MARGY HAD ALWAYS meant to go back to the office and visit the girls as she had promised. But for some reason or other, she kept putting off the visit. One day a letter came with the Thomson-Jonson letterhead on the envelope. The name Wayne Prentiss was written over the firm name. The envelope contained a folded copy of the latest issue of the office newspaper. Someone had written an article for it entitled: I Wonder What’s Become of ———. There was a blank space instead of a name at the end of the title. There followed a parody of the song, “I Wonder What’s Become of Sally.” Instead of the name Sally, there was a blank space again. After the parody, there was a little doggerel verse about former workers.
There was Jean
There was ’Rene,
Their leaving made us blue.
They are wed,
And ’tis said,
They’re having babies, too.
But I wonder what’s become of ———
Mr. Prentiss had written the name Margy in all the blank spaces of the song and verse. Margy considered that a personal invitation. She was pleased that she was remembered and she made plans to visit the office the next day.
It was a good time to show herself to her old friends. Never had she felt or looked better. She had entered into a time of relaxed waiting. Nature had gone into a conspiracy with her to ease things all the way along the line. The nausea had stopped long ago and she was pleasantly hungry all the time. The simplest food had a wonderful taste. Her sleep was deep and dreamless. Her pale skin glowed and her hair took on a deeper sheen.
The little hollows under her cheekbones filled out and a fugitive dimple came to her left cheek. Her heretofore adolescent-looking breasts swelled glamorously and she was very proud of them.
THE OFFICE SEEMED a little shabbier and a little smaller than she had remembered. She reported first to Mr. Prentiss. He looked more tired than she had remembered. He was not wearing glasses. He rose and smiled as she entered and took her two hands in his.
A shock went from his hands to hers and all the way up her arms. She had never felt such a thrill at Frankie’s touch.
“Margy! So you found your way back to us!”
“Yes.”
“And how has the world been treating you?”
“Swell.”
“Everything coming your way?”
“It seems so.”
“And your husband?”
“He’s fine.”
“And yourself?”
“I’m fine.”
It was not an enriching conversation. Margy had walked into his office poised and full of self-confidence. Now the old inferiority complex came back.
She thought: What am I doing always thinking about him and coming back making believe I want to see the girls when I really want to see him? I’m getting too settled for such a school-girl crush. Besides I’m married now, anyhow. And he wouldn’t look at me, really. Way above me. A college graduate and a lawyer. A boss and he owns his own home. And of course, there’s his mother. . . . I used to think it was wonderful—the way he had a pat saying for everything. Now it annoys me. Why? Did I get smart all of a sudden in the months I’ve been married? Still and all it’s better to have something to say, I imagine, even if it’s in mottoes, than to have nothing to say all the time like Frankie. Listen to me! Frankie’s all right. At least we’re the same kind of people.
He thought: She’s so young and she doesn’t know much, yet she leaps into life and grasps it with both hands—not a coward like me. I’ve had many girls working under me—opportunities—but this one has to stay in my mind. Why? She’s not as pretty as some of the others. I’ve never heard her say anything memorable. Why does she keep coming up in my thoughts? Chemical, maybe. She has the courage I lack. I’ve had the opportunities which seem important to her. Together we have all the elements of completement. I started thinking of her when she took it upon herself to answer that farmer’s letter. It almost cost her her poor little job. She didn’t think he was a moron because he wrote to a mail-order house for a wife. Out of a meager little life and an unrealized gift of understanding, she tried to fix things for him. And how I jumped on her for it! Well, there must be discipline or there’d be no work done. No, she is not important in any way except that she seems like life itself to a poor weak thing like me. Mother would say she’s not in my class. Mother! And what is class? I’ve been a dutiful son, Mother. You gave over your life making me one. I can’t be a dutiful son any more because now I have no mother. So now I’m nothing.
He sighed and said, “Well, Margy, I suppose you want to visit with the girls?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t keep you then.” He looked at the clock. “It’s a quarter to twelve. Suppose you come back here at twelve and we’ll have a bite together.”
He said it casually but her heart jumped with excitement. She accepted stiffly. “That will be very nice, I’m sure.”
She paid her respects to Miss Barnick who looked the same only more tired. She went in among the girls. They were all there except Reenie, Ruthie and Marie. The girls seemed the same yet were different. Their clothes were different and most had changed their style of hairdo. One looked a little fatter, another much thinner and one or two of the older ones looked, like Miss Barnick, a little more tired. She wondered how it was possible for such changes to take place in less than a year?
They gossiped. They renewed the office gossip of her day, interspersed with new office gossip. They told her there was a new girl in the office just like Reenie—just like Reenie, classy and all. There was a new girl named Ruthie. Only she was different from the other Ruthie. Each one said practically the same thing on greeting her and she made practically the same answers.
“How do you like married life, Margy?”
“Swell!”
“Well, married life certainly agrees with you.”
“Thanks.”
At five minutes of twelve she went into the washroom to renew her lipstick. The girls began dribbling in to fix up to go out to lunch. For some reason, she found herself in back of a row of girls. Her arms were piled high with purses she had been asked to hold. As the girls primped and talked she looked over their heads at their faces in the mirrors. Why, she thought, I’m one of the old girls now—the ones who stand aside for the younger ones.
“Whatever happened to Marie?” asked Margy.
“Didn’t you know?” they chorused.
“She married a rookie cop,” said one.
“And he’s mean to her,” contributed another.
“But she loves it,” added a third.
“She’s crazy then,” said the first.
“Some women are funny that way.”
“The way I’m funny for potato salad.”
“Oh, you!”
“Any man hit me, I’d kick his teeth out.”
“In, kid. In. You’d have to get your foot in his mouth to kick ’em out.”
“And me wearing a size seven shoe!”
“Anybody ever put their foot in a man’s mouth?”
And they screamed and shrieked with laughter.
HE WAS WAITING for her at his office door. Although it was a warm June day, he had his topcoat folded cautiously over his arm. The elevator was full of chattering girls. The chatter stopped suddenly when they stepped in. The girls, after a frank surprised stare, began putting a hand over a mouth to cover a fake cough, a handkerchief to wipe away a nonexistent smudge, a palm over the mouth with the middle finger pushing up the nose tip—all this, Margy knew, to hide the grins on their faces. She knew the girls would talk about it all afternoon: The boss took Margy to lunch!
She matched her step to his, having to make a little hop-skip to get in rhythm. He noticed and tried not to smile. At the first street intersection they came to, he cupped his hand under her elbow and steered her across. Again the shock went up her arm as if her elbow had touched a defective electric toaster. She was sorry there were no more streets to cross to get to the restaurant.
She studied the purple-inked menu with mixed feelings. She had never eaten in a restaurant with any other man but Frankie. She was anxious to do the right thing. The table d’hôte lunch was fifty cents. This seemed expensive to her. She thought maybe it wouldn’t be considerate to have him pay for a whole lunch for her. The waitress asked her point-blank what she wanted. Margy had read somewhere that you must give your order to your escort and let him give it to the waiter. So she fixed her eyes in a glassy stare on Mr. Prentiss’ face and said that all she wanted was a cup of coffee.
“One coffee,” said the waitress before he could say anything. “Light or dark?”
“Light, Mr. Prentiss,” said Margy wishing him to know that she knew what was what when lunching with a gentleman.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Then I’ll have to take only coffee too and I’m hungry. Please have the lunch, Margy.”
“All right. I’ll take what you take.”
He studied the menu carefully. Finally he chose chicken croquettes, peas and mashed potatoes. He didn’t like it but he thought she did. She did. After the order was given, Margy leaned back in her chair and looked around. Mr. Prentiss looked around too and saw a group of six girls lunching together at a near-by table. The girls stared at him. He took his eyeglass case from his pocket and put on his glasses. Then he took them off and put them back in their case.
“Do you have to wear them?” asked Margy.
“Not any more. I had a slight case of astigmatism some years ago. But it’s corrected now. I use them out of old habit, I guess.”
“Well if you don’t have to, I wouldn’t if I were you. You look so much younger without them.” Her face reddened painfully at her frank remark. “I mean you look so much better without them.”
“If I look younger without them, I’ll never wear them again,” he said kindly. “And thank you so much for the compliment.”
After the food was served, she asked politely, “And how’s your mother?”
“My mother,” he said, “passed on.”
“You mean she died?” she asked, not to correct him but because she was astonished.
“Three months ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She knew what he was going to say. He said it.
“Well, we all have to go someday.”
“That’s the truth. But I really am sorry. I wish there was something I could say.”
To herself she thought: Good. Now he can live his own life. Then on pretext of brushing crumbs from her chest, she made a furtive sign of the cross saying to herself, God forgive me for unkind thoughts of the dead.
“You must be lonely,” she said.
“Not any more than I used to be.”
“Your house. I heard somewhere you had a house in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Bay Ridge,” he corrected.
“Well, have you given it up?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it hard for a man to run a house?”
“Not for me. You see, Mother taught me all about housekeeping.”
“That’s fine,” she said lamely. She was remembering a washroom remark of a year ago. A girl had said he’d make some woman a good wife someday.
The waitress brought back the cards so they could choose their dessert.
Without hesitation, Margy looked into his eyes and said, “Huckleberry pie.”
Used to his mother taking a long time to choose a dessert, he thought there was something wrong. “Take your time,” he said. “Choose something you really like.”
Her eye went to the dessert line: Huckleberry pie, rice pudding, ice cream. “I still like huckleberry pie,” she said.
“Two,” he ordered. “A la mode.”
“Ice cream’s ten cents extra,” said the waitress.
“I shan’t complain,” he said, feeling somehow that the waitress had spoiled the occasion.
They walked back to the building. Again the thrill when he took her arm at the crossing. They stood at the entrance of the building preparing their good-bys.
“I enjoyed the lunch,” she said politely.
“The pleasure was all mine,” he told her. “Well, Margy . . .”
Now the time had come to say good-by. She was reluctant to have it end. She felt that she wanted to give him a little present. So she said:
“I would like to tell you a little secret. No one knows outside of my relations.” She paused. “I’m going to have a baby in December.”
A flash of disappointment showed in his face. Then he smiled. He took her hand in both his and pressed it. “I’m glad, Margy, very glad.”
She didn’t hear what he was saying. She was rocked from head to toe again by that electrical shock at the touch of his hands.
“Thank you.”
He released her hand slowly. “I always wanted to marry and have a lot of children.”
“It’s not too late,” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I like children,” he added. “I don’t see any other reason for marrying. I’d have to be sure there’d be children.” She felt that he was putting into words some doubt of himself.
“A lot of people marry just for companionship,” she said.
“Companionship! I’ve had enough companionship to last me two lifetimes,” he said almost bitterly.
“Yes, well . . .” she said, a little embarrassed at his emphatic tone. “I’m wishing for a girl.”
“I’d want all daughters, too,” he said. “If I had a son, I’m afraid I’d bring him up to hate his mother.”
She didn’t ask why. She knew.
RIDING HOME IN the trolley she thought: What’s the matter with me getting all thrilled and excited just because a man held my hand a second or two? Why I could easily turn into a loose woman, she assured herself with pleasant fear. The whole trouble, she told herself bluntly, is that I’m a married woman and don’t get to sleep enough with my husband.