Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (3 page)

Dear D,

What nice handwriting you have. Even if I
didn't know who wrote it, I could have told that it was from a
girl's hand. Very delicate lettering.

I like the picture shows, too. Have you seen
Chaplin's latest? It's very funny.

When you take walks, where do you go? Do you
ever walk along the Potomac? It's probably too hot to do that now.
At least, during the day. But maybe at night when the sun goes down
and it feels cooler.

Did you happen to see the full moon on the
4th? I was at a party with my family that night. And I looked up
and saw the moon. And I wondered whether you might be out taking a
walk then and looking at the moon, too. If you were, then you know
how bright and big it was. It was like a light bulb in the sky. Did
you know they call a July moon a Full Buck Moon? That's because
it's the time when buck deer begin to grow new antlers.

It's only July and this summer already seems
so long. Maybe it's the heat. It just feels too hot to do anything.
Except maybe swimming. Do you like the water? I'll bet you're a
good swimmer. You look like someone who would be a good
swimmer.

I turned 19 last November. How old are
you?

B

I can't recall if I blinked
at any time while I read that note. I know I didn't walk while I
read it. Or move in any way. I was so mesmerized by the
words—
his words
.
He wrote them to me. He shared his thoughts with me.
Oh, my god, he actually thought about me this
past week!
He thought about me while he
was looking at the moon.
How
romantic!

What's more, he said I
looked like a good swimmer. One doesn't make a judgment like that
based on the face. Oh, no! He had noticed my body. He had been
looking at
my body
—or what he could make out of it from beneath the drab blouse
and skirts I wore as work clothes. My arms. My hips. My waist. My
breasts. My nipples tingled at the very thought of it. I yearned to
run back to the house and let him look some more.

I wouldn't see him for another week, but I
began composing my response, at least in my head, on the trolley
ride home. Right after dinner, I sat on my bed and reached for pen
and paper. The words flowed more easily this time. The barriers had
been broken. It was all right to do this. Beau's note made it all
right.

Dear B,

I'm 17. But I'll be 18 on New Year's Day.
You could say each New Year is a new year for me.

I liked your description of the moon. I wish
I had seen it. But I suppose I probably retired to bed early that
night. I needed to work the next morning, and there was no 4th of
July party for me. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, I'll try to remember
to look for the moon when it's full again.

I do enjoy swimming. Although I haven't been
to a—

"What's with all the writing lately?" My
mother plopped down next to me, interrupting my composition. She
was holding a drink that smelled of some type of cheap alcohol.
"You writing a book?"

I quickly folded the paper and stashed it
under the folds of my dress. I hadn't intended to share it with
anyone other than Beau.

"Can't a girl have a moment alone?" I
moaned.

"Why? You got secrets?"

"What if I do?"

My mother squinted at me. Her eyes weren't
as strong as they once were, but they were as dark and lovely as
ever. I took after her in that respect. I also had her hair, nose,
cheeks, and full bosom. I like to think I got the best of her. Not
quite forty, she was still an attractive woman. Although her
usually pinkish hued face was currently reddened by too many hours
spent hanging laundry in the summer sun. That was her job, you see.
She and a neighbor—the one who got me my first job—took in other
people's laundry and hung the clothes out to dry in the neighbor's
backyard. It brought in money, so I'm not criticizing. I'm just
saying the sunburn did nothing to improve my mother's appearance or
her disposition.

"Secrets can get a girl into trouble." My
mother wagged a finger in my face.

"So can snooping," I shot back.

That ended the conversation. My mother
retreated to the relative cool of the front steps of our apartment
building, and I returned to writing my secret message.

I won't bore you with the word-by-word
details of every puppy love note that was traded through the
pillowcase that summer. Let it suffice to say the notes grew longer
and more personal with each exchange. I treasured every page, every
sentence, every word. Over and over, I would read them, spread them
out before me, fondle them. I would even hold them to my nose in
the hope of catching a faint whiff of the scent of my beloved.

Then came a day in August
when I was about to slip my note into the pillowcase, only to find
another piece of paper already in there.
Had Beau not retrieved my last note?
Were my heart's feelings still buried within the linen and
unread?
But, no! It wasn't my previous
note. It was a brand new one—from Beau to me. Rather than wait for
his "turn," he leapt ahead and wrote me another message.
Whiz-bang!
From that
point forward, we exchanged a letter from each of us
weekly.

Until September.

School was beginning again. Beau was off to
college, and I was crestfallen. Beyond that—I was devastated. My
love was leaving me to return to the University of Virginia, all
the way in Charlottesville—so much farther than a trolley ride. He
was out of my reach. I moped for days. His return to college was
hardly a surprise, but I suppose I just hadn't prepared myself for
it. Now the day had arrived, and I felt deserted. I felt hollow.
There were two full moons in September 1917, and both of them made
me cry.

Autumn was a dreary stretch of prolonged
misery. Friends and acquaintances noticed. Even Mrs. Eldridge, who
typically paid no mind to my moods, commented that I was "looking
rather glum lately." Glum was a colossal understatement. Gloomy and
depressed were far more accurate. I suppose I did my job
efficiently since none of my employing families fired me. However,
it was a grim efficiency that sustained only my need for an income
and none of my needs as a girl in love.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were neither
festive nor merry occasions. Not for me, anyway. Although I must
admit that enough time had passed to allow for some of the
emotional numbness to pass. I simply couldn't remain in a state of
constant grief. I moved on. I did my work. I saved my earnings. I
lived my life. It just wasn't a particularly happy one.

On the morning of Friday, December 28th, I
entered the Eldridge kitchen, hung up my coat on the rack near the
door, and proceeded to the closet where the cleaning supplies were
stored. I grabbed a bucket and mop. I figured I'd start with the
bathroom. I was filling the bucket at the kitchen sink when I
glimpsed something in the next room.

Oh my god! It was
him!
He was home for the
holidays!

I dropped the bucket into the sink, causing
a loud thud. Beau poked his head into the kitchen.

"Everything OK?"

Everything was much more than OK. Beau was
there.

"Everything's fine." I stared with hunger at
the boy I'd been missing so terribly.

"Nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you, too." I gulped hard. "Do
you want your pillow fluffed?"

"Not today." If it's possible to see another
person's heart sink, I believe Beau saw mine do just that when he
indicated there'd be no note waiting for me in the pillowcase. "But
I do want my room cleaned," he added amiably.

"Of course," I said. "Soon as I finish the
bathroom."

Both of us just stood there awkwardly. I
expected him to be leaving my presence any moment. Instead, he
stayed put.

"Don't you have a birthday coming up?" he
asked.

"Four days."

"How are you gonna celebrate it?"

"Probably like everybody else celebrates New
Year's Day," I shrugged. "Nothing special."

"That's a shame." The corners of his lips
curled up ever so slightly. "When a girl turns eighteen, she ought
to do something very special."

There was only one thing I wanted to do on
my birthday, and, if this boy didn't know it by now, then I had
wasted a lot of ink and paper on him.

"Beau?" Mrs. Eldridge appeared directly
behind her son. "Are you keeping this girl from her work?"

"No," he responded as he cheerfully shuffled
out the kitchen door. "Just getting out of her way."

Mrs. Eldridge gave me one last serious look
that told me not to dawdle any longer, and I went back to filling
the bucket. The bathroom awaited.

After that, I dusted and swept the parlor.
No Beau to be seen there. Drat! The bedrooms were next. I took a
dust mop and cleaning rag with me up the stairs. There was Beau's
room right before me.

Might as well start there.

I entered the bedroom only to hear the door
click shut behind me. I turned with a start. It was Beau. He held
his index finger to his lips.

"Sssshhh," he whispered.

Honestly, there was no
place in the world I'd have rather been than alone with Beau.
However, I was petrified that Mrs. Eldridge or one of the sisters
might barge in at any moment. And then what would we say? What
would I say?
Alone with a boy in his
bedroom? The maid? The employer's son?
This was dangerous. I felt incredibly vulnerable.

"What would you say," he spoke most softly,
"if I said I don't think it's right for a girl not to do something
special on her eighteenth birthday?"

"I don't know." I'm amazed he could even
hear me. In my fear, my trembling voice was almost nonexistent.
Maybe he didn't hear me. It probably didn't matter because he
continued calmly.

"What would you say if I said I think a girl
should really celebrate becoming a woman?"

"How should she do that?"

"By celebrating
like a woman
."

I wasn't sure what that meant. But, for
God's sake, this was Beau talking to me! I wasn't about to
challenge him.

"Know what this is?" He reached into his
pants pocket and pulled out a small metal object. "It's the key to
the McMahon house next door. They're in Europe for the holidays and
asked us to look after the place. Feed the cat. It'll be absolutely
empty New Year's Eve."

"Except for the cat," I nervously
quipped.

"Mr. Whiskers won't mind if we borrow the
place for the night," smirked my golden boy.

Oh, my god! Is he suggesting what I think
he's suggesting?

"What about your family?"

"Attending a big New Year's Eve bash in
Richmond. Staying overnight. Won't be home till the next
afternoon."

"Your sisters?"

"I'm supposed to watch them. I'll have them
in bed by ten. Eleven at the latest. Then I'm free." Beau's
expression changed to one of great importance. "Meet me there just
before midnight."

"Is it safe?"

"It's safe. I'd bet my life on it."

His
life wasn't what I was worried about. If his family caught
him, he'd probably get a stern talking to and maybe a cut in his
allowance. Then he'd be off to school again to resume exactly where
he left off. Me, on the other hand—I'd be out of a job. Possibly
out of several jobs. It was a huge risk.

But,
hell!
—this was Beau! My Beau! He
wanted to be with me on New Year's Eve, to be there when the clock
struck midnight and I became a woman. What's more, he wanted to be
the one to usher me into womanhood. How could I possibly turn that
down?

"All right," I agreed.

Beau beamed. A chill went through me.

New Year's Eve:

The late-night trolley ride across the
Potomac felt very odd. I had never before traveled to Arlington at
that hour. But here it was, New Year's Eve, and the trolley was
surprisingly busy. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised. It
was obvious a number of my fellow passengers were on their way to
parties that wouldn't reach their climax until midnight. So it
wasn't unthinkable that, at 11:00 p.m., there'd be people who were
on their way to their late-night destinations. Come to think of it,
I was one of those people.

There was no problem about my going out at
such an otherwise ungodly hour. My mother asked few questions after
I told her I'd be meeting a friend to ring in the New Year. She had
plans of her own, the details of which I didn't bother to delve
into with her. However, I assumed her plans involved a man and an
overnight stay. They usually did. No matter. The only thing that
truly mattered to me that evening was my rendezvous with Beau. He'd
meet me at the McMahon's empty house where I'd enter as a mere
blossoming girl and exit as a fully flourishing woman.

The bitter winter wind cut right through my
coat as I walked the dark, deserted side roads from the trolley
stop to the Eldridge's street. It was uncomfortable, but I didn't
care. I only cared about my meeting with Beau. In a little while,
I'd be with him, in private, where no one would disturb us. This
was what I'd wanted for months. I'd have braved the cold for twice
as long, even without a coat, just for the moment that was about to
happen.

It was about 11:30 when I arrived at the
McMahon house. The large, Georgian style brick home was dark
inside. Only the flicker of a sidewalk street lamp illuminated its
exterior, and even that was faint. Scouting up and down the street
with my eyes, I determined there was no one around, and I
cautiously walked up the steps and onto the home's front porch. I
tried the door. It was locked. A porch swing was just to my left,
in a shadowed area. I sat myself on it and huddled into my coat as
best I could for whatever warmth the measly, cheap garment would
allow.