Chapter 18
On the bus home from work, I tried to think of an excuse for my mother that wouldn’t make my life more difficult.
The best choice would obviously be to say I had a date with a Jewish man. But then she would expect him to come to the house and meet her and my father, and I had no one to parade through their living room.
I blew out an exasperated breath, and the woman with two rambunctious daughters and an infant next to me looked over. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s not about you—or them.”
She offered me a smile. “Boy troubles?”
“What? No.”
The smile turned indulgent. “Parents?”
I looked at her more closely. How did she know that? I nodded.
“I’m an expert on both sides now,” she said. “Come on. Spill it.”
I obviously couldn’t tell her about the lead I was following, but I found myself explaining that I wanted to go to a bar with the girls from work and my parents were overprotective and would lose their minds if they knew the truth.
“I understand,” she said, shifting the baby to her other shoulder. “Believe it or not, I spent plenty of time getting around my parents before all this.” She gestured to the kids. She held out a hand. “Evelyn Gold.”
“Judy Greenberg.”
She looked me over appraisingly. “So you can’t say it’s a date or they’d want to meet him—right?
” I stared at her. “Do you have any male friends?” I shook my head.
“That worked for me once. Then again, I wound up marrying him.” She grinned.
“Okay, here’s what you do: You tell them you’re meeting up with a girlfriend on a double date.
When they argue that they want to meet him, you tell them that’s too awkward when you and your girlfriend are going on the date together. ”
“Won’t they eventually want to meet him?”
“Not if you come home mad. Slam some doors, stomp around, say The nerve! and things like that.”
“You might just be a genius,” I said.
“I’m sure these three will pay me back when they get bigger,” she said, ruffling the middle child’s hair. “Especially this one. Won’t you, Joanie?”
And somehow, my parents bought it. I originally said I would be going out after work with Patricia—though I told my parents she was named Paula Hoffman to avoid conflict—but my mother didn’t like the idea of me taking the bus home alone late at night and convinced my father to let me take the car.
“Invite this Paula for Shabbat dinner sometime,” she said. “I’d love to meet her.”
She had yet to ask about a single work friend I had mentioned. But give one a Jewish last name and she was invited to Friday night dinner.
“I will,” I promised. “But her family has their own Shabbat dinners every week, so I don’t know if she’ll be able to make it.”
“Of course,” my mother said reverently. “Maybe a Saturday afternoon?”
I thought quickly. “Oh, she doesn’t drive on Shabbat.” My mother opened her mouth, and I cut her off. “Very pious. And she goes to visit her grandmother every Sunday in Baltimore. But I’ll extend the invitation nonetheless.”
My mother patted my arm. “She sounds like such a good girl. And a good influence! And these boys . . . ?”
“Jewish,” I assured her. “They—uh—they’re down from Baltimore for the night too.”
My mother looked concerned. “That’s awfully far.”
“Well, they may be moving to the District for work, so we’ll see what happens.”
The following evening, outfitted in a dress of Betty’s that my mother sanctioned my wearing without permission, I found myself driving down Sixteenth Street toward Patricia’s apartment.
My nerves were humming with excitement. My gut told me I was onto something—and perhaps even more likely to encounter a clue on a weeknight than a weekend.
If the vice president was smart, he wouldn’t try to find girls on a weekend, when more people were there.
I stopped at a red light and shook my head.
In all likelihood, this would just be a trip to a bar with friends from work.
The odds of stumbling into a major story were slim at best, and my boredom in the typing pool had me grasping at straws.
Deep down, I knew that. But it never hurt to keep your eyes open in Washington.
And maybe, even if this turned out to be a dead end, I would see something I could take upstairs to Editorial eventually.
I parked in front of the imposing boardinghouse on Second Street on Capitol Hill where Patricia lived, knocked at the large front door, and told the woman who let me in that I was there for Patricia Holloway.
She directed me to a parlor on the left, where Patricia sat smoking in a form-fitting blue dress.
“Judy!” she cried, standing up. “Come on. Let’s find you something to wear.”
I had assumed that Betty’s dress would be appropriate for a weeknight, but apparently I was mistaken.
Patricia brought me upstairs, explaining that men weren’t allowed anywhere except in the parlor.
She rapped smartly on a door on the third floor, and a petite girl of about my size answered.
“This is Judy,” she said. “Judy, meet Roberta. We need to borrow a cocktail dress.”
“And I thought I was the one girl here who was safe from all that,” Roberta said, but she was smiling. “Come on in. We’ll find you something.”
Patricia ushered me into the room and immediately began digging through Roberta’s closet. “Anything off limits?”
“Nah,” she said. “I’ve worn all of them a million times. Besides, I think Ted is going to propose soon. Hopefully I won’t need them much longer!”
Patricia turned around. “Really?” Roberta nodded. “Good work bagging that one! Isn’t his family loaded?”
“They are.” She looked at me. “I can donate all these to you when we get married.”
I thanked her for the generous offer.
After I had tried on three, Patricia and Roberta agreed that the little black sheath with a high neck and low back would be just the thing.
I felt naked. Most of Betty’s dresses that I borrowed were a year or two old and still flared at the hem somewhat, and all of them were easily worn with a brassiere.
This one, I’d have to go without, or it would be visible in back.
“Honestly, you can pull that off,” Patricia said. “I could never.” Which was true but still stung slightly. I would never have curves like she did.
“Very Audrey Hepburn,” Roberta agreed.
I looked in the mirror, and for a moment, I felt very Audrey Hepburn. Touching the ends of my hair, I wondered if it was time for a bob. There was still a slight schoolgirlish air to me, and the hair would correct that. “Thank you,” I told Roberta. “I’ll take good care of it.”
“Do you want to come with us?” Patricia asked.
“And risk jeopardizing things with Ted? No. He thinks I’m a good little girl who stays home except to go out with him.” She winked. Then she looked me over again. “You need more makeup.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Patricia said, pulling me by the arm as I gathered up my clothes.
She took me to the room next door, which was hopelessly messy, with clothes covering the twin bed and half the floor.
A dresser held a cosmetics case, open, with a lipstick-smeared tissue next to it.
Patricia cleared off a chair and sat me in it, putting wings on my eyes with kohl and finishing it off with red lipstick.
“Perfection,” she said, handing me a mirror.
I hardly recognized the glamorous woman in the reflection. “Wow.”
“I know,” Patricia said. “Come on. We’ll take a cab.”
“I have my father’s car.”
She grinned. “Even better.”
So off we went. As we drove through the nation’s capital, I debated telling Patricia why we were really going to the bar. She was so much more worldly than I was and could likely spot connections that I wouldn’t know to make.
But she also talked too much. And if I told her, there was no guarantee half the typing pool wouldn’t join in hunting for clues, and suddenly my lead would have vanished into smoke.
As would my job, most likely.
No, I thought, as she prattled on about her date the night before. I needed to play this one close to the vest until I knew if I needed help or not.