-Yes. Monday the seventeenth.
Miss Markham smiled at the precision.
-I've asked you in to discuss your future here. As you may have heard, Pamela will be leaving us at summer's end.
-I hadn't heard.
-You don't gossip much with the other girls, do you Katherine?
-I'm not much one for gossip.
-To your credit. Nonetheless, you seem to get along well?
-It's not a difficult group with which to get along.
Another smile, this one for the appropriate placement of the preposition.
-I'm glad to hear that. We do make some effort to ensure a certain compatibility among the girls. At any rate, Pamela will be leaving. She is . . .
Miss Markham paused.
-With chy-uld.
She used two syllables to bring the word to life.
Such news may have merited celebration on the crowded blocks of Bed-Stuy where Pamela came of age, but it didn't merit celebration here. I tried to adopt the expression of one having just learned that her colleague has been caught with her hand in the till. Miss Markham went on.
-Your work is impeccable. Your knowledge of grammatical rule excellent. Your comportment with the partners exemplary.
-Thank you.
-Initially, it seemed as if your shorthand might not keep pace with your typing; but it has improved markedly.
-It was a goal of mine.
-A good one at that. I have noticed also that your knowledge of trust and estate law is beginning to approach that of some of the junior attorneys.
-I hope that doesn't strike you as presumptuous.
-Not in the least.
-I've found it helps me to serve the partners better if I understand the nature of their work.
-Just so.
Miss Markham paused again.
-Katherine, it is my judgment that you are quintessentially Quiggin. I have recommended that you be promoted to take Pamela's place as lead clerk.
(Pronounced clark.) -As you know, the lead clerk is like the first violin in an orchestra. You will have more than your share of solos-or better said, you will have a more appropriate share of solos. But you will also have to serve as an exemplar. While I am the conductor of our little orchestra, I cannot have my eye on every girl at every hour and they will look to you for guidance. Needless to say, this advancement will come with the appropriate raise in pay, responsibilities, and professional status.
Miss Markham then paused and raised her eyebrows indicating that some comment from me was now welcome. So I thanked her with professional restraint and as she shook my hand, I thought to myself: How quintessentially Quiggin; how nearly neighbor; how so simpatico.
Leaving the office, I walked downtown to the South Ferry stop so that I wouldn't have to pass the storefront of Brannigan's. A smell of spoiled shellfish drifted inland from the harbor as if the New York oysters, knowing perfectly well that no one was going to eat them in a month without an R, had thrown themselves onshore.
As I was getting on the train a lanky bumpkin dressed in overalls knocked my purse out of my hands while running from one car to the next; and as I bent to pick it up, my skirt tore a seam. So when I got off at my stop, I bought a pint of rye and a candle to stick on the cork.
Luckily, I drank half the bottle's contents at my kitchen table before taking off my shoes and stockings, because when I stood to scramble an egg, I bumped the table and spilled the rest over a flawed finesse. Cursing Jesus the way my uncle Roscoe would have-in verse-I mopped up the mess and then plopped down in my father's easy chair.
What was your favorite day of the year? That was one of the beside-the-point questions that we posed to each other at the 21 Club back in January. The snowiest, Tinker had said. Any day that wasn't in Indiana, Eve had said. My answer? The summer solstice. June twenty-first. The longest day of the year.
It was a cute answer. At least, that's what I thought at the time. But on cooler reflection, it struck me that when you're asked your favorite day of the year, there's a certain hubris in giving any day in June as your answer. It suggests that the particulars of your life are so terrific, and your command over your station so secure, that all you could possibly hope for is additional daylight in which to celebrate your lot. But as the Greeks teach us, there is only one remedy for that sort of hubris. They called it nemesis. We call it getting what you deserve, or a finger in the eye, or comeuppance for short. And it comes with an appropriate raise in pay, responsibilities, and professional status.
There was a knock at the door.
I didn't even bother to ask who it was. I opened to find a Western Union kid bearing the first telegram of my life. It was posted from London: HAPPY BDAY SIS STOP SORRY COULDN'T BE THERE STOP TURN THE TOWN UPSIDE DOWN FOR THE BOTH OF US STOP SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS STOP Two weeks? If the postcard from Palm Beach was any indication, I wouldn't be seeing Tinker and Eve till Thanksgiving.
I lit a cigarette and reread the telegram. Given the context, some might wonder if by FOR THE BOTH OF US Eve meant her and Tinker, or her and me. Instinct told me it was the latter. And maybe she was on to something.
I got up and pulled Uncle Roscoe's footlocker from under my bed. At the very bottom, buried under my birth certificate and a rabbit's foot and the only surviving picture of my mother, was the envelope that Mr. Ross had given me. I spilled the remaining ten-dollar bills onto my bedcover. Turn the town upside down, the oracle had said, and the very next day that's exactly what I intended to do.
On the fifth floor of Bendel's there were more flowers than at a funeral.
I was standing in front of a rack of little black dresses. Cotton. Linen. Lace. Backless. Sleeveless. Black . . . black . . . black . . .
-Can I help you? someone asked for the fifth time since I'd entered the store.
I turned to find a woman in her midforties in a skirt suit and glasses standing at a respectful distance. She had lovely red hair tied back in a ponytail. It gave her the appearance of a starlet playing the part of a spinster.
-Do you have something a little more . . . colorful? I asked.
Mrs. O'Mara ushered me to a cushiony couch where she could ask me questions about my size, my coloring and my social schedule. Then she disappeared. When she returned she had two girls in tow, each with a selection of dresses flung over an arm. One by one Mrs. O'Mara introduced me to their virtues while I sipped coffee from a fine china cup. As I offered my impressions (too green, too long, too tepid) one of the girls took notes. It made me feel like I was an executive in the Bendel's boardroom signing off on the spring collection. There wasn't a hint in the air that money would soon be changing hands. Certainly not mine.
A professional saleswoman who knew her mark, Mrs. O'Mara saved the best for last: a white short-sleeved dress with baby blue polka dots and a matching hat.
-The dress is obviously fun, Mrs. O'Mara observed. But an educated, elegant fun.
-It's not too country?
-On the contrary. This dress was designed as fresh air for the city. For Rome, Paris, Milan. It's not for Connecticut. The country doesn't need a dress like this. We do.
Tilting my head, I betrayed a gleam of interest.
-Let's try it on, said Mrs. O'Mara.
It fit almost perfectly.
-Striking, she said.
-You think?
-I'm certain of it. And you don't have shoes on. It's one of the great tests of a dress. If it can look this elegant in bare feet, well then . . .
We were standing next to each other looking coolly in the mirror. I turned a little to one side lifting the heel of my right foot off the carpet. The hem shifted slightly around my knees. I tried to imagine myself barefoot on the Spanish Steps and almost succeeded.
-It's terrific, I admitted. But I can't help thinking how much better it would look on you, given the color of your hair.
-If I may be so bold, Miss Kontent, the color of my hair is available to you on the second floor.
Two hours later, with the red hair of the Irish, I took a taxi to the West Village to La Belle Epoque. It was still a few years before French restaurants would be in vogue, but La Belle Epoque had become a favorite among the expatriates whenever they repatriated. It was a small restaurant with upholstered banquettes and still lifes on the wall depicting objects from a country kitchen in the manner of Chardin.
After taking my name the maitre d' asked if I would like a glass of champagne while I waited. It was only seven o'clock and less than half the tables were taken.
-Waiting for what? I asked.
-Are you not meeting someone?
-Not that I know of.
-Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle. Right this way.
He walked briskly into the dining room. At a table set for two he paused for a fraction of a second then continued to one of the banquettes with a view of the entire room. When he had me comfortable, he disappeared and returned with the promised champagne.
-To getting out of ruts, I toasted myself.
My new navy blue shoes were digging into my ankles. So under the veil of the tablecloth I kicked them off and exercised my toes. When I took a pack of cigarettes from my new blue clutch, a waiter leaned across the table with his stainless steel lighter and ignited a flame that was fully adequate to the task. I took my time sliding the cigarette out of its box while he remained as immobile as a statue. When I drew the first breath of smoke he stood up and closed the lighter with a satisfying snap.
-Would you like to see the menu while you wait? he asked.
-I'm not waiting for anyone, I said.
-Pardon, Mademoiselle.
He snapped a finger at a busboy who cleared the setting beside me. Then he presented the menu, cradling it in the crook of his arm so he could gesture to various dishes and remark on their virtues, much as Mrs. O'Mara had with the dresses. It all gave me confidence; if I intended to dig a hole in my savings, then at least I appeared to be on the right track.
The restaurant took its time coming to life. It filled a few tables. It served some cocktails and lit some cigarettes. It proceeded methodically and unrushed, secure in the knowledge that by nine o'clock it would feel like the center of the universe.
I took my time coming to life too. I sipped a second champagne and savored my canapes. I had another cigarette. When the waiter returned, I ordered a glass of white wine, asparagus gratin, and for the entree, the specialty of the house: poussin stuffed with black truffle.
As the waiter sped away, I noticed for the second time that the old couple sitting in the opposite banquette was smiling at me. He was a stocky man with thinning hair dressed in a double-breasted suit and bow tie. He had milky eyes that seemed ready to tear at the slightest sentiment. A good three inches taller, she had on an elegant summer dress, curly hair and a genteel smile. She looked like the sort who at the turn of the century entertained the bishop for lunch and then was off to lead the suffrage march. She winked and sort of waved; I winked and sort of waved back.
The asparagus arrived with a touch of fanfare, presented tableside in a small copper pan. The individual spears were arranged in perfect order-each identical in length, no two overlapping. On top had been delicately scattered a mixture of buttered bread crumbs and fontina cheese which had been broiled to a crunchy, bubbling brown. The captain served the asparagus with a silver fork and spoon. Then he grated a touch of lemon peel over the plate.
-Bon appetit.
Indeed.
If my father had made a million dollars, he wouldn't have eaten at La Belle Epoque. To him, restaurants were the ultimate expression of ungodly waste. For of all the luxuries that your money could buy, a restaurant left you the least to show for it. A fur coat could at least be worn in winter to fend off the cold, and a silver spoon could be melted down and sold to a jeweler. But a porterhouse steak? You chopped it, chewed it, swallowed it, wiped your lips and dropped your napkin on your plate. That was that. And asparagus? My father would sooner have carried a twenty-dollar bill to his grave than spent it on some glamorous weed coated in cheese.
But for me, dinner at a fine restaurant was the ultimate luxury. It was the very height of civilization. For what was civilization but the intellect's ascendancy out of the doldrums of necessity (shelter, sustenance and survival) into the ether of the finely superfluous (poetry, handbags and haute cuisine)? So removed from daily life was the whole experience that when all was rotten to the core, a fine dinner could revive the spirits. If and when I had twenty dollars left to my name, I was going to invest it right here in an elegant hour that couldn't be hocked.
When my waiter took away the asparagus plate, I realized that I shouldn't have had that second glass of champagne. I decided to visit the ladies' room and dampen my brow. I slipped my left foot into one of the navy blues, but as I felt around with my right foot I couldn't find the other shoe. I did a quick disorderly search. My eyes shifted back and forth around the room. With my toes I began a more systematic investigation moving in concentric circles as far as they could reach without changing my position. When that failed, I began to slouch.
-May I?
The bow-tied gentleman from across the room was standing in front of my table.
Before I said anything he eased down on his haunches. Then he stood back up with the shoe balanced on his palms. He leaned forward at the waist with the formality of the king's regent presenting the glass slipper and discreetly placed it behind the breadbasket. I whisked it off the table and dropped it on the floor.
-Thank you. That was rather inelegant of me.
-Not in the least.
He gestured back toward his table.
-Forgive my wife and I, if we were staring; but we think they're splendid.
-I'm sorry, they?
-Your dots.
At that moment my entree arrived and the teary-eyed gentleman retreated to his table. I began methodically cutting away at my fowl. But within a few bites, I knew I couldn't finish it. The heady aroma of the truffles wafted off the plate and swirled my senses. If I took one more bite of that chicken, I was pretty sure that it was coming back up. When they took half of it away at my insistence, I was pretty sure it was coming up anyway.
I dumped an assortment of bills onto the tablecloth. In a rush to get fresh air I didn't wait for the table to be pulled far enough back and I toppled the glass of red wine that I didn't remember ordering. Out of the corner of my eye I could see souffles being presented to the elderly couple. The suffragette gave a perplexed wave. At the door I made eye contact with a rabbit in one of the paintings. Like me, it was hanging by its feet from a hook.
Outside, I headed for the closest alley. I leaned against a brick wall and took a cautious breath. Even I could appreciate the poetic justice of it. If I got sick, from the heavens my father would be staring down at the pool of asparagus and truffle with glum satisfaction. There, he would say, is the ascendancy of your intellect.
Someone put a hand on my shoulder.
-Are you all right, dear?
It was the suffragette. From a polite distance her husband was watching through his teary eyes.
-I think I may have overdone it a little, I said.
-It's that awful chicken. They're so proud of it. But I find it positively repugnant. Do you think you need to be sick? You go right ahead, dear. I can hold your hat.
-I think I'm going to be okay now. Thank you.
-My name is Happy Doran; this is my husband, Bob.
-I'm Katherine Kontent.
-Kontent, said Mrs. Doran, as if she might recognize it.
Sensing that everything was going to be okay, Mr. Doran edged closer.
-Do you come to La Belle Epoque often, he asked, as if we weren't standing in an alley.