Chapter Three Susie
Each day, I wake up in my tidy little room at the Old Dullahan place, write a letter home (Mother wouldn’t move out of the doorway until I promised to write every day), dress for work, and eat breakfast in the kitchen, alone.
The house is quiet, even though there are three other people sharing it—two girls and one older man who keeps to himself.
If I had to putter around the house all day, I’d go stir crazy, but I don’t have to. Instead, I pin on my hat, look at the dusty old mirror by the front door, smile and put on my lipstick (even though Mother says nice girls don’t paint their faces), and trot to work.
Mr. Silverman is a wonderful boss. My first week is a secretary’s dream. He has the coffee made. No trouble, he says, in that smooth, smoky voice, since he’s usually there when I arrive, and he needs a pot a day to function.
Each day, he leaves scads of letters, written on thin newsprint paper in a wide, masculine hand, for me to type up and post. I answer the phone when it rings, unless he gets to it first. At lunch, he opens the door to his office and asks if I’d like to go to Bond’s for a sandwich and a cherry phosphate, and of course, I always say yes.
It’s just the sort of simple, boring-but-important job a graduate of Beezledorf’s hopes for. Let no one be ignorant of the fact that American business is carried on the backs of competent secretaries, Mr. Beezledorf said during our graduation ceremony.
But I’m starting to worry that I’m not the typical kind of graduate.
Working for Silverman Investigations definitely pays better than being the wife of a barbed wire salesman, and it’s definitely less “rugged” than helping Mother around the house and Grandpa at the register when his hired help has the measles, but I’m not quite sure if it’s much more glamorous.
When I have leisure time, I want to be drinking something elegant, lounging in a silk peignoir.
Instead, I’m dusting lightbulbs until I’m afraid they’ll shatter, wishing I could sneak out to Bond’s and buy a stack of trashy books.
I’m usually finished with all of Mr. Silverman’s correspondence and filing by lunch, but I try to look busy while waiting for calls to come in.
If he decides he only needs my services for half a day, I’ll have to find another job, and I don’t even know what I’d do in a little place like Pine Ridge.
I think I’d have to move back to Yonkers, and that’s enough to have me polishing each individual typewriter key three times over.
Fortunately, Mr. Silverman, for as smart as he is, doesn’t seem to care what I do after lunch, when work is scarce. He goes into his office and shuts his door. I hear him pacing, or sometimes catch the low murmur of his voice when he’s making a telephone call.
What do I do? Dust my desk. Remove lint from my skirt. Sharpen pencils. Adjust my typewriter ribbon. Try not to bite my nails.
Fight boredom with impure thoughts about Sam Silverman.
Don’t scold. I would have fainted from tediousness if not for daydreaming about the handsome P.I.
and the conversations we have at lunch. He’s so funny and charming, with the best stories about life in Washington, and meeting dignitaries and authors in Europe...
Sam doesn’t talk to me as though I’m some simple girl who wouldn’t understand politics and business, which is something a lot of men seem to think, just because a girl can fill out a sweater.
It’s like they think we traded brains for breasts—but Mr. Silverman doesn’t even glance at my chest—or my legs.
Darn it.
But he does look into my eyes and smile a wide, toothy grin when he tells me about all the hijinks and mishaps that happened before he moved to Pine Ridge.
Today is Friday, and I know Mother expects me to take the bus home to spend the weekend. Well, I’m not going to lie, I’m looking forward to it. I don’t know what I’d do cooped up in my room alone for two days.
“Are you going home for the weekend? To see your folks?” Sam asks.
I think I told him my plans before, but he’s making conversation like a real genial fella. “I am. I have three younger brothers and a Mother who acts like I’m a Red Cross nurse on a battlefield. I got her first letter yesterday, and she sounds as though I’ve been away for months, not five days.”
“She sounds very devoted.”
“She is. I’ll be happy to go home—just for the weekend, that is.”
“Well, it beats hanging around here in Pine Ridge for the weekend.”
“I should think it does—although I’m not sure Yonkers is too much better, at least not with my family.” We share a laugh, and I feel bold enough to ask, “What do you do in Pine Ridge all weekend?”
“Oh, me? I work. Could catch a picture at the Dalloway. They’re building it up, you know, with talkies and everything.”
“You talk about this place as though you’ve always lived here. I don’t know why, but I thought you only moved here after leaving Washington,” I say.
“Well, not quite. I used to live in Manhattan when I was younger, but my grandfather knew about this place. There used to be a big paper mill and some timber interests out here. He worked as a foreman at one of the factories, but not for long. Old Mr. White, the owner of White Pines, lost his daughter in a tragic accident, and things went south with the business.” Sam’s eyes drift towards the windows of the drug store.
“You go up towards Blue Moon Lake, and you’ll see the old White Pines Estate. ”
“I haven’t seen it yet.”
“I’ll show you sometime if you like. A real beauty spot back in its day. Could be again. Someone could buy it, or the town could hold it in trust.” Sam shrugs. “It’s been standing empty for about ten years, so I heard.”
“You seem to know a lot about this place.”
“It’s a little place. Not much to know.” He grins.
“Do you like this little berg after life in Manhattan?” I venture.
“Call me crazy, but I do. It’s gonna be a good place to settle down. Raise a family one day.” Sam’s eyes meet mine, and then he quickly looks away. “Hey, another coffee, mack!”
The sodajerk at the counter nods and fixes me with his one odd eye. I can’t tell if he’s keeping an eye on me because he thinks Sam is “nutsy” after the war, or because I’m the odd newcomer.
“It does seem like an awfully nice, quiet little place,” I say kindly, and it does. Boring, but nice.
“Ah, Susie,” Sam uses my first name instead of calling me Miss Spade, and my heart falls right into my pumps, shot down with one of Cupid’s arrows just because of how he laughs softly through the syllables.
“I’m your boss, but I didn’t hire a ‘yes man.’ I don’t mind if you think this place is as dull as dirt.
For certain people, it’s an excellent place to live, a place where...
” he drifts off for a moment, handsome face even more beautiful when it’s still and thoughtful.
“A place where anyone could get a safe, fresh start if I have anything to say about it.”
“I don’t think it’s dull as dirt! I think any place can be interesting if you have the right people around you,” I say staunchly.
“You take Yonkers. Why, when the Otis Elevator Company opened a factory there, the town really started to get hot,” I drop a phrase that would leave Mother frowning.
“But it all depends on who you’re palling around with.
Girls go to church luncheons, garden clubs, and sewing bees.
There’s a library, but my mother always says reading sparks idleness.
My brothers have it easier. They love tractors and tinkering with the radio, skipping rocks in the creek and catching frogs.
Me? I’d like a little more excitement in my life.
I... I was hoping you might need that sort of help one day, Mr. Silverman.
Someone to investigate with you—even if it’s just looking at clues and writing things down that don’t add up,” I suggest, full of cherry-flavored courage.
Mr. Silverman looks startled, but he nods. “Could be. Could be that I’ll need that one day. Love your gumption, Susie. You can call me Sam, you know. Especially during lunch,” he winks.
“Oh, I will. I just...” Get incredibly tongue-tied around you sometimes.
Sam nods knowingly. “I’m an old codger to you. It’d seem silly to you to call me ‘Sam’ like someone your own age.”
“I should say not! It’s not that at all, Sam,” I say, surprised how my voice can go from vehement to a soft little purr, from indignant hellcat to sweet kitten just by saying his name.
“Good.” He beams and drains his fresh cup of coffee. “I think today I’ll knock off early. You have to pack and get the five o’clock bus, don’t you?”
“I do.” It won’t take me that long to pack. My eyes stray to the rack of paperbacks at the far end of the counter.
Sam follows my gaze. “You know, I’m only just starting out on my own in this business.
Believe me, I know that there’s a market for it, not here, but in the city, but I needed a base of operations where I had a little more breathing room.
Cities are crowded, which means you can blend in, sure, but it also means that your enemies might be right next door and you’d never know it. ”
My breathing picks up the pace. Base of operations. Enemies.
So thrilling. “Oh, Sam, you have to be careful. I know things will pick up. I just know it. You have all those contacts in Washington, after all,” I say, and my voice has gone all “breathy.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence. And I wanted to say, Susie—do you prefer Susan?”
“Not at all.”
“Susie, I know it’s a little slow. Some girls, girls like you, girls who want some action, might have quit on me by now.”
“I would never leave my post, Mr. Silverman. A Beezledorf graduate is loyal.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But you can read or knit, heck, even whip out an easel and perfect your watercolors for all I care. As long as the work is done and you’re there to answer the phones and send the wires when I need you to, I’m happy with your work, Miss Spade.”
“Well. I’ll drink to that.” I finish my drink, straw raised to fit between my puckered lips, hoping I look just a little bit tempting.
Mr. Silverman puts a stack of bills on the counter in front of me. “This week’s wages, and the next. I’m going to head home.” He leaves a quarter for the sodajerk and puts his hat on. “See you first thing Monday morning.”
“Without fail, Mr. Silverman!” I cry, and give him a little salute.
When he leaves, I hop off the stool and make a beeline for the books. The sodajerk sighs. “In my day, girls didn’t read those kinds of books,” he warns.
“It’s a good thing you’re not serving them with the pie.
” With an impish smile, I pull out three copies of Secret Adventure, Forbidden Detective, and Forbidden Tales: Secret Romance Edition (that’s a new one), and I head to Mrs. Bond at the main counter, a bright, vivacious redhead who must be close to Mother’s age, but who looks ten years younger.
“You tell old Mack,” she whispers with a conspiratorial wink. “He’s just jealous. A woman will never get under his covers.” She taps the books on their lurid, painted covers, and we both burst into giggles.
“I heard that, Martha!” Mack, who I thought was just called that as a general form of address, glares in our direction.
“I hope so! And if you’d comb your hair and put on a tie, you could have Sally Thackery down at the post office waltzing down the aisle by next June!”
“The little old lady at the post office?”
“She’s not little and old, dearie,” Mrs. Bond raises her voice, “she’s prematurely gray, waiting for Mack to wise up and see what a good thing he could have! If you’re not careful, that handsome Mr. Silverman will have her on his arm!”
A hot streak of jealousy flies up my middle, and goodness, I know I’ve got it bad.
“Enough, you two! I’m trying to read the latest advisory from the Health Board!” Mr. Bond shouts from the back of the store, where the dispensary is.
“Can I get you anything else, dear?” Mrs. Bond rings me up.
I pay for my little stack of books and practically run from the store. I have to pack. I have to catch the bus. I have to stop thinking lustful thoughts about Sam Silverman pulling me into his arms and kissing me, or I can’t keep this job.