The Secrets We Kept(11)

Just as I was about to ask the receptionist where the ladies’ room was—so I could finally fix the paper towel that was now midway up my back—a man entered. He clapped his hands as if killing a fly. Then I recognized him: it was the same man who’d been waiting at the diner bathroom with the newspaper under his arm. My stomach fell through a hidden trapdoor.

“This it?” the man asked.

We all looked at one another, not knowing whom he was addressing.

The receptionist looked up. “Indeed.”

I felt like hiding behind the coat rack.

We followed the man down a hall and into a room arranged with rows of desks. On each one sat a typewriter and a stack of paper. I sat in the second row, not wanting to seem too eager. It seemed no one else wanted to appear too eager either, so the second row turned out to be the front row after all.

The man’s face—well, his nose anyway—made him look as if he’d once played hockey or boxed. He gave me a once-over as I took my seat but still didn’t seem to recognize me from the diner, thank God. He removed his suit jacket and rolled up his light blue sleeves.

“I’m Walter Anderson,” he began. “Anderson,” he repeated. I half-expected him to turn around, pull down a chalkboard, and write his name in cursive. Instead, he opened his briefcase and removed a stopwatch. “If you pass this first test, I’ll learn your names. If you can’t type fast, I recommend you leave now.”

He made eye contact with each of us and I looked right back at him the way Mama had always taught me to do. “They won’t respect you if you don’t look them in the eyes, Irina,” she’d told me. “Especially men.”

Some women shifted in their seats, but no one got up.

“Good,” Anderson said. “Let’s begin.”

“Excuse me,” the older woman in the heavy cardigan asked. She had her hand raised and I burned with embarrassment for her.

“I’m not your teacher,” Anderson said.

She dropped her hand. “Right.”

Anderson looked to the ceiling and exhaled. “Did you have a question?”

“What will we be typing?”

He sat at the large desk in the front of the room and removed a yellow book from his briefcase. It was a novel: The Bridges at Toko-ri. “Any literature fans?”

We all raised our hands.

“Good,” he said. “Any James Michener fans?

“I saw the movie,” I blurted out. “Grace Kelly was wonderful.”

“Good for you,” Anderson said. He opened the book to the first page. “Shall we begin?” He held up his stopwatch.



* * *



—

After, standing in the crowded elevator, I subtly plucked my blouse from my sweaty back. I reached underneath and fished around. Nothing. It was gone. Had the paper towel fallen out in the elevator? Or, God forbid, had it fallen out when I stood up after the test? Was Walter Anderson looking at the disgusting thing at that very moment? I thought about going back and retracing my steps to see where it might’ve come out but decided it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to get the job anyway.

I was the second-slowest in the group, which I knew because Walter Anderson had tabulated, then read the results aloud.

“Well, that’s it, I guess,” the pretty young brunette named Becky said as the elevator descended. She’d been the slowest.

“There’ll be other opportunities,” said the older woman in the cardigan. She tried suppressing it, but I heard a tinge of joy in her voice—she had the best score by far.

“That guy seemed like a total creep, anyway,” Becky continued. “Did you see how he looked at us? Like a steak dinner.” She looked at me. “Especially you.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. I had noticed Anderson looking at me, but I thought it had just been in an interview kind of way. But that was always the case with me and men. If a man found me attractive, I was always the last to know. A man would have to tell me directly for me to believe it—and even then, I only half-believed it. I thought myself rather plain—the kind of woman you might pass on the street or sit down next to on the bus without a second glance. My mother always said I was the type of woman you had to get a good look at to appreciate. And to tell you the truth, I preferred fading into the background. Life was easier being unnoticed—without the whistles that trailed other women, the comments that made them cover their chest with their purse, the eyes that followed them everywhere.

There was a slight disappointment, though, when, at sixteen, I realized I wasn’t going to turn out to be the kind of beauty my mother had been in her youth. Whereas Mama was all curves, I was all angles. When I was a girl, she’d wear a shapeless housedress during the day while she worked. But sometimes, at night, she’d change into her handmade creations and model the dresses she’d made for wealthy women. She’d twirl and make the full skirts fly in our kitchen, and I’d tell her the dress would never again look as beautiful.

I’d seen a photograph of her at my age, wearing her factory uniform—an olive-green smock with matching cap. We couldn’t have looked more dissimilar. I looked so much more like my father. After he died, Mama kept a photograph of him wearing his army uniform in her bottom dresser drawer. Sometimes, when she was out of the house, I’d take it out and stare at that photograph, telling myself that if I ever forgot what he looked like, an empty space would open inside me that could never be closed again.