by Ames Sheldon
“I’ve been thinking about us,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Now that you’re working for the family business, it seems to me like we’re going down two very separate paths. I work for a hospital, after all.”
“I know you do.”
“I don’t understand why you turned down the opportunity to continue doing research on penicillin at the Rockefeller Institute. You could make a big difference there.”
“I loved research at Madison, and it was tempting to consider working at the institute, but Father asked me to join him at the company—and that’s what I wanted.”
“I never thought you were interested in business.”
“I liked the accounting and finance classes I took at Madison. They made sense to me.”
“It looks like you’ve decided to pursue a direction that’s rooted in your past instead of choosing a future with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You chose your father and his world over me and my world.”
“Oh, come on. That’s a weird thing to say.”
“Tell me what we have in common now—besides movies.” When he smiles, she realizes that he simply wants to be convinced they should stay together.
She replies, “We both care about people and their health and well-being.”
“That’s true.” He reaches for her hand.
She keeps her hands in her lap as she considers the visceral revulsion she sometimes feels in response to his kisses.
Then she lifts her chin. “We should call it quits, Frank.”
He turns away.
“We’re awfully different.”
He fires up the engine of the car.
Trying to be nice, she says, “I really appreciated your patience with me all the time I was away in Madison.”
Bitterly, he replies, “A lot of good that did.”
“Your family will be relieved. Your mother doesn’t like me at all. She’s so formal and cool to me.”
“Let’s not get nasty.”
She feels such a confusing mix of fear and anger and relief now that she cannot speak.
When he pulls to a stop in front of her house, she jumps out, kicking the car door shut.
She runs into the house and slams the door.
“Harriet, is that you?” Eleanor calls from down the hall.
Her mother is sitting in a wingback chair in the parlor, a highball on the table next to her. Harriet perches on the edge of the couch.
“What happened?”
“I just broke up with Frank. Is that a mistake? You know he has no sense of humor. And he has such a boring job!”
“Frank is a good man, but it wasn’t the right match, Harriet.”
“He is a good man. There are lots of things about him that I admire. But I really didn’t like the way he kisses.” She shakes her head. “I guess that’s pretty petty.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I tried.” She jumps up. “I’m going to get a drink.”
“Good idea.”
When Harriet returns with a bourbon and water, she sits back on the couch. “Mummy, how did you feel when you were in love with Henri?”
Eleanor closes her eyes for a few moments. Softly she says, “I couldn’t get enough of him. I loved running my hands all over him. I wanted to crawl inside him.”
“Really? I’ve never felt anything like that.”
“I loved the way Henri smelled. I could inhale him forever.” Smiling to herself, Eleanor raises her glass and drinks deeply.
“Frank smells like antiseptic—the smell of the hospital must stick to his clothes. In June for his birthday I gave him a bottle of Bergamot aftershave, but it didn’t make much difference.” She sighs. “Maybe I didn’t love him after all—at least not the marrying kind of love.”
“You seemed to be good friends.”
“I didn’t feel passion with Frank.”
“Then it’s just as well you called it off.”
“Yes.” At the same time, fear claws at her throat. “What if I never find someone to really love me?”
“You will, dearie. You know the old saw, ‘There are plenty of fish in the sea.’”
“Not as many as there used to be, thanks to the war.”
Eleanor grimaces. Then she reaches out to pat Harriet’s hand.
During Nat’s Sunday night phone call home, Harriet gets on to talk with her brother. He tells her about the jazz combo he’s started sitting in with, and she reports that she broke up with Frank.
“I’m not surprised it didn’t work out,” Nat says. “He wasn’t smart enough for you, Harry.”
“I wonder whether I’m too ambitious for him. Maybe he just wants a wife who’ll sit home and cook and knit and take care of the babies.”
“He did tease you about being too bossy the first night I met him.”
“Well, I can be bossy at times.”
“I’ll say! When you were running the farm, there was no discussion. You just told us what to do—all the time.”
“I know—I admit it.”
“Frank didn’t know how to scratch your itch.”
Startled, Harriet says, “Whoa! That’s right.” She chuckles. “What do you know about scratching that kind of itch?”
“I’m very familiar with my own.”
She’s tickled by his insight. Nat really is her brother. “You’re the best, Nat. When will we see you?”
“Maybe Christmas.”
Later that summer Eleanor insists that Harriet accompany her and George to a cocktail party the Wrights are throwing at a country club in Far Hills. Her mother tells her, “You need to get out and meet some new people, dearie.”
As soon as Harriet enters the large reception room, she notices a trim man with dark brown hair who seems to be mesmerizing a crowd of young women around her own age. She edges closer to see what’s going on. He’s wearing a plaid navy-blue-and-green jacket, navy slacks, and a jaunty green bow tie, and he’s terribly handsome, teasing and flirting with everyone. Although he looks intriguing, he’s much too debonair for her. She steps back to join her parents, who are talking with their hostess.
Mrs. Wright says, “You must be Harriet. Welcome. Have you met my son Ron?” She nods at the tall man who’d just caught Harriet’s eye.
“No, I haven’t, Mrs. Wright.”
“As you can see, he’s very popular with the girls. Ever since he got back from the Pacific, they’ve been throwing themselves at him.”
“I can see that.”
“Let me introduce you.” She grabs Harriet’s hand and pulls her over to the group surrounding Ron.
Ron’s eyes are dark blue, and his thin nose is as straight as a knife. He inclines his head toward her, saying, “And what’s your name?”
She can scarcely breathe. “It’s Harriet, Harriet Sutton.” She’s glad that she’s wearing her new burgundy dress with the tightly fitted waist and skirt.
Mrs. Wright adds, “Harriet’s the daughter of our new friends from Plainwood. I’m told she plays a mean game of tennis—you should challenge her to a match sometime, Ron.”
Harriet is so attracted to Ron that it scares her. “Actually, I’m pretty busy.”
“Doing what, Miss Harriet?” The formal locution sounds charming on his tongue.
“I’m a chemist. I work at my father’s chemical company.”
“Really? That’s unusual. I don’t know any chemists, much less lady chemists.” He grins at her.
“Lady?” she replies. “I don’t think of ladies as women who work—but perhaps that’s unfair.”
“No, I know what you mean,” he says.
“You do?”
He nods.
“Just call me a chemist.”
“As you like.” His eyes twinkle. “I can’t believe you work all weekend. You must have a little time for tennis once in a while.”
She can’t help herself from smiling in response. “Feel free to call me if you’r
e serious about tennis.”
He telephones her the next day.
One evening in October, Harriet knocks briskly on the door of her father’s study.
“Come in!”
She opens the door and enters quickly. The room smells smoky from the fire and the cigarette in his hand, but it’s her father’s smell, so she finds it comfortably familiar. Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 2 in C Minor is playing full blast on the new Philco 1213 Chippendale radio-phonograph.
“Doesn’t this sound great!” George gets up from his favorite leather chair and moves to turn down the volume. As he does so, she spots tears on his cheeks. The sight touches her. Her father can seem so forbidding at times; she’s glad he has his soft spots too.
“I’ve got some exciting news for you.”
“Tell me.” He resumes his seat in front of the fireplace.
She takes the adjacent chair. “This is nice,” she says as she looks around the room and then at the flames darting among the logs.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve learned that the dithiocarbamates were more effective, less phytotoxic, and easier to prepare than the inorganic compounds previously used as fungicides.”
“That sounds like a start.”
“Since the 1930s paraffin waxes have been used to coat citrus fruits, but I’m thinking carnauba wax and oil in a water emulsion will make a better carrier for a fungicide like dithiocarbamate—”
“I’m pleased you’re moving along with your research, Harriet. Let me know when you’re sure you’ve got the right stuff for us to sell.”
She’s so proud of her progress that she expected he’d want to hear all about it. Pushing her disappointment down, she crosses her legs and starts shaking her foot.
He goes on. “Now that you’re here, I’d like to get your take on the restructuring plan I’ve been sketching out. We need separate divisions for research, sales, and manufacturing. Dr. Bryne can head research, and I’ll make Mr. Oswald vice president for sales and Mr. Sheehy vice president for manufacturing.”
“Would that be a demotion for Dr. Bryne?”
“He’d still be a vice president.”
“I guess that makes sense, though I really wouldn’t know—I’m not a manager, after all. I’m a chemist,” she replies.
“Fair enough.” He gets up and goes over to his desk to get his glass of bourbon. “I’ll have a talk with Art Donohue—he owns a business about the same size as ours.” He returns to his chair. “Would Dr. Bryne make a good research director?”
She looks up at the banjo clock on the wall as she considers her response. She doesn’t know what Dr. Bryne’s job is exactly. He doesn’t seem to do any science or lab work. She turns her eyes back to George. “I don’t know, Father. I don’t trust Dr. Bryne, but maybe that’s because he doesn’t like me. You should ask Dr. Gallagher.”
“You must have some impression of Dr. Bryne.”
“Well, he seems to be terribly critical of mistakes, but maybe that’s how it has to be in business. Dr. Bryne likes to tell people exactly how to do their jobs.”
“That’s not good,” says George. “Destructive criticism kills initiative. I’ll speak with Bryne about this.”
“Don’t mention my name!”
“I won’t. Being willing to make mistakes is a crucial component of experimentation.” He lifts his glass. After swallowing, he says, “Dr. Gallagher speaks highly of your work, Harriet. How are you getting on otherwise?”
“Are you asking whether I miss Frank?”
“I have some respect for the guy, but you can do a lot better.”
“I don’t miss Frank.” She’s a little surprised to hear herself admit this. “Besides, my new tennis partner, Ron Wright, keeps me busy.”
“Glad to hear it.”
February 1948
One night at an elegant supper club in Far Hills four months later, Ron leans over the table so far that he appears to be bowing. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Harriet bends her torso toward him. Ron’s straight dark hair, which is a little long, brushes her forehead as lightly as a feather. She shivers. Their noses come close to touching.
She’s thinking she must be in love with Ron because she even likes the smell of his sweat, which she notices after they play tennis on the indoor courts at his club each weekend. She’s attracted by the scent of his aftershave as well.
She says, “I’m not sure what you’re thinking.”
“We’ve been having a lot of fun together, haven’t we?”
“I’ll say!” She and Ron, who returned from the South Pacific apparently untouched by the war, have gone out to parties and dinners and concerts and plays several nights a week. Like many others these days, Ron seems to be intent on making up for everything he missed during those years he spent defending freedom, and Harriet’s happy to accompany him. She’s never felt like this, but then she’s never been actively wooed before. Being with Ron feels so easy, so natural, so right. He’s even the perfect height for her to snuggle her head against his neck when they embrace.
Ron reaches for her hands. “I think we should get married, Harriet. I love you. I love your intelligence and your drive and your ability to beat me at tennis—at least some of the time. Besides, you have great legs!” As he grins, adorable dimples dent his cheeks. “I want to marry you, darling. What do you say?”
“How would you feel about my continuing to work?” She holds her breath. There’s only one acceptable answer to this question.
“That’s what I would expect.”
“Then …” She gulps. This is what she wanted, isn’t it? She’s thrilled to have snagged such an eligible bachelor. On the other hand, the thought of losing her independence is frightening. Ron seems to respect her and her aspirations—and isn’t it time for her to grow up, to become a complete adult woman? But would marriage mean she’d start down the slippery slope that ends in her being stuck all by herself in a house with a baby? That’s the thought that truly terrifies her.
“Yes,” she finally says, squeezing his hands tight. “I will marry you.”
“Wonderful!” Pulling her closer, he kisses her tenderly.
She’s so excited that she can hear her heart beating in her ears. After she pulls back from the kiss, she teases, “But, Ronnie, you have to admit, I win more than half of our matches.”
“You’re right, Harriet. I’ve got to work on my serve.”
“We should talk to Father.”
Ron lifts his martini. “I’ve taken care of that.” He takes a sip.
She’s startled by the news, but she’s pleased by how confidently he has taken charge. “What did Father say?”
“I have his blessing. I told him I expect Smith Barney will make me a vice president this year.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, your father didn’t see any obstacles.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“I invited him to lunch last week.”
She’s tickled that Ron and her father conspired behind her back toward something she desires. “Father never said a word.”
“Of course not.” Putting his martini down, he reaches into the pocket of his navy blue Brooks Brothers suit. He pulls out a black velvet box and flips it open, revealing a large emerald-cut diamond set in white gold.
“Oh, Ronnie, it’s gorgeous!”
“Put it on.”
She tries to slide the ring onto her finger, but it won’t go over the knuckle. This makes her feel slightly anxious. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, darling. We’ll see the jeweler tomorrow. They’ll make it fit.” He takes the ring back and returns it to his pocket. “Let’s dance.”
“Yes!”
Grabbing her hand, he leads her to the dance floor. The Glenn Miller Orchestra is playing “I Know Why (And So Do You).” Her pink satin dress, which flares out from its snug waist, sways with their movements. She
’s never felt so happy. When he twirls her around and around again, she grows dizzy—she’s not used to drinking more than one martini.
Harriet’s research continues. She reacts ethylene diamine and carbon disulfide in a glass beaker, and then she salts it with sodium hydroxide. Next, she adds carnauba wax, oil, and water. After spraying the mixture on two apples and two oranges that she has carefully cleaned, she sets them out to dry at the back of her section of the bench. After that she goes to her desk to record all the details in her lab book. It’s late Friday afternoon when she finishes.
Early Monday morning, she hurries to her workspace. The apples and oranges are no longer there. Assuming they rolled off the bench, she gets down on her hands and knees to see where they’ve gone.
Mark, the colleague who works opposite her, asks, “Miss Sutton? What are you doing?”
She looks up at him. “I’m looking for the apples and oranges I treated on Friday. They must have fallen off the bench.” She moves around her colleagues’ empty stools.
“Here, let me help you.” Mark crawls around the other side. After a couple of minutes he stands back up, his face as red as his hair. “Any luck?”
She straightens, brushing down her skirt. “No. Thanks for your help. And please, I’ve asked you before, call me Harriet. ‘Miss Sutton’ is much too formal. You call the others by their first names.”
“All right, Harriet. But I must say, I can’t understand how your experiment would simply disappear.”
She looks in the refrigerator to see if someone placed her apples and oranges inside, but they aren’t there either. Very puzzling. She walks across to Dr. Gallagher’s office. A man with unruly white hair and round wire-rimmed glasses, he’s sitting at his desk reading some papers. He looks a little like Albert Einstein. She knocks on the frame of his open door.
He glances up and smiles. “Miss Sutton.”
“Dr. Gallagher, could the people who clean the lab over the weekend have done something with my experiment? I can’t find the fruit I left on the bench Friday.”
“They have explicit instructions not to move anything on the bench. Their job is to clean the sink and floors. I can speak to their supervisor.”