend money on lunch. Then she set off for the New York Public Library, where she could stay for hours. The subterfuge worked for a few days, but the following Monday it poured. Still, armed with an umbrella, she decided to walk downtown. She’d gotten as far as Seventieth Street when the umbrella blew inside out and was destroyed; she deposited its carcass in a nearby trash can. The rain had tapered off by then anyway, but just as she reached the pair of stone lions in front of the library, a bus tore through a curbside puddle, drenching her with cold, dirty water. She looked down at her stockings, which were splattered and wet, and knew her little charade had come to an end.

  The next morning at breakfast, she told Irina she was no longer employed by the Bellamys.

  “I thought you loved the job, or at least the girl. What happened?”

  Eleanor was prepared. “They decided to send her to boarding school. She was ready.”

  “Just like that!” Irina exclaimed. “They didn’t give you much notice, did they? I told you their kind were no good.”

  “She gave me a very generous severance payment,” Eleanor said.

  “That’s the very least she could have done.” Irina drained the last of her coffee and stood up. “But now what? You won’t find another teaching job and I won’t have you helping me in the store. You’d be wasting your talents.”

  “I’ll find something,” Eleanor said.

  “I hope so.” Irina turned to the sink to rinse out the cup. “But this is now the second time you’ve left a job without finding another first.”

  Eleanor didn’t say anything, but she felt the weight of Irina’s disapproval pressing down on her and she longed to rid herself of its yoke.

  After that conversation, she preferred to spend her days away from the apartment. Sometimes she went to Rita’s office, as well as the other employment agency with which she had registered. She put the word out to Ruth and her other friends, who promised to share any leads with her.

  The days grew shorter and colder; she wore down the heels of first one pair of shoes, and then another. At dinner, she was ravenous, taking second and even third helpings of whatever her mother had prepared.

  “You’re wearing yourself to the bone,” Irina commented. “You’re eating plenty but you’re thin as a rail.”

  Eleanor just slathered butter on another slice of pumpernickel and said nothing.

  In early December, Ruth called to say her cousin’s husband worked at Macy’s in Herald Square, and there was a position in the small appliances department. “He’d hire you in a minute,” Ruth said. “You’d bring some real class to the job.” Eleanor said no. But after another week, one of traipsing around in the cold, feeling her mother’s worry tighten around her every day, she decided that she would give the Hoover vacuum cleaners, Silex coffee makers, and shiny chrome Toastmasters a try. She was seated in a Horn & Hardart sipping coffee when she came to this
conclusion, but decided that before she called Ruth, she would stop by Rita’s office; it was only a few blocks from here.

  Settling herself into the waiting area, Eleanor picked up a magazine. But her name was called almost immediately. “Are you sure?” she asked the receptionist. “I don’t have an appointment and she usually sees me late in the day.”

  “She told me to tell her when you showed up,” said the receptionist. “I’m supposed to send you right in.”

  Eleanor shifted her coat to one hand and smoothed her hair with the other. She was sorry she hadn’t had time to reapply her lipstick.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Rita Burns said before she even sat down. “I think I found you the perfect job.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Eleanor as she sank into the chair across from Rita.

  The next morning, Eleanor put on her best sweater, a black, jewel-neck cashmere, and took the subway downtown to Greenwich Village, another neighborhood with which she was almost entirely unfamiliar. Her breath made little white puffs as she walked past Italian butcher shops and bakeries as well as several intriguing little bars and cafes where she imagined poets and painters sipped wine and smoked Black Russian Sobranie cigarettes. It occurred to her that Tom lived somewhere down here. He knew this neighborhood, he’d probably walked these streets. A spike of pain went through her—best not to think of him now, but to focus on the interview.

  After a bit of backtracking, she finally found her way to the office of Zephyr Press, on Carmine Street. Up two flights of stairs, she walked into an open loftlike space in which papers, books, and file folders covered all the available surfaces. Although she couldn’t see anyone, she heard a voice call out, “Are you the girl Rita was raving about? Come on over and let’s have a look at you.”

  Eleanor made her way through the towers of books that stood between her and the sound of the voice. When she extended her hand, a woman who looked to be in her thirties reached out to shake it. “Adriana Giacchino,” she said. “And you’re Eleanor Moss?”

  “That’s right.” So Rita had used that name; well, she wasn’t going to dispute it now.

  “Sit down,” Adriana instructed. “That is, if you can find a place. And if you can’t, just go ahead and make one.” She had severe black bangs and bright red harlequin glasses that matched her red lips.

  Eleanor carefully moved some of the papers on the nearest chair to the floor.

  “So tell me about yourself,” Adriana instructed. “Rita says you went to Vassar. I did too—class of ’37.”

  “I was class of ’43,” Eleanor said. “I majored in English.”

  “Did you have Professor Westinhall for Chaucer?” Adriana asked.

  “I did,” said Eleanor. “She was . . . ferocious.”

  “So she was!” said Adriana. “Ah, old Westie. I wonder if she’s still there. Old professors never retire. Or die. They just haunt the stacks of the library, making sure that the book you need is never on the shelf.”

  The interview grew even less formal as it went on. In fact, Eleanor was having such a pleasant time comparing notes on other professors, dorms, and their favorite desserts at Alumnae House that she was almost surprised when Adriana stood up and said, “Well, Moss, Rita was right. You’re hired. You can start right now if you like.”

  “I am?” said Eleanor. “I can?”

  “Sure, why not? You can see I need help. It’s been like a three-ring circus around here.” And, as if to underscore what she’d said, not one but two phone lines rang simultaneously.

  Eleanor reached to answer one of them as Adriana went for the other. “Good afternoon, Zephyr Press,” she said. “Give me a moment and I’ll check.” She put her hand over the receiver and said softly, “Ian Marshall for you.”

  “Heaven forfend!” Adriana mouthed as the caller on her line talked into the phone. “Tell him I’m not here.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s stepped out,” Eleanor said smoothly. “May I take a message?”

  At Zephyr, Eleanor typed, filed, opened mail, answered the telephone, and sifted through the unending stream of novels, stories, essays, and poems that poured in over the transom. She liked this part of the job best of all, and sometimes brought home manuscripts to read at night, when the workday was done. On the few occasions she did spot something of real merit in the avalanche of unsolicited manuscripts, she brought it to the attention of her new boss. “Good work, Moss,” Adriana would say. “Keep it up.”

  The job was fulfilling and Eleanor was grateful to Rita Burns for leading her to it. She did miss teaching though. And she especially missed Margaux. But when she called Patricia to ask if she might write or call Margaux at Oakwood, Patricia said, “Let her get settled in. She needs time to adjust before she hears from you.” Eleanor tried a second and then a third time, but Patricia always found a reason to say no. Finally Eleanor had to accept that Patricia just didn’t want her to be in touch with Margaux. She was hurt, and tempted to write to Margaux anyway. But respect for Patricia’s wishes kept her from doing it. Much as she loved the girl, she would not go where she clearly was not wanted.

  Soon the streets of Greenwich Village became more familiar to her, and as she walked them—easily now, and with a growing sense of ownership and authority—she thought of Tom and wondered if she’d ever run into him down here. She knew the number of his apartment building, and she could have looked up his phone number in the telephone book or written to him. But she had her pride. He knew where he could find her.

  It pained her to realize just how little she’d meant to any of them really; when she’d finished serving her function, they had no further use for her. She could have confided all this to her mother, who would have been quick to agree, and in the past, she would have. Yet she didn’t. Though there was no longer any overt tension between them, Eleanor sensed a rift that was growing deeper and wider as the weeks passed. She was keeping more and more of herself hidden from view, saving her money, biding her time. And then, when the moment was right, she’d break away and walk freely into the new life she was only just beginning to devise for herself.

  Twenty-Three

  Christmas was a misery that year, though not from a lack of effort. Patricia had tried—oh, how hard she had tried!—to inject some meager joy into the season. After Eleanor had left them, Patricia contacted that upstate boarding school and was relieved to find they were willing to take Margaux on in the middle of the term. Despite what she’d said to Eleanor, Margaux grumbled about what she called a prison sentence, but when she learned that Larry Sharp had just started at Oakwood, she was somewhat mollified. Once Margaux was settled, Patricia took the train, alone, down to Florida, where Dottie kept a house in Palm Beach. Wynn offered not a word of protest.

  But with the impending holiday, she returned to New York. Her marriage may have been in tatters but there were still appearances to keep up: presents to be bought and wrapped, cards to be written and mailed, the apartment to decorate. Wynn brought home a nine-foot tree—evidently he too was trying hard—and set it up in the living room once Patricia moved a chair and an end table to accommodate it.

  Then Margaux got home. In less than an hour, it was clear she had completely reverted to the unhappy, aggravating girl she’d been in those awful months between her recovery and Eleanor’s arrival. Margaux did not want to go to Rumpelmayer’s on Fifty-Ninth Street for hot chocolate, and she spurned her mother’s invitation to view the elaborately decorated store windows on Fifth Avenue, or the resplendent tree—an eighty-foot Norway spruce covered in multicolored lights—at Rockefeller Center. She even refused to help trim their own tree. While Patricia carefully lifted the glass balls from their boxes and positioned them on the fragrant branches, Margaux sat on the sofa with a book, ostentatiously ignoring her.

  Christmas morning was the nadir. Margaux was only minimally responsive to Patricia’s gifts: a sage green cashmere twinset—Margaux’s first—and a satin-lined muff, but she was visibly upset by Wynn’s gift of a
handsome, and surely quite costly, leather saddle.

  “What’s this for?” Margaux asked, tears welling as she looked from the shiny cognac leather to her father’s face.

  “It’s for your horse,” said Wynn. He seemed truly surprised by her question. “Don’t you think Clover will look splendid with that on her back?”

  “But I haven’t ridden her in the longest time,” Margaux said, swiping at her eyes.

  “The doctor says you should be riding,” said Wynn. “And when you do, you’ll have this brand-new saddle.”

  Margaux touched the leather and said nothing more.

  He looked so genuinely unhappy that Patricia found herself feeling sorry for him. But unfortunately, his present to Patricia was equally off the mark. When she tore away the silver paper and took the lid off the glossy black box, she found a sumptuous fur stole. “It’s chinchilla,” Wynn said proudly as Patricia lifted the garment from its nest of tissue. “Go on, try it.”

  Reluctantly, Patricia stood up. She already owned two furs—a full-length mink and a short fox jacket—and had no desire for a third. The stole was obscenely soft and plushy under her fingers; it almost made her feel sick to handle it. She put it on anyway, though she could not seem to manufacture the requisite enthusiasm when she modeled it for him. Watching her, Wynn’s expression once more changed from initial delight to disappointment, like a sky darkening from blue to gunmetal gray. “Everything I do is wrong,” he said, kicking aside the torn paper and discarded ribbons. “Wrong, wrong, wrong.” He strode off and, though it was only ten in the morning, Patricia could hear the clink of the ice in the glass as he fixed himself a drink.

  Poor Wynn. Although he hadn’t consulted her about the saddle, Patricia understood his intent. The very first time Margaux had gotten up on a horse he’d been so excited, so proud, that you’d have thought he was up there with her. He had made it a point to attend every show, every competition, and had been her biggest fan and supporter. Because of her own experience, Patricia always found herself correcting some aspect of her daughter’s riding—her form, the way she’d handled a jump. Not so for Wynn, whose delight in Margaux’s performance was uncomplicated and pure. When she won first place at a regional event, he’d ordered a floral arrangement in the shape of a horseshoe and handed it to her, beaming. His gift of the saddle was as much about their connection as anything else. And as for the stole, how could he have known that she would find the thing ostentatious and offensive? She’d always loved her furs; was it his fault that her taste for them had soured?