Chapter Fifteen Beverly

Chapter Fifteen

Beverly

I am sealing the envelope of a letter to my mother when someone begins to pound on the motel door.

“I know you’re in there,” shouts an angry male voice.

For the life of me, I can’t figure who I’ve crossed. Only Frederick would have been justified in such ire, but it’s been six weeks since the news of my departure, and already I’ve heard that he’s taken up with Suzanne of the Perfect Handwriting. And as I know that word of my father cutting me off has spread like measles around my old set, I would no longer be quite the catch Mr. Bahr would have once thought.

I slip some scissors into my skirt pocket, the closest thing I have to a weapon. Perhaps it is a lunatic who has stumbled into the wrong place.

I crack open the door, holding it in place with my foot.

A man I do not recognize towers over me, and though he looks harmless, his breath reeks of tobacco and gin as he speaks. His manners become suddenly genteel when he realizes that I am not who he was expecting.

“Please excuse me,” he says as he tucks a wayward corner of his shirt into his trousers. “I’m looking for Judy Goodman. Do I have the right place?”

My heart tightens. I know who this must be.

Judy’s husband, Henry.

I know his type. A model of docility to those he encounters. A villain behind closed doors. He will be on perfect, perfect behavior in front of me, so I know I have nothing to fear. Because in the event that I know Judy, he’ll want to discredit anything untoward that she says by merit of his irreproachable deportment.

I am not fooled. But I do know how to play the game.

I open the door wider so that he does not suspect my seething hostility.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m her friend—Sami.”

There’s no need for him to know my real name. I borrow the one that belongs to my great-aunt. It’s the first one I thought of.

I slip outside before he can try to come in. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to surprise my wife. Judy Goodman. Do you know her?” He smiles, charisma on full display. A trick that Judy fell for once upon a time.

I look at my watch. Three o’clock. Judy and Joe met at Vizcaya at eleven. I hope this means that they’re having a good time together. But our graduation starts in two hours. She could be back any minute.

Whatever happens, I need to make it happen fast. He can’t be here when Judy returns. It would ruin everything.

“Yes. Judy. What a gal. But I’m sorry—you’ve just missed her.”

“Well, now, what a shame. I can wait, though. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“She won’t be. At least, not here.”

A look of anger passes over his eyes, and I see his fists tighten at his sides. But in a flash, he’s controlled both. No doubt hoping that I didn’t notice.

But I did notice. I’m going to protect her with everything I’ve got, and God may strike me down, but I feel no shame in lying.

“And where is she?” he asks with measured breathing.

“She went home.”

This surprises him.

“Home?”

“Yes,” I fabricate, the excuses coming with alarming ease. “Home to Pennsylvania. To you.”

He scratches his head. “Well, how do you figure that?”

“She said that she wanted to come talk to you before she got her assignment.”

Good. I’ve thoroughly confused him. But if he’s made it all the way here, he’s discovered what she’d been up to for the past few weeks. The most plausible lies are the ones that acknowledge some truth.

“Her assignment?”

“Yes. Judy graduated from the program a few days ago. They loved her. They picked her for a prime location—Paris.”

I do know that Judy got San Francisco. Just like me.

But also like me, Judy’s second language is French. So he might buy the deceit.

“Paris?”

A wild look takes over him. But again, he controls it.

Poor Judy. How did she ever endure a day with this man, let alone years?

“Yes,” I answer sweetly. I lean against the doorframe, softening my voice. Disarming him with the coyness I know how to conjure when it’s needed. “What a wonderful husband you must be. Supporting a swell girl like Judy in this dream of hers. And how proud I can imagine you are. She’s top of her class. You are going to love exploring the City of Lights with her. How romantic it will be for the two of you.”

I can tell he cares about the City of Lights about as much as he cares about sobriety.

“In fact,” I continue, “her flight to Paris from Philadelphia leaves tomorrow morning, so I know she was going to try to catch you tonight. You’d better get right on back! Which airline did you come in on?”

“Delta.”

“Perfect! I’m quite sure Delta has an evening flight from Miami to Baltimore, and I’m certain they’ll let you exchange your return ticket. Baltimore’s not so far from where you live, right?”

Good thing Judy and I had stayed up talking so many nights. And that I’d gotten her to open up as much as she did. Those kinds of details were making this so much easier, so much more believable than it could have been.

But the seconds were ticking. I had to get him out of here.

“You’d better hurry. I think that flight’s at five,” I improvised. But surely there was one this evening. “That’s just enough time if you leave now. The front desk can call for a taxi.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and point him toward the stairs. Touching him disgusts me.

“So she’s really not here?” he asks over his shoulder. But he’s already taken a few steps forward.

“No! She was due in Paris immediately. Top of her class, remember? They don’t want to waste a minute getting her up in the air. Now, go on! If you catch this flight, you can have a beautiful night at home with your wife before she leaves tomorrow.”

That does it. Without a goodbye, Henry Goodman (what a waste of a last name, if you ask me) scurries toward the front office. I lean over the second-floor railing and watch until a yellow cab pulls up and whisks him away. I put my hand to my heart, and as I suspected, it’s racing. I take a few deep breaths until it slows. I think we’re out of the woods.

Just then, the city bus pulls up to its stop and Judy steps off.

I want to retch from how close they came to seeing each other, and I grip the door handle for support as I step back into our room.

It’s then that I see Judy’s pink sweater with yellow flowers hanging from the top bedpost.

I try to remember—did she bring that from home? Or did she buy it here?

And more importantly—is there any chance that he saw it?

Tonight’s the night. Our tailor-made wool uniforms and cotton blouses have arrived in zipped cloth bags. My name is embroidered in Pan American blue thread.

Beverly Caldwell

I run my hand along it, my newly manicured nails stroking the soft lines of the letters, and it is all I can do to keep from revealing how emotional this makes me feel.

I did it. We did it. This was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Fourteen girls went home because they couldn’t hack it, or didn’t want to, which somehow makes this feel like even more of an achievement.

And I did it without my father’s help. Outside of the occasional splurge with the cash I’d come with, I washed my laundry by hand, drank cocktails only at happy hours since they’re half price, and headed to the sale racks at department stores for any wardrobe updates. Judy was helpful with tips like that.

I’m no Madame Curie, but I still feel a sense of accomplishment.

And the adventure has only begun.

Jean unzips her bag with careless gusto and yanks the clothes from it when the zipper gets stuck midway.

“Here we go, ladies. The world’s most coveted uniform. Ya think any of us are going to even fit into them? I don’t know about you, but I enjoyed more than a few empanadas over in Little Havana.”

I have seen more of Jean than I ever need to, as she has spent our little downtime these past six weeks lounging in our room in only her brassiere and panties, sometimes accessorizing with a light robe left unbelted. Always on the phone with her boyfriend. If she’s gained an ounce, you can push me over with a feather. She slips the fitted skirt over her slim hips and turns around. “Zip me up?” she asks. And I have no choice but to oblige.

She’s being sent to Berlin, which is a far cry from Arkansas. I wonder how long she’ll make it before she decides that she can’t live without Erwin and moves back to marry him.

Jean struts over to the lone mirror that hangs on our bathroom wall and smooths her hands over her waist, turning left and right. Her lips form a pout. “I’m going to have to starve myself if I want to be able to move in this thing.”

We hear a knock at the door, and Bobbie from Poland peeks her head in. Bobbie will be heading to London tomorrow and covering European routes. No surprise there. “We have ice cream sundaes in our room to celebrate! Please come join us!”

“Coming!” shouts Jean. And she races out the door to the room next to us, not even bothering to put on the accompanying blouse.

I hear Judy giggle. And as much as I try to keep my composure, I can’t help but join in. Which gets worse as I try to slip into my own skirt. It fits over my hips, but I can’t zip it up.

I throw myself onto my bed and laugh until my rib cage aches.

“Oh my goodness. Do you think laughing burns any calories? Because unlike our skinny friend from Arkansas who apparently can chomp empanadas and not get bloated, I have drunk my way through every martini and chardonnay and mojito joint in this city, and I think it shows.”

In a far more ladylike fashion than what I’ve just displayed, Judy comes to lie beside me, and we both stare at the bottom of the upper bunk as if it holds the answers to the meaning of life.

I hear her breath and the faintest sound of a hum.

“I presume things went well at Vizcaya?” Meaning, Did my plan work?

“Yes.” She sighs. “What a beautiful place. It even has a swimming pool that looks like a cave bedecked with shells.”

“Bedecked? I think Sister Mary Clare put that on a spelling test once upon a time.”

I can feel Judy smile as she relaxes into the mattress. But she remains silent.

“I think you know that I wasn’t asking about the property , Judy. How were things—?”

“With Joe?” she finishes.

“Mm-hmm.”

“It was—perfect.” She is silent for a moment, and I have enough sense not to press it.

“But what does that matter when I’m moving to San Francisco tomorrow? And that—I can’t be with him anyway?”

I’d spent the last hour debating whether or not I should tell her that Henry had been here looking for her. And that I’d sent him away. She is so happy right now. She has so much to look forward to. How can I tell her something that will make her look backward?

Maybe another day. But not tonight. Ignorance is bliss, they say. And he should be boarding his flight any moment.

“Perfect is good.”

She runs her hands through her hair. “Oh my word, Beverly. It was even more than that. I don’t think the right word exists. There was just a rightness about it. Do you know what I mean?”

I pat her hand. “I’ve read my share of romance novels. I can imagine what you mean.”

She knows that despite my flirtatious personality, I have scant actual experience with men, so they’re more lore to me than reality. I do hope the real thing lives up to what I’ve built in my mind, or goodness, what will centuries of all that hype have come to?

She turns over on her side and props herself up on her elbow. With Jean in the room down the hall, this is like a sleepover of two girls who are fast becoming best friends. I’ve never had a lot of good friends outside of Eve the Kiwi. The ones who sent those myriads of invitations were never the ones I could have a heart to heart with. This is like having a sister, or what I imagine that to be like. And as my ties to family are thin as it is, it is a more welcome thing that I would have expected.

“Yes,” Judy says. “I read a bunch of romance novels before—before I was married. And then I realized that they were all fiction. Stories to fill us up where only emptiness stood. But now—”

“Now?” I encourage.

“Now that I’ve met Joe, even for so short a time, I can almost believe that they aren’t necessarily fiction at all.”

“I think that’s the very best thing you could say about it.”

Judy turns onto her back and looks again at the upper bunk. “I’m not saying that Joe Clayton is my happily-ever-after. I hardly know him, and we’ll be a continent away as of tomorrow. But I think it gives me hope for—for the possibility of a happy ending. With someone. And it’s been several years since I believed that could be the case.”

“Then my little Vizcaya setup was worth it.” I feel as smug as it surely sounds.

Judy arches her back and laughs. “That was your onetime pass. No more surprises like that, Beverly. Promise me. Just because I had my first taste of that kind of feeling in a very long time doesn’t mean I can be rushed. Or that I approve of meddling. Besides, if my marriage taught me anything, it’s that a woman can’t hang her happiness on a man. A bad one or a good one. She has to make her own happiness.”

“Here, here,” I say, lifting an imaginary glass of champagne.

“Speaking of happiness,” Judy says. “Have you heard from your father? I would have hoped he’d be in touch now that you’ve seen this through.”

I shake my head. “Mother says he sends his regards, but I think she made that up. Mostly, we avoid talking about him.”

“I’m glad you and she are talking, though.”

“Yes. Small blessings.”

“How is your aunt? Sami?”

I smile. Judy has been a patient audience as I’ve talked through this new frontier of having family. I know she misses her parents and is eager that I nurture for myself what she has lost and buried in regret.

“Better. She should be able to start up at the salon again in a few weeks. She and my mother want me to come up to New York before San Francisco. But there’s just no time. I’ve promised postcards for the time being.”

I hop up, pulling Judy with me.

“And if we don’t get to graduation, there won’t be a San Francisco for either of us. It’s almost five!”

Judy pulls me toward her and gives me a tight squeeze.

“You’re right. Let’s get going.”

Our graduation is simple. It’s held in a conference room at the Taj Mahal, the brand-new headquarters for Pan Am’s Latin American division.

The name bears no resemblance to pictures I’ve seen of its illustrious namesake in Agra, India. Though I hope to bid a route that will take me to see that for myself someday.

Rather, the reference is merely because the architect was the same one who built the US embassy in New Delhi. Still, it is impressive in its own way. Space-age cinder blocks set in repeating horizontal patterns give it a thoroughly modern look that I adore. Mr. Wall Street and Mother like to collect ornate, onerous antiques, and whether out of rebellion or actual aesthetic preference, I find myself quite drawn to the minimalism that has swept the imagination of my generation.

So this is why I am dazzled by this paragon of new architecture in front of me. I’d even go so far as to say that it looks magical this evening. We walk parallel to the reflecting pool under an umbrella of palm trees and flags representing every country to which Pan Am flies. Which are many. Hidden lights illuminate both our path and the building, and its glow reflects the excitement I know we’re all feeling.

Jeez, what an intense six weeks it’s been. Time to reap the rewards.

Deportment be damned, I reach my hand out and find Judy’s as we walk two by two into the building. I feel her squeeze it back. Maybe if we’d been friends for years instead of weeks, we could convey our thoughts through such a medium. But I think we’re getting there. Tomorrow, we’ll both fly to San Francisco. Pan Am will put us up at a hotel near the airport until we can find an apartment to rent.

A light wind blows past us, and I feel it on my neck. We’ve both just had our hair cut—collar-length, as required. And I’m not yet used to it being so short.

The ceremony itself is brief. Delores gives a speech that neither bores nor motivates us. Or maybe it was sensational, but we are all too stuffed with information to retain any more.

After we award Delores with some polite applause, Joe Clayton, who’d been standing a few feet behind her, clears his throat as a means of asking permission to approach the podium. She steps away, and he steps forward, gripping each side and looking almost as nervous as we all are.

It’s something I’d noticed about him. When Joe is teaching, he is in full command of his subject. He wears confidence as comfortably as his well-fitting chinos. But when anything off-the-cuff is called for? The man seems to lose a couple of inches from his height. Not so much as to diminish him. But we all have our lesser points. And extemporaneous public speaking is his. It’s kind of cute, that vulnerability. I can see why he and Judy are so well matched. Maybe the thousands of miles of distance don’t have to be the end of things.

One can hope.

Joe clears his throat again.

“Ladies,” he says. “This is the first class I’ve ever seen through start to finish in our new Miami location. And I have to say that you’ve certainly set the bar high for future ones.”

He looks down, as if searching for notes that are most certainly not there. He takes a deep breath and then returns his eyes to the group, some of that classroom confidence returning now that he’s gotten started.

You can do this, Joe, I think. As if either of us is telepathic.

“Tomorrow, you will be sent across the world. New members of the Pan American family. You will see places you’ve only read about. Eat food you’ve never heard of. Shop in stores unlike any you’ve been in. You’ll meet the rudest people you’ve ever encountered and the kindest ones. You’ll fly higher than man ever imagined possible, and you’ll be profoundly and irrevocably changed in ways that you cannot imagine.”

He straightens up to his full height. Our boy Joe is on a roll. Good for you, Joe. I’m rooting for you.

“The funny thing is that while this particular group is spreading out to Paris, New Delhi, Mexico City, New York, Berlin, London, and San Francisco, this is not goodbye. Inevitably, you’ll end up on some route at some future date where you will be scheduled with someone you haven’t seen since your time in this room. You’ll grab a drink at the hotel’s bar—out of uniform, of course—and swap stories of where you’ve both been since this moment. And whether it is this time next month or this time next year, you will already be full of more experiences than the average person will ever encounter in their lifetimes.”

He glances at Judy, but it’s brief enough that someone less attuned to it would not take notice. He looks nervous. “So I leave you with this,” he continues. His eyes find Judy again, and this time, he doesn’t look away. “No matter how far you travel, no matter where life takes you, I very much hope that our paths will cross again. Don’t forget those of us in Miami. We won’t forget you.”

He steps away, and I sneak a peek at Judy, who is seated catty-corner to me. Her eyes are glistening. I wonder just what had happened between them in those beautiful gardens of Villa Vizcaya.

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