The Memoir of Johnny Devine (2 page)

In the center of the plate, as either an
added bonus or a mistake, rested a cluster of plump, green grapes.
Since when had the standard bargain fare included fresh fruit? She
looked up.

In the long galley window, a toothy grin
greeted her. Jimmy was cooking today. Of course.

Eliza checked to see if anyone was watching,
then raised her hand in a brief wave of thanks.

Jimmy waved back, still grinning.

Swell. Grateful as she was for the treat,
she didn’t want to encourage a college boy. For some reason, Jimmy
didn’t seem to understand that Eliza was at least ten years his
senior.

She ate slowly, marveling at the way warm
potatoes could reach into the hollowest places. She cut the breaded
mystery meat—which turned out to be chopped beef—into tiny bites
and made her meal last longer with two more cups of coffee, a trick
she’d learned from the girls in steno school. When she finished her
allotted portion, she pushed the plate away, then drained her cup
and signaled Peg for one last refill.

“
Pity you didn’t eat all
your dinner,” Peg said, filling Eliza’s cup. She reached for the
half-empty plate.

“
No!” Eliza grabbed the
plate and pulled it close. “Sorry, I’m … not quite finished with
that.”

“
Well, that’s good.
Because just between you and me, doll, looks like you could stand
to gain a few pounds.” Peg gave her shoulder a soft pat and moved
along to the next table.

Eliza tugged four napkins from the
dispenser, unfolded them, and piled the rest of the food into the
center of each. As she did, she felt eyes on her and looked up.

The man at the counter was staring at her
again, sending a tingle along her spine.

She wrapped up the food and stuffed the
bundles into her handbag. Whatever the stranger had in mind, she
wasn’t interested.

Peg returned with her check. “Will there be
anything else? Dessert? More coffee?”

“
No, thank you.” Eliza
smiled.

Peg smiled back and waited.

Ah, the tip!
Eliza held her smile steady but wanted to slither
beneath the table. She had only enough money to pay the bill and
not a penny more. Betty would have kittens.

Once Peg had moved on, Eliza dug like mad
through her handbag, searching for anything of worth she could
leave the woman. Or at least a scrap of paper to write an IOU
on.

Was she really so pitiful?
No. This was only temporary; things would turn around soon. She
just needed a break, a leg up. Perhaps the American Women’s
Alliance would offer her a regular column
now that
she’d written a dozen
articles for them, and one that paid in double digits for a
change.

She could just hear Betty
now.
Don’t tell me you have no choice,
Eliza. Women of our class do not scrape by. Forget those crazy
notions of yours and get yourself a husband.

The trouble was, Eliza had already taken
that particular advice, but marriage hadn’t been the fairy tale her
sister had promised. Far from it.

In the bottom of her purse, Eliza’s fingers
grasped something cold. She pulled out a nickel.

Her last nickel.

She could buy a cup of coffee with that.

Or … she could leave a tip. Peg had to eat
too.

She left the nickel beside her plate, then
paid her check.

The man at the counter rose and paid his
check also. He left the diner a few steps behind Eliza.

She hurried across the street and looked
back, but the ogler must have gone another way. Eliza slowed her
pace. She was in no hurry to trade the clean bay breezes for her
stifling one-room studio.

Since her last freelance job had just ended,
the next thing on Eliza’s to-do list was to call the employment
agency. Inside her building, Eliza ignored the peeling yellow paint
in the lobby and looked around.

With any luck, the super was occupied
elsewhere and not hovering near the telephone eavesdropping on
tenants’ conversations.

She hurried to the hall at the bottom of the
stairs, fully expecting to wait in line for the telephone, but for
once, none of the other girls were using it. She gave the number to
the operator and waited to be connected, fingers crossed.

It didn’t take the receptionist at the
agency long to answer Eliza’s query. Still no typist or
stenographer work.

Not ready to give up, she
headed upstairs to her apartment for her telephone book. There were
still a couple of former contacts she could try again. But as she
neared the top of the stairs, Eliza nearly
tripped
on the last step.

Her sister waited at the apartment door.

Kit-Cat’s steady ticking seemed louder than
usual—as if to announce that there was an intruder in the room.

Betty must
have heard it too, because she looked over her
shoulder at the clock and made a huffing sound. “I positively
despise that thing.”

Eliza sighed. She happened
to love that clock. It was
different
.

“
It’s tacky, Eliza. I hate
the way the eyes move back and forth with the tail. It gives me the
heebie-jeebies.”

All the more reason to love it. Eliza hid
her smile.

Betty swept a narrowed gaze across the
studio apartment.

Why had she come? With a husband, two neatly
groomed kids, and a picture-perfect home surpassed only by Ozzie
and Harriet’s, Betty was far too busy for drop-in visits. She only
ventured down from Richmond Heights when something she couldn’t be
caught dead without wasn’t available there.

As Eliza waited, Betty continued her
scrutiny, shaking her blonde head at the narrow sideboard just big
enough for a hot plate, electric coffee pot, two saucers, and a
cup. She frowned at the small café table in the center of the room
where Eliza’s ancient typewriter left no room for eating. Which was
a moot point.

Betty grimaced at the threadbare chair, the
rickety bureau, and lastly, Eliza’s twin bed. Which she’d forgotten
to make.

She hadn’t exactly been expecting
company.

Betty shook her head. “Darling, you really
need to—”

“
Betty, please. Don’t
start.”

“
What? I just want to see
you happy. It’s not too late, you know. You’re still young. And ten
years of mourning is plenty sufficient.”

Mourning
? Was that what her sister
thought she’d been doing?

“
You’re throwing away the
best years of your life, Eliza. What’s all this writing and working
yourself stick-thin getting you? Not a home of your own, that’s a
fact.” She frowned, dark-blue eyes seeming genuinely confused.
“What kind of a woman doesn’t want a home of her own?”

“
The kind who would rather
have no home than a miserable one,” Eliza said quietly.

Betty stared at her, barely masking her
disbelief. “Just because your marriage wasn’t ideal is no reason to
throw away your—”

“
Ideal
?” Eliza stiffened. The only “ideal” thing about her marriage
to Ralph Saunderson was that he joined the army the minute he heard
about the war, giving Eliza a chance to lick her wounds in
peace.

And then the selfish brute got what was
coming to him.

Burning with shame, Eliza went to her bed
and straightened the bedding, forcing the awful thought from her
mind. A good wife would feel grief, not relief, at the news her
husband had been killed in battle. But then, a good wife would
probably do many things Eliza had never mastered, like turning a
blind eye to his cheating. Or to the fact that he’d named some
other woman his beneficiary.

Taking up her pillow, Eliza turned to her
sister. “I don’t want to argue with you, Betty.”

“
Good.” With a sigh, Betty
moved closer, her brow creased. “What
do
you want?”

Eliza fluffed her pillow and lifted her
shoulders in a shrug. “I just want … to feel complete.” She
frowned. It wasn’t a notion she’d ever entertained, much less
voiced aloud.

“
Well,
sure
you want to be complete,
darling. Hence the need for a husband. Isn’t that what I’ve been
saying all along?”

Eliza tossed the pillow to the head of the
bed, suddenly weary of the pressure to accept this destiny, to
measure her worth by her home and what man she belonged to. Betty
seemed so certain, and yet at times it all seemed like pretense,
like the silent lie Eliza had lived once and swore she would never
live again.

“
I don’t think a woman
should get married just so she can have an automatic dishwasher and
a full Frigidaire,” she said.

Betty’s cheeks reddened, nearly matching her
bold, red lips. “You make married women sound shallow.”

Eliza shrugged again.

“
Please tell me that’s not
what you think of me.”

She looked her sister in
the eye. “I thought we were discussing
me
.”

Kit-Cat’s ticking—which suddenly seemed
louder—filled the room.

Rats, the time! Eliza needed to call her
former employers again, now that people were getting home from
work. Best not to do that with Betty hovering nearby. “The drive to
Richmond Heights must be a real bear, especially at this time of
day.”

Betty gasped at her watch. “Oh, for pity’s
sake, Ed will be home in two hours, and I don’t have meat thawing.
I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known I’d have to wait so long for
you to show up. We’ll talk soon, hon.” She pecked the air with a
kiss and left.

As soon as Betty was gone, Eliza took the
bundles of food from her handbag and tucked them between the coffee
pot and hot plate. Her stomach piqued a sudden interest in the
grapes. But until she got paid again, she needed to make the food
last.

A buzz sounded at the door.

Expecting to hear one more piece of sisterly
advice, she opened the door, but it was Ivy from across the
hall.

“
There’s a call on the
line asking for
Mrs.
Saunderson.” Ivy peered beyond Eliza as if looking for
someone. “Sounds official.”

“
Thank you.” Eliza stepped
out and closed the door behind her, forcing Ivy and her curiosity
to step back on the landing, and dashed downstairs. It had to be
the agency. It
had
to.

“
Hello, this is Mrs.
Saunderson,” Eliza said into the receiver, hoping she sounded
confident.

It
was
the agency. The receptionist
told her about an interview for an opening. “However,” she said,
“the job doesn’t fully suit your qualifications.”

Eliza frowned. “But you said the job is for
an editorial assistant with typing and shorthand skills. I have
extensive experience in all three. It’s on my profile. Why do you
say I’m not qualified?”

The receptionist
apologized. “What I meant was it doesn’t match your
specifications
. But I
know you’
re
eager
for work, so I thought you might want to hear about it
anyway.”

“
Yes, please.” What
specifications had she listed on her profile?

“
The job is a long-term
project requiring strong editorial skills.”

“
Yes, I understand
that.”

“
And it pays very
well.”

A shiver of excitement raced down her back.
“But …?”

“
But the employer is … a
single male, and the job is at his private home.”

Ah. Her rule on that item was
non-negotiable. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—wait, how much does it
pay?”

The woman gave her a figure.

“
Per month?” It wasn’t
heaps more than what she’d made on her last freelance job, but was
still worth considering.

“
No, that’s per
week.”

Eliza gasped. “Per
week
? Are you sure?” She
could earn six times her rent in a month. But working for a man in
his home? It just wasn’t smart. “I’m sorry, but I—”

The super lumbered past in his usual
untucked, grease-stained work shirt—ironic, since he never actually
worked on anything. When he saw Eliza, he rubbed his fingertips
together and gave her that leering look of his. The one that
reminded her that the further she got behind on rent, the less
pleasant he could be.

Eliza shivered. “Yes, I
will take the interview
.”