Chapter 12
The desk in front of the office Miss Kelly had directed me to was empty, though it had a framed photograph of a young man, who could have been a boyfriend or a son depending on the age of Mr. Pullman’s secretary. He was handsome, whoever he was.
That might have been the real reason Miss Kelly sent me though. Powerful men tended to like pretty secretaries, and my father’s words rang in my ears about men not always being good at taking no for an answer.
I peeked in the top desk drawer and saw a sharp, silver letter opener. Worst case scenario, that could serve as a firmer no than my voice. Though if I had to resort to something like that . . . well . . . my time at The Digest was going to be short.
I shut the drawer and looked around for a clock. It was a little far away and I had to squint, but it was just about eight now.
The elevator opened and several women stepped out, chatting with each other before taking their places at desks outside other offices.
None of them so much as looked at me. Apparently there was a hierarchy among the women at The Digest, and the typing pool was beneath the editors’ secretaries.
But I had a sneaking suspicion that some of them must have started in the typing pool as well.
The phone at my desk rang loudly, startling me. “Mr. Pullman’s office,” I said, realizing I had no idea how I was supposed to answer. Washington Digest? George Pullman? Managing editor? Who even had this phone number?
“You’re not Myrtle,” the voice said accusatorily.
“She’s—uh—she’s sick today. I’m filling in.” I hoped Myrtle was Mr. Pullman’s secretary and that this wasn’t a wrong number.
“Put me on with George.”
“Mr. Pullman isn’t in at the moment. Let me take a message, and he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.” I had no idea if he was in his office or not.
“Bull—”
“Your name?” I cut him off before he could prove my father right that I would hear worse language.
“Willis,” he said angrily. “Bob Willis.”
“Yes, Mr. Willis. Can you tell me what this is regarding?”
“He knows damn well what this is regarding and if he wants more access to the secretary of defense, he’s going to call me back quickly if he knows what’s good for him.”
Access to the secretary of defense, I wrote on the telephone message pad I had found on the desk. Call back requested ASAP. “And your phone number?”
“He has it,” the man said and hung up.
“Well, that was unpleasant,” I said out loud.
The girl at the nearest desk looked over, uninterested. “I’d keep your opinions to yourself if I were you,” she said before rolling a sheet of paper into her typewriter.
So much for the camaraderie I had found in the typing pool.
The elevator opened again, and I sat up straighter as five men, all about my father’s age, walked out. The editors had arrived.
The tallest of them approached my desk. “You’re not Myrtle,” he said. I stood up, and he looked me over from head to toe, an admittedly short trip.
“No, she’s ill today. Are you Mr. Pullman?”
“I should hope so,” he said, moving past me to enter his office.
“A Mr. Willis called for you,” I said to his back.
He stiffened. “I’ll take a cup of coffee, before I deal with that. One cream—”
“Two sugars,” I finished. “Right away, sir.”
He looked back over his shoulder in approval before shutting his door. And I looked around for a coffeepot.
“Second door on your left,” the secretary nearest to me said without looking up. “No ladies’ room on this floor either. You have to go down to five for that. And best make sure someone watches your phone for you if you do.”
“Can you watch it while I get Mr. Pullman a cup of coffee?”
She sighed, clearly not meaning herself, but nodded.
Then ignored me again. I did not have faith in her dedication to answering Mr. Pullman’s phone, so I hurried to the second door on the left.
I kept the door open, my ears alert for ringing, and went to the machine on the counter of the tiny kitchenette.
My parents still had a percolator. This was a newer drip coffee model, and I had no idea how it worked.
A tall, buxom blonde came in as I dug through a drawer hoping to find an instruction manual. “What are you doing?” she asked, a cigarette in one hand.
“Please tell me you know how this coffeepot works,” I said, wiping at a bead of perspiration on my forehead with the back of my hand.
She smiled at least. “You’re in for Myrtle today?
” I nodded. “Easy. You fill this with water.” She took the pot from me and brought it to the sink to demonstrate.
“Then you take a filter”—she reached into a cabinet and brought out a flimsy paper cone—“and put it in this top part. Scoop the coffee in, pour the water, turn it on, and wait. Mugs are in this cabinet. Cream in the refrigerator. Sugar over here.”
“Thank you,” I said, suddenly ashamed that I didn’t even know how to use a coffeemaker from this decade.
“They just got it a few months ago,” she said. “We all had to learn.” She took a drag of her cigarette. “I’m Florence.”
“Judy.”
“Cigarette?”
I shook my head. “I don’t smoke. But thank you.”
“Can’t make coffee, don’t smoke—you sure you’re in the right place, hon?”
I laughed. “No.” There was something friendly in her manner, and I found myself being honest. “I belong in the newsroom.”
She looked at me appraisingly, then the corners of her mouth turned down. “Not here, unfortunately.”
“That’s what Miss Kelly said too.”
“She would know,” Florence said.
My eyes widened. “You mean Miss Kelly wanted to write?”
“I have no idea. She just seems to know how everything works here. I think the whole paper would shut down if she took a sick day.”
What an oddity that a woman was that integral to the running of the organization, yet women weren’t allowed to do more than type articles, fetch coffee, and answer phones.
Then again, how different was that from a household, really? At least here I didn’t also have to cook, clean, and diaper babies.
The coffee gurgled and hissed as drops began to fall, and soon black liquid filled the glass carafe.
I reached for it, but Florence told me to wait. “Give it one more . . .” Another few drops fell. “There. Now you can pour it.”
I filled the cup and then added cream and sugar. “Thank you,” I told Florence. “I owe you one.”
“No problem,” Florence said, filling two cups and immediately taking a sip of black coffee from one of them. “We’re allowed as much as we want too,” she said when she saw me watching her.
I didn’t really drink coffee either. Though I supposed another few weeks here and I would be drinking coffee and smoking as well.
I thanked her again and started back toward Mr. Pullman’s office, when she touched my arm. “Keep the door open whenever you’re in his office.” Her voice was low, a warning in her tone.
“What if he tells me to close it?”
She shook her head. “Find an excuse. Though he prefers leggy blondes. Miss Kelly may have picked you on purpose.”
Florence fit the definition of a leggy blonde. I could feel my nostrils flare in distaste and wondered if everywhere in the working world was this bad for women. I didn’t want to be in the typing pool, but at least I was safe there, surrounded by other women.
I told her I would be careful, then went back to Mr. Pullman’s office, where I knocked on the door.
I could hear him talking to someone, and he didn’t seem to notice the knock—my options were to let his coffee get cold or slip inside as inconspicuously as possible and deliver his drink. I opted for the latter.
He was facing away from the door, his chair swiveled toward the window, where the Washington Monument was visible over a few buildings.
“I told you already—I don’t care what the second lady does.
We only care what he does.” A pause. “Everyone knows that. I’m sure even she knows that.
” I placed the coffee on his desk and backed out of the room as quietly as I could.
My day passed in a blur of transcribing notes from his IBM Executary dictation device, fetching coffee, and answering calls. At five on the dot, he came out of his office, a hat on his head, and walked past me. Then he stopped and turned around. “I don’t even know your name. Who are you?”
“Judy Greenberg, sir.”
His mouth turned down slightly. “Greenberg, you say?”
I stood my ground. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, as long as you’re not handling money, I’m sure you’ll do fine. Tell Miss Kelly you can come back tomorrow.”
I bristled at the jab, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He left, and I gathered my things to go home as well, but I stopped on the third floor to give Miss Kelly the message first.
“Interesting,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Never you mind. Between you and me, Myrtle isn’t coming back. We’ll do interviews later this week.” She looked up at me. “Unless he likes you enough to keep you.”
I didn’t appreciate being referred to like I was a stray dog he had found on the street. “What if I don’t want to be his secretary?”
Once again, a hint of amusement crossed her face. “Somehow, I believe you could pull off being incompetent if that were to be the case. Though I think this could be a chance for you to get closer to your goal.”
I was less sure of that as I clearly already had two strikes with Mr. Pullman between being a woman and being Jewish. But if he liked me, maybe he would be willing to take a chance on me writing once I earned his trust.
“I’ll think about it,” I told Miss Kelly.
“I’ll need an answer by the end of business Wednesday if he doesn’t send you back before then.”
“Yes, Miss Kelly.”
But as I rode the bus home, I thought about Mr. Pullman’s eyes wandering over my frame when he first saw me. I might keep that letter opener on me this week after all.