Francie Comes Home (15 page)

Mrs. Ryan said, “That young idiot. He'll get in trouble if he tries driving at that speed after a few more miles. The Loop is no joke.”

Francie finished the trip in thoughtful silence.

CHAPTER 11

In the drowsy daze that follows a long, successful drive, the two women had a snack in a nearby drugstore and then went to bed. There was little to say to each other at that hour of the evening. Francie had been plunged into secret thoughts by seeing Bruce Nunson. What could it mean, his having come to Chicago, as he obviously had? Not a word had been said about such plans when she set out, and Mrs. Fredericks had given her to understand that she and Mrs. Ryan, not Bruce, were representing the firm for the week. Oh well, tomorrow might tell: their paths no doubt would cross.

Francie took a bath and went to bed. A few minutes later, Florence Ryan came out of her turn in the bathroom wearing a gown and negligee that astonished her young companion. Somehow one expected her to sleep in thick white, with long sleeves and a high neck. Instead she had decked herself out in apricot-colored nylon trimmed with pleated frills and lace inserts, which looked very odd indeed, for her face was as uncompromisingly plain as ever. It was worse, in fact, because it glistened with cleansing cream and was surrounded by tight hair done up in bobby pins. As if she had read Francie's mind, she said cheerfully, “do you like my actressy get-up?”

“It's lovely,” said Francie. “Wherever did you buy those things?”

“I get everything here or in the East. I don't want Jefferson talking about my taste,” said Mrs. Ryan. “The fact is, I lead a secret life of surprising luxuriance. (Of course I'm talking about underwear, nothing else.) Don't know why I do it, exactly, except that it's such a relief; it's an exhaust of some sort, I guess. We old ladies who live alone must indulge ourselves somehow.”

“Oh, Mrs.
Ryan!
”

“Well, why shouldn't I say so?” asked Florence Ryan. “Mind you, I'm not wailing at my sad lot. I'm quite satisfied the way I am. I've tried living married and I've tried living single, and on the whole I prefer the life I've got now.”

Francie didn't reply, but she was startled. It had never occurred to her to doubt that women of Mrs. Ryan's age were alone simply because they couldn't help themselves. She had taken it for granted that when Mr. Ryan died, his widow had naturally elected to devote the rest of her life to his memory. In Francie's opinion, Mrs. Ryan wasn't being quite proper in professing that she liked things better as they were. Certainly life was full of surprises.

Calmly Mrs. Ryan settled down on her pillows, snapped on her reading lamp, and opened a magazine. “Of course it's been a long time since I knew about it and I may be doing it an injustice,” she said absently. “Married life, I mean.” She put on reading spectacles and turned to look over their rims at Francie. “That doesn't go to show that we're all the same, though,” she said rather severely.

“Oh no. Of course not,” said Francie. She asked herself what that remark meant, and because her mind was so full of her own situation, she leaped to the conclusion that Mrs. Ryan was referring indirectly to Bruce Munson and herself, hinting that she mustn't be put off marriage by any of her employer's cynical remarks. The thought made her blush pleasurably, until Mrs. Ryan spoke again.

“Take Anne Clark for instance,” she said. “Now, there's a woman who was never meant to live alone, and I certainly hope she isn't going to be so foolish as to try. Anne oughtn't to waste any time getting married again, and whatever man she does marry will be lucky. Don't you agree, Francie? Isn't she a wonderful person?”

Francie murmured acquiescence without putting her mind on the subject too strenuously. Instead, she was thinking that it was strange of Mrs. Ryan to be so chummy all of a sudden. She behaved almost as if they two were middleaged contemporaries, exchanging cozy gossip over their teacups. This certainly wasn't characteristic of Mrs. Ryan as Francie had always known her: Florence was a chatterbox, but not really a rattle-pate. Did she mean anything she didn't want to say outright? What was she getting at? An uneasy question stirred in Francie's mind. Though she was tired and sleepy and comfortable, she couldn't quite slip off into unconsciousness. It almost sounded as if Mrs. Ryan was hinting that Francie ought to be aware of something that affected her closely. Surely she didn't mean …

The telephone shrilled and woke her up: she glanced at her watch and realized that it was not yet late. Florence, who was still reading, turned to the table between the beds and lifted the receiver.

Francie waited. It must be for Mrs. Ryan, she told herself; all calls would be because it was Mrs. Ryan's business trip. Still, she hoped and held her breath.

“Yes, she is. She's right here,” said Mrs. Ryan. “I don't think so, not quite asleep. Just a minute.” She rolled her eyes mischievously as she handed over the phone. It was Bruce Munson, of course.

“What are
you
up to, for heaven's sake?” she demanded. Self-consciousness gave her voice a sound she hadn't intended: instead of being gay and careless, it was cross. Lucky Munson was quick to react.

“Whoa there I It's a public city, Chicago is. I'm still allowed right of entry, as far as I know. Why shouldn't I be here?”

Francie said, “I didn't mean that, only you did surprise us, passing us that way on the road. Anyway, what
is
the idea? You weren't thinking of coming down when I saw you yesterday. Of course I'm delighted, but …”

Bruce said No, she was right, and he had a message for her. “Lottie realized early this morning that I'd have to come in, as far as I can make out. She's just heard of a plan to redo the country club entirely, and she has dozens of new Fredericks & Worpels ideas. First she meant to call you up tonight long distance, and then I persuaded her it would be simpler just to let me come and attend to the whole thing in person. I should think you'd be glad to have all that extra responsibility off your shoulders, you two girls.”

“Oh, we are, we are,” Erancie assured him. “It's much better like this and we can divide up the jobs, can't we?”

Bruce sounded mollified. “We'd better get together on it first thing in the morning. I'm staying in the hotel myself; we're talking on the house phone in case you didn't realize it.”

“What could be more convenient?” said Francie. Mrs. Ryan seemed to be glued to her magazine. Her lack of interest was ostentatious.

“We can all meet at breakfast if you say so,” continued Bruce, “and start out together. I take it you're going to the Merchandise Mart right away, according to plan?”

Francie broke off to consult with Florence; Yes, she reported, they would be visiting the Mart. They might as well go all together in one of the cars.

It was enough to put Mrs. Ryan's earlier hints out of anybody's head. Anyway Francie forgot all about them, for the time. She went straight to sleep.

“Wow!” she said.

Acting like a rubberneck tourist in a comedy, she pretended to be unable to see the top of the building: she leaned further and further back. She was really impressed by the Mart. Mrs. Ryan watched her and smiled with a touch of pride.

“It's really something,” she admitted. “It's the biggest place of its kind in the world, I'm told.”

“But why hasn't everybody heard of it?” asked Francie. “You'd think it would be much more famous than the Empire State or one of those.”

Mrs. Ryan said, “Oh, it's not a skyscraper. It's just that it covers such an enormous area, and deals with such a special sort of merchandise, that it's interesting to people in the trade. Outside of wholesale and retail furniture dealers, who cares? I admit it
is
fascinating, but still it's strictly for people like us.”

Bruce Munson had gone to park the car; now he joined them and agreed with Francie. “If they threw open the place to the public, I bet it would be swamped with sightseers,” he said, ushering them through the entrance. “But the dealers wouldn't want too many sight-seers around, getting in the way and learning trade secrets. You need an introduction to get in as it is. The only parties they encourage are students who are specially interested in furnishings; art students and architects and designers and suchlike.… Yes, it's not bad, is it?”

Francie paused again to stare around at the high ceilings of the ground floor.

“If this kind of thing interests you, you'd better take a look at the house directory,” he continued. “It's one of the boasts of the boys who run this place that you can do an entire house out of this building, every single item you can think of, including the central heating.”

“The other thing we always tell newcomers is that you could live here,” said Mrs. Ryan, like a chorus. “You wouldn't have to go out of the place.”

“Actually?”

“Not actually, of course. It's not a hotel. But goodness knows there are enough beds and stuff to keep you comfortable,” said Florence.

Lucky said, “I often think of doing it. Just imagine being locked in at night with nothing to help you out but maybe a diamond to cut the plate glass with. Suppose you had the run of the whole place. You'd have your choice of the best beds in the world, and in the morning you could stroll down and get your hair cut in the barber shop, and have a shoe-shine. Oh, and before that you'd take a bath, practically anywhere in one of the model bathrooms, and then cheerfully down to the dining room for breakfast.”

“It really is a pretty fully equipped place,” said Mrs. Ryan. “The idea of it was to make buying more convenient for out-of-town retailers like us. In the old days we used to waste hours and hours getting from one district to another. I remember how I had to go way downtown for lamps, and way uptown for textiles—that sort of thing, and if you knew how long it takes to move around in this town! But you haven't had a genuine look yet, has she, Bruce? Now let's see.” She looked at her wrist watch. “We had better get going: I haven't got a lot of time as it is.”

Bruce had a suggestion all ready. If Mrs. Ryan had a date, as she said she had, why shouldn't he take Francie around with him? He wanted to call on two people up in the textiles, and another in the furniture, and so on, but they wouldn't be involved interviews and Francie might as well accompany him; then they could meet down on the first floor at lunch time. This was agreed, and Florence went her way.

It was a long time before Francie was to forget the impact of that morning's wandering, examining, and listening. Bruce seemed to be acquainted with a lot of the superior-looking young men and women who presided over sumptuous floors of furniture, kitchen outfits, textiles, plumbing, and all the other appurtenances of houses. She trailed meekly after him through long, long hallways between plate glass, and waited obediently in spacious “pretend” rooms behind the glass until it suited Bruce to introduce her and let her in on the conversation of the initiates, which even then was largely mysterious to her. She learned more of the reasons for these elaborate displays.

“It's actually a matter of square feet, pure and simple,” explained one exquisite young man, whose blond good looks rendered his quick intelligence incongruous. “You see, your main problem these days in selling tables or beds or break-fronts is a question of display: where are you going to get the room to show them to the customers? Even retailers like Marshall Field, who don't carry as much as we do, are pressed for space. You go into any of their furniture departments and you'll see what I mean; they're driven to using illustrated catalogues half the time, and shoving one chair in as a sample of a whole class of goods. Almost everybody else in any other line has it pretty good compared with us decorators. For instance, you can show five thousand hats in the space it takes to show one breakfront. Yes,” he said rather grimly as Francie gasped, “it makes you think, doesn't it? Well, that's why we people just had to work out a place like this. I wouldn't like to tell you how many square feet my own firm rents here, and certainly you wouldn't believe me if I told you what it all costs—not just the space, but all the electricity and cleaning and labor of arranging, especially considering we've got to put on new shows every so often. But we've got to have our show window; we can't expect the buyers to visit all the factories, can we? They used to, just the same, and the scramble was pitiful.”

Bruce said feelingly, “You aren't kidding. I've had to do some of that in my time.”

While they talked business, Francie wandered about admiringly, noticing how cunningly floor space was divided into rooms, each of which was given over to a different style of decoration. She explained to the blond young man that she had always been especially interested in textiles, and he replied that though his people didn't themselves manufacture such things, they did their selecting from other companies on lower floors, whose specialty was curtain material and upholstery. She found herself envious of these privileged people who could wander as they liked in this extraordinary world, picking just what they wanted to work out their ideas. A few of the quoted prices surprised her; they seemed less than she would have expected.

“Wholesale, you know,” Lucky reminded her. “These people are strictly for the dealers and decorators. You know the rules, don't you? They aren't allowed to sell direct to the ultimate consumer.”

“But even so, they're a lot cheaper than you'd think they would be from the prices at Fredericks & Worpels,” said Francie.

Bruce and the young blond looked at each other and laughed. “She's hep,” said Bruce. “You don't get ahead of Francie very often.… Well, my child,” he added, “I'll tell you a secret. Any small, select place like F. and W. is going to cost you more, article for article, than a big downtown store. Yes, for the exact article, most likely. And why? Because of that same problem, space. However, before you make up your mind to do all your shopping henceforth in a big downtown emporium, remember that we don't often duplicate their stock. We try not to; we try to substitute exclusive models, and thus make up to the customers for the extra expense.”