Three-Martini Lunch (13 page)

I
woke up feeling very rough. I'd gotten home late, and tossed and turned all night long, thinking about how much I ought to explain to Mr. Turner—and plotting to petition Miss Everett in the hopes she might help me—and I'd worked myself up into such an exhausted lather, I'd gone and slept through the shrill ringing of my alarm's tin bell. When I finally roused myself, I got dressed as quickly as I could and hurried to Torchon & Lyle. My walk was a near run, and at one point I accidentally kicked off my ballet flat and had to go hopping after it on one foot as it skittered into a gutter filled with dirty water.

I made it to Torchon & Lyle in the nick of time. I pushed through the revolving door and in my haste I neglected to rub the phoenix's talon. Later it dawned on me what I'd forgotten to do. I hustled through the lobby and rode the elevator up to the sixth floor. When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, I took a deep, hopeful breath and plunged forth.

To my surprise, there was a strange girl sitting in my chair when I arrived.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. For a moment I considered perhaps I'd gotten off the elevator on the wrong floor. I blinked and looked around at the other secretaries, at the placards bearing the editors' various names next to their respective doors—but no, all this was right and familiar and just as it should be. It was only the girl sitting at my desk that was unfamiliar. “Oh!” I exclaimed again. “I'm sorry—am I late? Were you sent to fill in?”

“Not to
fill in
,” she said in a snide voice, with an impatient roll of her eyes. She sniffed and returned her attention to the magazine she was reading. “Go on in,” she instructed. “Mr. Turner said to send you in as soon as you arrived.” She did not bother to introduce herself, although it was clear she knew exactly who
I
was. I stood there in a sudden fog, baffled. My head began to throb terribly. I took a closer look at the girl. She was short and stocky, and wore glasses that straddled a wide-bridged nose. Her honey-blond hair was held back by a white headband. Despite her squat dimensions, she had the well-polished look only produced by money. Her nose was peppered with freckles that had likely been acquired on the golf course at her parents' country club; the skin of her arms glowed with a Bermuda tan; the pale pink cashmere sweater that was buttoned cape-style over her shoulders could only have come from Bergdorf's. She was definitely the daughter of some business acquaintance who had long ago asked Mr. Turner to supply her with a job appropriate for a freshly graduated college girl. My stomach sank.

“Well?” the girl said, looking up at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. Her flat, blue, magnified eyes inspected me. “Aren't you going to go in?”

“Oh,” I said. I had been standing there, staring. “Yes . . . Are you sure you don't want to buzz him?”

She shook her head. “I said he's expecting you.”

My hand trembled as I knocked on Mr. Turner's door. I had been told to never—under
any
circumstances—do this. “Come in,” his voice commanded. I turned the knob. Mr. Turner's office was sleek and modern, done up in a sort of minimal style that was quickly becoming all the rage. I walked in and padded quietly across the black wall-to-wall carpet. A giant painting hung on the far wall depicting a jumble of triangles, zig-zags, and squares, all in primary colors. I regarded the painting with a sense of unease; the shapes looked about as jumbled up as my stomach felt. Mr. Turner was seated in front of a smoked-glass desk in a white leather chair, busy filling out a set of forms from the personnel department. He scribbled what I took to be his signature on the last form, lifted the pages, and tapped the edge of the stack on his desk, then tucked the group of them into a manila file folder. “No need to sit, Miss Katz,” he said. “I'm afraid this won't take long.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat with difficulty and remained standing.

“What I have to inform you is quite simple and should come as no surprise. Your employment at Torchon and Lyle is terminated, effective immediately.”

I gasped. “But . . . that can't be!”

“I assure you, it is. We'll need you to gather up your personal effects and see Miss Everett with this paperwork on your way out of the building.” He handed me the manila folder. I looked at it. Along the top of the filing tab someone had typed the name EDEN KATZ, and I realized I was holding my own personnel file.

“But . . .” I stammered. “Have you talked to Miss Everett? I know how it looked when you saw me with Mr. Frederick, but you've got it all wrong! He's chased other girls around their desks, too—I'm
sure
you know that. And I would never . . . please, Mr. Turner, talk to Miss Everett! If you talk to Miss Everett, I'm sure she'll vouch for me!”

Mr. Turner didn't answer at first. He leveled a long, hard stare in my
direction. In that moment I rather think he hated me; I had never seen anyone's eyes so full of disdain and detachment at the same time. “I
have
talked to Miss Everett,” he said. “But even if I hadn't, I certainly don't need her approval to dismiss an employee. It's quite simple. She has informed me there is no earthly reason why you needed to be at the office so late at night unless you were up to no good, and I can't abide immoral girls, Eden. I suggest you take your wild-woman behavior elsewhere. We simply can't condone it here at Torchon and Lyle.”

I was stunned. Nothing Mr. Turner was saying made sense. My mouth moved but no words came out. Miss Everett had said
there was no earthly reason I needed to be at the office so late at night
. I was being blamed for Mr. Frederick's advances, as though I'd invited them.

“But . . .”

“That's enough, Miss Katz! You're excused.”

•   •   •

I
don't remember leaving the building, but the next thing I was aware of was finding myself on a bench in Central Park. I was in such a daze I barely registered the familiar shape of Judy as she came huffing along the path after me, awkwardly cradling a cardboard box in her arms. I realized she must've been trying to catch up to me for a few blocks, but being lost in a state of shock I had marched on, blind and deaf to her pursuit.

“I thought you might be headed here,” she said once she'd caught her breath. “They wondered where you'd gotten off to so quickly, and I volunteered to come after you.”

For a second my heart leapt, seized by the sudden idea that perhaps Miss Everett had successfully made the case to Mr. Turner that I ought to be kept on; but then Judy set the cardboard box beside me on the bench, and I caught sight of the contents: my pocketbook, the ceramic mug I'd brought in for drinking coffee, the African violet that had sat in a little yellow pot on my desk.

“Boy, was that something! Mary Sue said you tore out of Mr. Turner's office so fast you practically left behind a trail of rocket fuel. You sure do know how to make an exit, Eden.” Judy sat down with the box between us and sighed. “I'm awfully sorry it happened, though.”

My eyes filled with tears. I realized I felt sorry for myself, and was annoyed. I clenched my teeth.

“Oh, Eden . . . It's not your fault, you know,” Judy said, fishing in her purse and producing a handkerchief. As she handed it to me I noticed what appeared to be a catsup stain on the bottom corner. “I'm sure she planned on it . . . you know, that whole business with Mr. Frederick.”

Avoiding the catsup stain, I wiped my eyes and looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Miss Everett,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm sure she wanted Mr. Frederick to come around and bother you.”

“Why would she want that?”

Judy looked at me in disbelief. The red line of her mouth puckered in a scornful way. “Because, dummy, Miss Everett likes her job and doesn't appreciate you sniffing around as though to take it.”

“But . . . but . . . I wasn't trying to take her job,” I said. Judy rolled her eyes and shrugged at this. “And besides,” I argued, “I was
sure
she liked me! I got this job on recommendation from a trusted source.” Judy looked at me with curious eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Hightower wrote me a letter of introduction. He said they were good colleagues. I thought she wanted to help me.”

“
Horatio
Hightower?”

I nodded.

“Oh, well,” Judy said. “That settles it. She didn't just want your resignation; she wanted your head!”

“I don't understand,” I said. I suddenly felt very tired.

“Miss Everett and Mr. Hightower worked side-by-side for years. She
was always after him to marry her, but he never would!” Judy said, suddenly breathless. “I think he knew if he did he'd be in for a lifelong headache.” She elbowed me and gave a wink, then turned thoughtful and gazed off into the trees. “She probably figured you got the recommendation by going to bed with him.”

“Judy!”

“I'm not saying
I
think you did, just that Miss Everett probably thinks that!” she said, waving her arms defensively. “She has an awfully low opinion of women.” Judy paused to consider. “I'd wondered why she'd assigned you, of all people, to Mr. Turner. I guess now we know she was out to get you.”

“How's that?”

Judy peered down at her feet and shrugged. “Well, just that everybody knows Mr. Turner is funny about Jews.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know; he's just funny about them. Some people are.” I looked at her, horrified, but she didn't notice. Instead, Judy suddenly sat up straight and snapped her fingers. “Say!” she exclaimed. “Boy oh boy, that Miss Everett, now that I think about it—she's a sly one! I'll bet she framed you up good and proper right from the very start.”

My stomach turned over, and Judy continued.

“Think about it: She paired you with Mr. Turner, thinking he'd hate you instantly and find some reason to fire you. But then, when you surprised her by getting promoted to reader, she figured she'd better up the ante, so she gave you all those manuscripts to work on and didn't let you take them home,
knowing
Mr. Frederick was bound to come around. She
wanted
Mr. Turner to catch you in the act! She made
sure
it would look like something immoral was happening!” Judy was suddenly breathless with the momentum of her own conclusion.

“You sound impressed,” I said. By this time I was nauseated.

Judy shrugged again. “Well, she may be a bitch, but she
is
clever, that's
certain.” She looked over at me, paused, and reached out a hand to pick out a tree blossom that had fallen in my hair. “Anyway, you shouldn't feel so bad about it. It's not your fault, and in any case there are other perfectly nice companies where you'll likely fit in better. You were kind of barking up the wrong tree to begin with.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Nothing. It's just that, well . . . you know how it is, Eden. Who knows—maybe Miss Everett won't even be able to poison those, ahem, other places against you.”

“Those
other
places?”

Judy looked uncomfortable. She cleared her throat. “Of course, I've always been a friend to you, haven't I?” she asked. I nodded. “And that won't change. We'll still go for martinis and chew the fat. That is, if you want to.” Again all I could do was nod. Judy smiled. “Listen, it's going to be all right. I pinky swear, it will be. But I better be getting back,” she said. “Here”—she picked up the cardboard box from where it rested on the bench and set it gently in my lap—“let me know if you think you left anything else behind. I'll try my darnedest to retrieve it for you.”

With her final promise still hanging in the thick space between us, Judy patted me on the shoulder and strode off. A crisp spring wind kicked up and a shower of blossoms were shaken loose from the tree branches above, resulting in a brief flurry of white petals that fell softly around me. I sat there trying to take in everything she had said.

I
was determined to find another job in publishing. I typed up letters on creamy stationery I couldn't afford and sent out résumés to other publishing houses. And then I waited.

All at once spring slid into summer, and the pace of the city changed. With nothing to occupy me during the daytime, I took aimless walks and spent long hours hanging about the main branch of the public library in Bryant Park, growing increasingly nervous about my rapidly dwindling savings. After a month of receiving no response to the résumés I'd sent out, I telephoned Judy one Friday, feeling discouraged and a little depressed.

“I've heard nothing,” I complained. “Not a single peep.”

“I'm not surprised,” she said, then hesitated.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to be honest, Betty said she overheard Miss Everett talking to someone on the phone about you. I think maybe she's calling around
town,” Judy said in an apologetic voice. “I
told
you when she had it out for somebody she could be vicious.”

I didn't even know what to say to this.

“Listen, I'd better go,” she said. “I've got a ton of typing to get through. It was swell hearing from you, Eden. I hope you find something!”

I hung up and sat staring stupidly at the wall of the telephone lounge for several minutes. Miss Everett was
calling around
to poison people against me. After I'd worked so hard. Everything Judy had told me in the park had been true: Miss Everett really
was
out to get me. I had been blind. Purposefully, stupidly blind.

I needed a drink.

It was a foolish impulse, but I put on a fresh blouse and skirt anyway and took the subway down to the Village. It was still early in the afternoon, and if I had been being straight with myself, I couldn't really afford the drink. By virtue of extreme resourcefulness and discipline, I'd managed to save a bit of money, but without my regular paycheck—meager though it had been—I was going to go broke in no time. Still, I took the train downtown and found my way to the Minetta Tavern, where a bartender named Sal wiped the perspiration from his upper lip and shoved a paperback into his back pocket long enough to make me a deliciously cloudy, olive-juice-laden martini, the toothpick spear of jade-green olives winking their red pimento eyes at me. There is a sense of inherent embarrassment that comes with drinking in the middle of the day, and I was relieved when the bartender didn't want to talk. He retreated back into his corner and promptly returned his attention to the paperback. He only came out again when I waved him over to request another round. Two was my limit—financially speaking, that is. Since moving to New York, I'd certainly developed a taste and tolerance for one or two more, but my wallet hadn't. After whiling away the better part of an hour and a half, I paid and rose to go. But as I moved to make my exit, the tavern door opened. The
afternoon sunshine was so bright, I couldn't make out much more than a silhouette.

“Why, hello there,” a voice said. The figure moved inside.

“Oh—you again!” I said, surprised to have run into Cliff a third time. I laughed, momentarily forgetting my depressed state.

“Were you just leaving?”

I nodded.

“Stay and have a beer with me.”

“I really oughtn't,” I said, biting my lip and mentally counting the money I had left in my pocket.

“Say,” Cliff said, as though an idea had just dawned on him, “it's a weekday, isn't it? Shouldn't you be at Torchon and Lyle, slaving away in the typing pool? What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”

I felt my smile crumple. “Oh. Well, the truth is”—I paused, alarmed to feel my throat was constricting; I fought it off and collected myself—“I was fired.”

Cliff regarded me for a moment, his blue eyes hovering on my own. “Well, in that case, you
have
to stay. I can't think of a better reason to have a beer.” I hesitated. “C'mon,” he cajoled.

“All right,” I said. We sat down and Sal came back over. I wasn't much in the mood for a beer, so I ordered a third martini.

“I suppose I ought to ask you the same question,” I said to Cliff, once we had settled in and were sipping our drinks. “What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”

“I spent the whole morning writing,” he said, “so I figured I owed myself a reward.”

We chatted for a bit about our passions: writing for him, editing for me.

“I suppose I've been a little fool. I came to New York really believing I was meant to be an editor,” I said, suddenly feeling very sorry for myself.

“You're not giving up already, are you?”

I explained to him about Miss Everett and Mr. Turner, and about what had happened with Mr. Frederick, leaving out the part about the two letters Mr. Hightower had given me and what Judy had said about “Mr. Turner being funny about Jews.”

“Listen,” Cliff said, “it's too early to throw in the towel. Something'll open up; it's a question of timing. Gals are always getting engaged and leaving publishing houses. Why, just the other day I went to Bonwright to see My Old Man and his secretary—an old battle-axe!—quit to go marry some old widower. Can you imagine, at her age?”

“Your father works at Bonwright?”

He nodded. “Roger Nelson.”

“Oh,” I said, impressed. “He's well-known.” Cliff looked both pleased and irritated to hear I'd recognized the name. I began to worry that it wasn't what I'd said but
how
I'd said it—with a tiny hint of a slur. There is an exponential difference between a second martini and a third martini, and I'd been foolish to order it; the third martini had begun to take its toll. I felt very self-conscious around Cliff, and I didn't want to embarrass myself. I decided to go home.

“Good luck, Eden,” he said as I left. “Don't give up.”

“I won't,” I replied.