Out of the Easy(75)

SMITH COLLEGE


I paced around the shop humming and holding the envelope. It felt like more than just a sheet of paper. That was encouraging. A rejection would be a single sheet. I used the bookbinding knife and slit the top flap. I peeked inside. There was a sealed envelope clipped to a piece of paper.

I paced some more, my hands perspiring and my heart thumping wildly. I stopped and yanked the paper out of the envelope.

The words came at me in slow motion.





Dear Miss Moraine,



Thank you for your application to Smith College.





The Board of Admissions was pleased to have so many outstanding applications this year.





After long and careful consideration,





we regret to inform you that we cannot offer you a place in the Class of 1954.





Rejected.





Why had I allowed myself to dream that it was possible, that I could escape the smoldering cesspit of my existence in New Orleans and glide into a world of education and substance in Northampton?

The rejection went on to say that my application wasn’t timely enough to be fully considered. The rest of the letter contained polite pleasantries, wishing me luck in all my future endeavors. I’d have to tell Charlotte. Even worse, I’d have to tell Cokie. Thinking about Cokie made my stomach wormy. I looked at the envelope clipped to the rejection letter. Miss Josephine Moraine was written in an inky script on the cream bond envelope. Inside was a letter on matching paper.


Dear Miss Moraine,





I write to you at the suggestion of Barbara Paulsen, my dear friend and fellow alumna of Smith. I am a professor of literature at Smith, an author of historical fiction, and a patron of the arts in the state of Massachusetts.





Barbara has informed me of your strengths as a clerk in the bookshop and also as a housemaid. I am a single woman, living alone, and am currently in need of such assistance. Although I cannot finance relocation expense, if you are able to travel to Northampton, I am prepared to offer you a weekly salary of eight dollars and a private bedroom with en suite bath in exchange for your duties as a housekeeper and administrative assistant. The position requires a five-day workweek with occasional weekend obligation.





I am hopeful for a favorable reply within the month.





Yours sincerely,

Ms. Mona Wright





The letter confirmed what I knew in my heart all along. They didn’t want me. I was good enough to clean their bathrooms and dust their books, but not to join them in public. Miss Paulsen had met Mother at Charlie’s funeral and probably contacted Smith. Maybe she told them to deny my application, that I was unsavory. To soften the blow and satisfy Patrick, she got in touch with some spinster and suggested I empty her ashtrays. Eight dollars per week? Sweety got twenty dollars just to dance with Walter Sutherland for an hour. I was getting fifteen hundred to . . . to what? I heaved into the trash can.

Lockwell had told me to take the fifty dollars and go to Maison Blanche. That was too risky. What if I ran into someone and they started asking questions? I went to a pawnshop and bought a small pistol, then took a bus to a store in Gentilly. I chose a sky blue cocktail dress with a bateau neckline and matching gloves. I told the saleswoman I was attending my uncle’s retirement party. The dress felt tight through the chest and hips, but the saleswoman assured me that it was stylish to look shapely, even for a retirement party. She helped me pick out stockings and undergarments. She suggested shoes to match, but I opted for a pair of black pumps. Black was more practical. I could be buried in them if things didn’t work out. I teetered on the high heels at first, my pale ankles rubbery. She suggested I walk in the shoes a bit to get used to the feeling. I went up to the top floor for a shampoo and wave in the beauty salon. While the beauty operator worked on my hair, another woman buffed my nails and applied makeup. She tried to get me to purchase the makeup set, claiming that I looked ravishing.

“I just need to look good tonight. For the retirement party.”

“Well, all eyes will be on you, that’s for sure.” She propped her elbow on her hip, a menthol cigarette dangling from her fingers. “That’s a compliment, honey. Most girls would kill for shiny hair and a classy chassis like yours,” said the woman. “Wait till your boyfriend sees you.”

I stared at my reflection in the broken mirror on my wall. The dress, gloves, shoes, makeup, hair—they looked pretty, but felt like a costume. I tilted my head. Was the mirror crooked, or was I? The new brassiere made my bosom look larger and my waist smaller. I walked around my room, trying to adjust to the heels.

Lockwell said he’d have dinner brought in. And then what? My stomach rolled. I remembered Mother talking about it in the kitchen at Willie’s. She said she trained her mind. She’d smile and close her eyes and then she’d just think about something else, like eating oysters or going to the beach, and before she knew it, it was over. For fifteen hundred dollars, could I mentally eat oysters or walk along the beach?

I put the lipstick in my new purse, along with a pen and tissues. I looked at the pistol on my desk. I’d bought it to feel safer in the shop, in case Tangle Eye decided to stop by. I wouldn’t need it tonight, would I?