White Collar Girl (19 page)

I remember the adults were sitting around the dining room table, a haze of cigarette smoke lingering over their drinks. I said good night and went upstairs to do my homework. Eliot was away at college then. The hour was growing late, and from my room I heard the conversation below me getting louder. Algren and de Beauvoir were arguing.

“You could not even so much as mention my book tonight,” came the thick French accent. “An entire auditorium filled with people and you could not so much as mention my book!”

“And why should I have?” said Algren. “When the University of Chicago invites you to come speak, you can talk all you want about your book.”

“You're not taking my work seriously,” de Beauvoir said. “It is men like you who are the very cause of the oppression I write about.”

The volume escalated and soon everybody was speaking over each other. Next I heard something break—sounded like glass shattering—followed by high heels coming up the stairs. A moment later my bedroom door swung open.

“Oh, pardon,” said de Beauvoir in her chic French accent, tears clouding her eyes. She was stylishly dressed with her dark hair parted in the center and pulled back in a silk turban. “I thought this was the powder room.”

I sat up straighter and put my book aside.

“It's down the hall, Simone,” my mother said as she came up behind her, the two of them fitting neatly inside the doorframe. “Are you all right?”

De Beauvoir was very drunk and very beautiful despite the
tears streaming down her cheeks. “No. I am not all right,” she said as she took a step forward and dropped down on the corner of my bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “From this man I will never recover.” She was pure drama, from her words to her accent.

My mother came inside my room, and I scooted out of the way, closer toward the headboard, so she could sit beside de Beauvoir.

“You can't let him get to you like this,” my mother said, draping her arm over de Beauvoir's shoulder. “You know how he is. How all men are. Did you really expect him to mention your work tonight?”

When de Beauvoir raised her head, her eyes were bloodshot and the tip of her nose was red. “Men are such bastards. Selfish bastards, each and every one of them. I have two men, and they both take and take and take and give me nothing in return. It's all
me, me, me
,” she said, beating her fist to her chest. “It is like I am not important. Not
as
important. Is he so threatened by me that he cannot give me the credit I deserve? The respect I have earned?” She paused, and her shoulders sagged, broken. “Oh, but my heart, it loves him. So I do for him whatever I can, things I didn't even think possible. But even that is not enough. I give and I give and I give and still Nelson wants more. I lose a part of my soul each time I give my heart to him. I don't know how to love that man without hating myself for it. I regret all that I've done for him and I resent him for making me abandon myself.” Her eyes flashed open wide, and she clasped a hand over her mouth just as she collapsed and sobbed into my mother's arms.

“See what love can do?” de Beauvoir mumbled to me, her eyes growing heavy. “It can destroy. It can ruin lives. . . .”

I'd never seen a grown woman crumble like that. It frightened me to know that it was possible to feel that kind of pain.
And over a man. While she went on crying, I scooted out of the way and let my mother help de Beauvoir into my bed, slipping off her shoes and pulling the covers up to her shoulders. Just before de Beauvoir passed out, my mother said something to her in French. De Beauvoir smiled sadly and nodded.
“Oui, oui.”

Afterward my mother and I went down the hall to Eliot's room, where I'd be sleeping that night. “What did you say to her?” I asked. “In French?”

“I reminded her never to put a man first. Ever.”

That conversation I'd witnessed between my mother and Simone de Beauvoir in my bedroom took place five years ago, but I was only now realizing how true her words were.

•   •   •

I
n June the Caseys met with their bishop and received special permission for Jack and me to be married in the Catholic Church. After that we were off and running. A date was set: November 10, 1957. It still seemed far enough off and slightly unreal despite that the invitations were being printed and the guest lists pondered.

Around this time my mother and I went looking for dresses. We were not natural-born shoppers when it came to this sort of thing. While we could spend hours in bookstores, we usually only shopped for clothes under duress. I had dragged her along when I bought all those outfits for my new job, both of us irritated and snapping at each other by the end of the day. I remember how buying back-to-school clothes each year was an arduous task that we put off until the last minute.

This time we decided to get a head start on things and went to the bridal department at Marshall Field's. We were such novices as we stepped off the escalator, landing in an enchanted forest of white silks, satins and taffeta. As we sorted through a rack of gowns, my mother's attention was diverted to my blouse, peppered with ink from the newspapers I always carried under my arm.

“You're ruining all your clothes,” she said.

“I don't know what to do about it.” I shrugged. “It comes with the territory.”

The shopgirl patiently waited on us, bringing out a series of wedding dresses. My mother and I selected half a dozen flowing white gowns to try on, each embellished with beading and embroidery and satin and lace. Some were tea length, and some hung to the ground with mile-long trains. One dress was more glorious than the next, and soon I was standing on a riser before a three-way mirror wearing a gown that cost more than two months' salary.

“Don't worry about that right now,” said my mother when she saw me looking at the price tag. “I can always get Grandpa to pay for it.”

It had been more than a year since I'd seen my grandparents. They'd been aloof about my engagement, especially when they learned that, like their daughter, I wasn't marrying a Jewish boy. I wondered if they'd even bother to make the trip in for the wedding.

“You know I didn't wear a wedding dress when your father and I got married. I didn't even wear white. It was a powder blue suit with a sable collar. It was a Christian Dior. But it was no wedding dress. And we weren't married in a fancy church, either.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”

“Oh, God, no. It's just that the Caseys are making such a big deal over this.”

“Excuse me. Some would argue that a wedding
is
a big deal.”

“Of course it is, but did you see their guest list? They're practically inviting the whole city.”

“And I think that's
just
their relatives.”

She laughed and fluffed out the train on my dress. “There—” She came and stood beside me, and I felt absolutely giddy as she
squeezed my shoulders. To see myself as a bride was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Well?” I set my hands on my hips. “What do you think?”

“I love it.”

“I do too.” I turned to the left and then the right.

“Oh, wait a minute.” My mother frowned. “The fabric's puckering in the back here.” She tugged on it, inching it this way and that. “Nope. It's still doing it.”

That was enough to make us fall out of love with it.

The next dress, an ivory silk, was too low-cut.

“
Oy.
Can you imagine what
Grandma Casey
would say if she saw this?” my mother said in a mocking tone.

I laughed. “You really don't like the Caseys, do you?”

“It's not that I don't like them. I actually love Jack. But those people? That mother and the granny—
Oy gevalt
!”

I laughed but immediately felt guilty for doing so.

By the time I'd tried on the next dress, it was getting warm inside the fitting room. The overhead lights were bouncing off the mirror, glaring back at us. The salesclerk was too persistent, repeatedly knocking on the door, asking if we needed anything else. I was getting cranky and so was my mother.

Now she looked at each price tag and added commentary.

“That's ridiculous.”

“That's a bit much.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

With each new dress our spirits sagged a bit more. It was like a balloon steadily losing air until it reached the point where we looked at the dozens of buttons on one dress and decided that was too much work and moved on. But even as I pulled the next gown over my head, I knew I wouldn't like it. The moment had passed, and now my mother and I were only going through the motions.
We were like cutouts of ourselves, a mother-daughter duo looking for that perfect dress. But finding it just wasn't all that important to us, and by the time the salesgirl brought in another round, we were done. We felt burdened and put-upon and we were still dragging even as we left the flowing, glittering bridal department and made our way to the escalators.

We didn't begin to feel like ourselves again until we reached the first floor and my mother suggested we look at the handbags.

“We should find you something that's big enough for all your newspapers so you don't keep ruining your clothes.”

I agreed and so we revived ourselves while looking at the Korets, the Wilardys and, of course, the black quilted Chanel 2.55 bags that were so popular. From there we moved on to the more moderately priced leather bags, alligator bags, knit bags and bags made of cloth. None of them were big enough to hold all my newspapers and magazines, my notepad and everything else that I schlepped to and from the city room each day. We had about given up and were working our way toward the Wabash Avenue exit when something caught my mother's eye.

“Aha! Come with me.” She headed toward a display of sleek leather attaché cases in the men's department. “How about something like this?”

“An attaché case?” I started to laugh. I thought she was kidding.

“Why not? It's perfect.” She snapped open the brass latches and ran her hand across the suede interior. “Isn't it lovely? Feel this. It can hold everything. You can even carry an umbrella and your lunch. A change of shoes.”

“But, Mom, it's an attaché case. They're for men.”

“Says who? Who's to say you can't carry one as well?”

And so that afternoon, instead of a wedding dress, my mother bought me an attaché case. Actually it took little convincing on her part as soon as we zeroed in on the right one. It was quite
handsome, made of soft brown leather with brass buckles and a combination lock for safekeeping.

Beyond the practicality of it, I didn't give it much thought. But the next day, as I stepped onto the el, I couldn't help noticing the looks my attaché case was attracting. The same was true on Michigan Avenue, when every businessman I passed eyed my briefcase, sizing it up to his own. Even the doorman in the lobby of the Tribune Tower gave me a quizzical look. And when I entered the city room the fellows were all over me about it.

“Whose is that?” asked Benny, pointing to my case.

“It's mine.”

“What do you mean, it's yours?” Walter burst out laughing. “Hey, look everyone. The boss lady's here.”

“That's some lunch box,” said Marty with a chuckle.

“Whatcha sporting in there?” asked Henry. “A machine gun?”

“Or better yet, maybe it's a body,” said Peter.

They all laughed while I set the briefcase on my desk and snapped open the brass buckles. I'm sure they were disappointed to see that it was filled with just newspapers and magazines. And that extra pair of shoes that my mother thankfully suggested.

As the day progressed, the others continued to razz me about my attaché case. Even the girls were taken aback and seemed almost offended when I brought it along after work and set it on the empty chair at our table at Riccardo's.

“It's just not the sort of thing a lady carries,” insisted Gabby.

“Aren't you worried that it makes you look too masculine?” asked M.

“I'm worried that the rest of you don't want to start carrying one yourselves,” I said. “It's much easier than trying to cram everything inside your handbag or trying to carry everything in your arms. And besides, there's no law that says these cases are for men only.”

“She has a point,” said Eppie Lederer. “Still, I don't think it's for me. I can't see me carrying that thing. It's too bulky and then what would I do with my handbag?”

“I agree,” said Gabby. “And I still think it's off-putting to men.”

“But she doesn't need to worry about what men think,” said M. “She's already got a man. She's engaged, remember.”

“And how does Jack feel about your carrying that thing?” Eppie asked with a laugh.

I looked at her, baffled. I couldn't tell if she was joking or not. Were my mother and I the only ones who didn't think it was a big deal for a woman to carry an attaché case?

•   •   •

I
continued to carry my attaché case despite judgmental looks from strangers on the el and from men and women passing me on the street. Not to mention the ongoing mocking from my coworkers, whom I thought would have been more concerned about preparing for the upcoming Democratic National Convention.

Chicago was a steam bath that August, with temperatures in the high nineties. The humidity crept onto every surface, finding its way into every fold of fabric and crease of skin. Oscillating fans were perched on top of the desks in the city room trying to cool everyone while we revved up for the convention. There was a steady influx of updates coming in on the wires and announcements of candidates and delegates arriving.

I was polishing a piece on “Planning the Perfect Picnic” for Women's World Today when Mrs. Angelo, Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Pearson called me into one of the conference rooms. I was a bit uneasy as I stood in the doorway. It was unusual to meet with the features editor and the managing editor together. And having Mrs. Angelo there only concerned me more. I was certain they were going to reprimand me or possibly even fire me for doing everything in my power to move off the women's pages.

“Come in, Robin,” said Mr. Pearson. Even after I'd worked in his department for a year and three months, he still didn't know my name. “Have a seat.”

I took the chair next to Mrs. Angelo. Mr. Pearson sat at the head.

Mr. Ellsworth paced back and forth, his fingertips caressing his whiskers, as was his habit. “We've got a special assignment for you, Walsh.”

“We're putting you on the convention coverage,” said Mr. Pearson.

“What?” At first I thought I hadn't heard right. “But what about Marty and Walter?”

“What about them?” Mr. Ellsworth planted his hands on his hips. “Marty's still covering the convention. So is Walter. Relax, you're just covering the women's interest stories there. Mrs. Angelo will give you your assignments.”

I left the meeting trying to decide if I was pleased that they were letting me cover the convention or disappointed that I'd been relegated to the women's stories. That night I was home at a reasonable hour, washing my stockings in the bathroom sink and planning what I'd wear to the convention center the next day. I was squeezing out the excess soap when I heard a pounding on the front door.

With my hands still dripping water, I looked through the peephole. Jack was standing in the hallway. When I opened the door, he was staring at the baby stroller, filled with black socks and one discarded sneaker. I let him inside, and with my sudsy hands held up like a surgeon's, I leaned in to kiss him, but he pulled away.

“What's wrong?”

“Goddamn fuckin' assholes.”

“Whoa.” I'd never heard Jack talk like that before. “What happened? What's going on?”

“My fucking editor reassigned the convention.”

“What does that mean?” I reached for a kitchen towel and dried my hands.

“It means I'm not covering the goddamn convention—that's what it means.”

“But why not?”

“He says he's got enough men on it. He needs me to stick with the zoning story. A goddamn zoning story when there's a national presidential convention in town.”

“Can't you do both?”

“I told him I could. I told him I'd sleep at my desk if I had to. He wouldn't bite.”

“I'm sorry.” I brushed my fingers through his hair, but he shrugged me away. I raised my hands in surrender. “I'm just trying to help.”

“Forget I said anything.” He went over to the fridge and surveyed the shelves. “What happened to all the beer?”

“We drank it.”

“Terrific.” He slammed the door shut.

“There's some vodka in the cupboard.” I retrieved a bottle, but then he was upset that I didn't have any ice. He drank it warm anyway.

“Why do you keep vodka in the cupboard anyway? You're supposed to keep it in the freezer.”

“I'll make a note of that.”

He leaned up against the refrigerator and made a face as if to say I didn't understand.

“What's really bothering you?”

“I'm damn frustrated is all. I wanted to cover the convention.”

“I know you did.” I went and wrapped my arms around him from behind, butting my chin up against his shoulder. “It's not
fair. You would have done a brilliant job.” I tightened my hold around his middle and drew a deep breath.

“Oh, before I forget, my mother needs to talk to you. Something about flowers or menus or something. I don't remember what. And she said to remind you about your meeting with Father Greer on Wednesday.”

“Okay. I know.”

He looked at me with little confidence.

“I know,” I said, this time louder. “I have it on my calendar and don't worry, I'll call your mother first thing tomorrow. Okay?”