Five Brides (3 page)

Indeed,
Joan thought, swallowing the last of her tea and toast.
Mine as well.
Being the middle child of nine, she’d felt she had to come to America. Create her own adventure. Write her own story. Or simply burst from the need. For something . . . something more than England could offer.

Something. Although she couldn’t say quite what. And if she didn’t find it here, she reasoned she would have to return across the Atlantic to seek it elsewhere.

Joan stood resolutely and brushed a few crumbs from her
skirt. The time had come for her to find a job. And find it quickly. Today. She had only thirty-seven dollars to her name, and, as comfortable as her room at the Y seemed to be, it was only a room.

It wasn’t home.

For her first day in Chicago, she chose a simple blue over-the-knee pencil skirt and a white shirtwaist. Her only accessories were a strand of pearls, a small hat with a net that she pulled back, and a pair of gloves the color of midnight. She’d taken stock of herself as best she could in the small mirror in her room, but now, in front of one of the wide front windows of a four-story office building, she had a better view. And, if she said so herself, she made a rather smashing reflection.

Joan adjusted the clutch she carried under her arm. It held Evelyn’s letter with suggestions for employment, and her cash for safekeeping. The building she stood in front of appeared squatty in comparison to those around it. But the brass address plate indicated it contained a number of businesses within, including Hertz, which she had heard of. Seemed a good place to start.

And if you land a job, Joanie, promise me you’ll save a spot for me.

No “if” about it. She
would
land a job.

Joan entered the lobby off of South Wabash, which was austere by every definition of the word. Only a few ordinary chairs flanked the perimeter between office doors. A receptionist’s desk sat smack in the center.

“Hallo,” she said to the young blonde on the other side of it.

The woman looked up from her work with wide blue eyes made bluer by the dark liner that curled from the ends of the lids. “May I help you?”

Yes, she absolutely could. Joan straightened her shoulders and smiled. “I’m here for a job.”

The receptionist smiled, although Joan didn’t read any kindness in it. “Any particular one of the businesses here?”

She only knew of one, so she stuck with it. “Hertz.”

“Second floor. You can take the stairs,” she said, pointing with a pencil to a far corner. “Or the elevator, which is just over here.” She moved the pencil a few inches, indicating doors several yards closer to where Joan stood.

“Thank you,” Joan said, then made her way to the elevator. She pressed the small black Up button and waited for the faux-wood double doors to open.

Less than a minute later, she stepped onto the second floor, which seemed to be an exact replica of the one below. Chairs near the elevator clustered around a coffee table strewn with Hertz fliers and the
Chicago Tribune
.

Joan adjusted her shirtwaist, straightened her shoulders, and marched to the receptionist, a well-groomed woman who appeared to be in her thirties.

“Hello,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here for a job.”

The woman—Mrs. Michaelson, according to the nameplate—smiled. “What kind of job?”

Joan said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m a very good secretary.” Which was true. She’d been working in some capacity or another since before her tenth birthday, and she’d graduated from business college before her seventeenth.

Mrs. Michaelson tilted her head apologetically to the left. “I’m sorry. We don’t have any secretarial jobs open at the moment.”

“Oh. Well, then,” Joan said, suddenly aware of the clip of her brogue against this woman’s American accent, “what kind of jobs
do
you have?”

Again, the head tilted. “Why don’t you tell me what you are trained to do.”

Joan took in a breath. “I should tell you that I graduated from business college when I was sixteen. I’ve worked steadily since then.”

“And how old are you now, dear?”

She wished Mrs. Michaelson would stop talking to her as though she were twelve. “Nineteen,” she answered. Clearing her throat, she added, “May I speak with your manager, please?”

Joan was certain she could do better with him. Tell him about her excellent grades in school. About her work habits and integrity while on the job.

“Mr. Ferguson?”

“Is that his name? Your manager?”

Mrs. Michaelson folded her hands together, fingers interlocking. “The head of human resources. Yes.”

“Then yes. Mr. Ferguson.”

With a slight shake of her head, Mrs. Michaelson picked up the handset of a phone, dialed a couple of numbers, and waited. “Mr. Ferguson,” she said, “there’s a young woman here who’d like to see you . . . Yes, sir . . . Yes, she—yes, sir.” She returned the handset. “He’ll be right with you.”

“Shall I wait over there?” Joan asked, looking toward the chairs.

Mrs. Michaelson picked up a pencil as though she were about to take a note. Before she could answer, a door to her left opened and a man approached.

“I’m Mr. Ferguson,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket at the button. His breath smelled of coffee and peppermint.

Joan extended her hand, which he took. “Joan Hunt.” She smiled, hoping he would return the gesture.

He did.

Mr. Ferguson was a handsome man. Midforties, she suspected. Angular face, tanned complexion, eyes the color of a French silk pie, their centers twinkling with merriment. She immediately warmed to him. “Joan,” he said, as he released her hand. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Joan breathed a sigh of relief and flashed a smile at Mrs. Michaelson. She mouthed, “Thank you.” Following the head of human resources, she offered up another prayer, asking God for favor.
I don’t have to run the company,
she prayed silently.
I only want to work for it.

They stepped through the door Mr. Ferguson had exited earlier and into an ordinary office with a metal desk, neatly arranged with stacks of files, a typewriter, telephone, and a single rose budding from a narrow vase. “My secretary’s desk,” he said, indicating that Joan should continue toward the inner office. “She’s running an errand for me presently but should be back soon.”

As Joan sat in one of two vinyl-covered chairs in his office, Mr. Ferguson said, “Tell me, where are you from?” He sat in the imposing black chair behind his desk.

“I was born here in the States,” she said. “But my family returned to England when I was nine.”

He folded his hands in the same manner as Mrs. Michaelson,
placing them over white papers fanned across his desk. “What kind of work experience do you have, Joan?”

“As soon as we arrived in England, I began working for Mr. Higginbottom, the local pig man.”

Mr. Ferguson appeared amused at the story. “And what did you do, at nine years of age, for Mr. Higginbottom?”

“I collected leftover food scraps from the neighbors. For his pigs, of course. Then, between ten and twelve I picked potatoes, as did all the schoolchildren in England.”

Mr. Ferguson’s brow furrowed. “And why was that?”

“The men were at war and it was necessary.” Joan pressed her ankles together as she remembered the weeks of harvesting alongside her school chums as well as her brothers and sisters.

“Ah, yes.”

“At twelve I took a job collecting past-due accounts for the newsagent.” She suppressed a giggle. “I’m sure most people don’t think a twelve-year-old can be intimidating, but believe me, sir, I was.”

Mr. Ferguson grinned, sending parenthetical lines up both sides of his face. “I have no doubt.”

“Then, at thirteen, I won a scholarship to junior business college. My first
adult
job was at sixteen, working in a textile manufacturing factory . . .” She knew she could continue, but thought to let Mr. Ferguson ask, should he have further questions.

“Tell me, Joan, what do you think you work best at? Because we have no pigs to feed or potatoes to pick here in Chicago.”

Joan thought for a moment. Whatever they placed in front of her, she knew she could do, and do well. So she said, “What openings do you
have
?”

“We have an opening in accounting . . .”

“I’m a
very
good accountant.”
Of course, I’m accustomed only to pounds, shillings, and pence . . .

His dark eyes fixed on hers. She took a deep breath and held it until he blinked. “You know, Joan, I have a daughter your age. You remind me a lot of her, actually.” He waited for a reaction, but she gave none. “If she were in England, I’d want to know that someone gave her a job.” Then he smiled. “When can you start?”

Joan could hardly believe it, though she whispered a prayer of thanks anyway. “Why, today, of course.”

One side of his mouth curled upward. “How about tomorrow?”

She stood, extending her hand again. “Tomorrow it is.”

Mr. Ferguson took it. She squeezed, feeling nothing short of confidence. Released. “Come straight to my office. Introduce yourself to Betty . . .” He nodded toward his secretary’s office with a mischievous smile. “She should be back by then.”

Joan rolled the name over in her mind.
Betty, Betty, Betty . . .
“What time then?”

“Be here at eight.” His eyes met hers in a most fatherly way. “Don’t be late.”

“Of course not.”

She turned toward the door, which she reached in three long strides.

“And Joan?”

She peered over her shoulder with a smile. “Yes, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Welcome home.”

Portal, Georgia

Night had settled around the old farmhouse in quaking shadows, pungent with the scent of burning autumn leaves. Evelyn Alexander, more used to her quiet surroundings than she wanted to be, stood at the open kitchen window drying the last of the pots and pans from supper. She returned them to the lower cabinet where they belonged and whisked the dishrag over the white Formica countertop.

She pressed her hands against the small of her back and stretched, then jumped when her mother spoke behind her. “Don’t forget to close the winda.”

Evelyn spun around. Her mother had already dressed for bed—her hair had been set in pin curls, and the scent of talcum powder drifted across the room. “Yes, ma’am,” Evelyn said. “I won’t.”

Her mother turned away, shoulders slumped against the weariness of life.

“Mama?”

Mama stopped, turned back. “What?”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Out yonder. On the front porch, I ’spect. That man loves the
smell of those leaves more’n anyone I know.” She shook her head, and for a moment Evelyn thought she saw her mother smile. But before she could know for sure, her mother shuffled down the hall. “Don’t forget the winda.”

“I won’t,” Evelyn muttered. She returned to the sink and leaned over, pushed the raised window toward the sill, then pulled the curtains shut.

A minute later she stepped over her younger brother, Sol, who lay on the living room rug reading another Hardy Boys mystery. “It’s about time for bed,” she said to him.