The Secrets We Kept(50)
The elevator dinged and I stepped out into reception with my coat draped over my arm, my shoulders back, looking straight ahead instead of at my feet in an attempt to convey that I was as breezy and confident as the woman in the Ban Roll-On Deodorant ad. I glanced toward reception, ready to say hello to Sally, but was disappointed to see the regular receptionist.
“Cute blouse,” she said. “Red’s a lovely color on you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Got it on sale.” I was always doing that. If someone told me they liked my new haircut, I’d tell them that I wasn’t sure about the length. If someone said they liked an idea I had or a joke I told, I’d attribute it to someone else.
* * *
—
Sally didn’t come in the next day, or the day after that. Every time I stepped out of the elevator, I braced myself to see her; but still no Sally. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The typing pool took her absence as proof she had another role at the Agency. “Part-time receptionist my ass,” Norma said. I laughed with the rest of them, though I couldn’t help but wonder what they might say about me behind my back.
A week passed, but I still found myself thinking of her. Something about Sally Forrester lingered.
Another week passed and I’d given up on seeing her again. But when the elevator opened, there she was, seated at the reception desk doodling on a yellow steno pad. She waved hello and I faked a coughing fit to cover my reddening face.
I sat at my desk and went right to work, telling myself not to look in her direction. Even without looking, I could feel her presence all morning. When I got up to use the restroom, I was keenly aware how my body moved, how I held my head, what I looked like walking across SR. It was as if I was seeing myself through someone else’s gaze. Then it happened: she spoke to me. I thought she was speaking to someone else, but it was my name she’d called out.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were talking to me,” I said instead of saying hello.
“Are there many Irinas in SR?”
“I don’t think so. No. Maybe?”
“I’m teasing. Anyway, since I’m the new gal in town, I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch. You could give me the lay of the land.”
“I brought my lunch,” I said. “Tuna.” Stop, I told myself, just stop.
“Eat it tomorrow.” She picked a piece of lint from the front of her fuzzy chartreuse sweater. “Show me what’s good around here.”
* * *
—
We walked in the direction of the White House, Sally leading the way although she’d been the one who’d asked me where to go. “I know a great deli nearby. A rarity in Washington, believe me,” she said. “They slice the ham paper thin and pile it six inches high. Only people from here know of it, and no one is actually from here. You know what I mean? Do you have to get back soon? It’s still a bit of a walk.”
“We have an hour for lunch, so we have about forty-five, maybe forty minutes left.”
“You think Company boys look at their watches during their liquid lunches?”
“No, but…” I paused a beat too long, and Sally turned on her heels as if heading back toward the office. “No,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She looped her arm through mine. “That’s the spirit.” I could feel the hot stares of men as we passed, and even a few women looked our way. I was with her. I liked being with her. My surroundings blurred as if we were no longer in the city—the endless car honking and bus screeching and jackhammers pummeling concrete ceased. It was noon on a Thursday, and the world slowed on its axis.
We passed a tour bus stopped at a light and I could hear the guide’s microphoned voice direct the attention of the passengers toward the famous Octagon House. Sally surprised me by waving to the tourists, who enthusiastically waved back. One took a picture of her. She put her hand behind her head to pose. “Still can’t get used to this city,” she said. “Everyone flocks to the seat of power.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“On and off.”
We turned down an alley off P Street I’d never noticed. Narrow brownstones with ivy-covered chimneys lined the street. Halloween was approaching, and the residents had decorated with cotton spider-webs spread across their hedges, paper black cats and skeletons with movable joints hung in the windows, and yet-to-be-carved pumpkins on their stoops. On the corner was the deli. Over the door hung a green-and-white-tiled sign: FERRANTI’S.
A bell tinkled as we opened the door. The owner, a man as long and thin as the dried sausages hanging from the deli’s ceiling, slapped a sack of semolina flour and a tiny cloud erupted from the bag. “Where have you been all my life?” he asked.
“Off somewhere waiting for a better line than that,” Sally said. The man kissed Sally on both cheeks with big, wet smacks.
“This is Paolo.”
“And who is this exquisite creature?” Paolo asked. It took me a moment to realize he was talking about me.
Sally playfully slapped away my extended hand. “What do I get if I tell you?”
Paolo held up a finger, then disappeared into the back room. He emerged holding two wooden chairs, which he placed in the small space between the front window and the shelves filled with canned tomatoes, glass jars of bright green olives, and stacks of packaged noodles.