Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro

There was a time when Maude had a receptionist of her own; when these dingy little rooms were crammed with girls, ready to go anywhere Maude sent them. Now I was the only one there.

      On the way the trolley had passed by Boylston Street, near the Common. Crowds of homeless sat huddled around campfires in a makeshift shantytown. There’d been outrage and shock over their invasion before I left, but now there were twice as many. They had become invisible in their poverty, sleeping on cardboard boxes in doorways, selling apples on street corners. It wasn’t quite as bad as New York and the sprawling Hooverville that had taken over Central Park, but still it sent a chill up my spine.

      In the North End, too, there were things I hadn’t seen before—big signs hung from the front gates of the shoe factory and the railroad yard: “Jobless Men Keep Walking—We Can’t Feed Our Own.” And on Hanover Street this morning, the corner was crowded with men, maybe fifty or sixty. They were all waiting for the construction trucks to drive past on their way to the building sites in the city, looking for day workers. When they stopped, all hell broke loose—swarms of bodies engulfed them, shouting, shoving, clambering aboard. The foreman had to push them down like animals, banging on the side of the truck to start moving again.

      Please God that didn’t happen to me.

      I jammed my hands into my pockets.

      “Ouch!” Something sharp stabbed my palm, and I pulled out a bent safety pin. Another one of Ma’s superstitions: “A crooked pin in the pocket brings good luck.”

      A minute later I was sitting across from Maude—short and solid, somewhere in her late fifties, a hard smear of red lipstick highlighting her thin lips and thick black glasses framing her eyes. Straight-talking and unflappable, Maude was the first and often only port of call for anyone looking for a truly professional secretary. Or at least that’s the way it used to be.

      “Jesus, kid!” She took a hard drag on her cigarette and leaned back in her desk chair. “I never thought I’d see you again! What are you doing back?”

      “Guess I’m not cut out for the big city after all,” I said.

      She nodded sagely. “Not many people are. Though I have to say, you look a bit, well, underfed. And I can’t say I like that hairstyle on you.”

      “I’ll never go to that hair dresser again!” I laughed, automatically running my hand through the short curls. “It’ll grow back,” I reassured her. “Faster than you think.”

      “Have you been sick or something?”

      “No, no, I’m fine. Maybe I was a little homesick.”

      “Perhaps you should take it easy. Rest up. Why not come see me in another week?”

      It wasn’t like her to worry about anyone’s health.

      “I’m right as rain. So”—I sat forward, gave her a smile full of history and complicity—“what have you got for me?”

      Maude flicked a bit of ash into a mug, where it fizzled in the remains of her cold coffee. “Nothing.”

      “I’m sorry?”

      “I haven’t got anything for anyone, kid. Don’t you read the papers? The whole country’s out of work.”

      This wasn’t the reception I’d been expecting. Maude always had some lead tucked up her sleeve.

      “But, Maude”—I tried to laugh, but it came out forced, like a broken machine gun—“there has to be something!”

      She picked up a single sheet in her in-tray. “See this? This is it—I’ve got one job. And about two hundred girls waiting for my phone call. And I’m sorry to say, kid, but you’re not what they’re looking for.”

      “What is it?”

      She squinted as she read the heading. “A temporary clerk/salesgirl.”

      “But I can do that!” This time my laugh sounded real—full of relief. “I don’t care if it’s not secretarial. I’m not going to be picky!” I added graciously.

      “Yes, but not just any clerk. It says”—she referred to the paper again—“‘The girl in question should be a young woman of quality, well-spoken and professional, able to create a favorable impression with affluent clientele.’” She peered at me over her glasses. “Allow me to translate: that’s ‘No Irish redheads, thanks.’ They want a blueblood. Or at least someone who passes for one. It’s one of those fancy shops on Charles Hill.”

      “Look, I can’t go home with nothing, Maude. You don’t understand. I’ve got bills, debts to pay.”

      “No, you’re right,” she said flatly. “I’ve never had a bill in my life.”

      “What about the telephone company? They always need girls, don’t they?”

      “Not anymore. They let fifty go last month.” She stubbed her cigarette out in the mug. “I’m sorry, really. I am.”

      “What’s the address of this shop?”

      “Oh, no!” She shook her head. “No, I’m not taking any chances! I need this commission!”

      “I know how to speak properly and which fork to use at dinner!” I had an idea. “You know what? I’ll just dye my hair blond!”

      “Are you kidding me? And end up looking like every two-bit secretary I already have on the books, all of them trying to be Joan Blondell or Jean Harlow? These people want a young woman of quality, not a chorus girl!”

      “Please, Maude!” I was starting to sound desperate. “Just give me one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

      She winced; the conversation was painful for both of us. “I’ve known you a long time, Maeve. And you’re a smart girl with a lot of potential. But my God, if you haven’t got lousy timing!” A buzzer sounded in the room next door. “Things are tough here. Real tough. Maybe you should’ve stayed in New York.”

      She got up and went into the waiting room to unlock the door.

      I grabbed the paper from her in-tray. A card was attached to the bottom. I tore it off and shoved it into my pocket.

      It wasn’t until I got outside in the street that I took it out again and looked at it.

      WINSHAW AND KESSLER

       Antiquities, Rare Objects, and Fine Art

      Under the address were the following lines:

      EXTRAORDINARY ITEMS BOUGHT, SOLD,

       AND OBTAINED UPON REQUEST

      Absolute discretion guaranteed ______

      R. H. Stearns had long been established as the most exclusive department store in Boston. Located in a tall, narrow building overlooking the Common, its hallmark green awnings promised only the finest, most fashionable merchandise inside. Already the windows were dressed with pretty pastel displays of spring fashions in stark contrast to the customers, still bundled in thick winter coats and furs, browsing through the long aisles.

      I didn’t go in through the polished brass doors, though, but went round to the back of the building. Normally visitors were prohibited from using the staff entrance, but I managed to walk in behind a couple of cleaning girls unnoticed. There was only one person who could help me now, and unfortunately, she wasn’t going to like it.

      The alterations workshop was a large windowless room in the basement between the stock rooms and the loading bay, filled with long rows of sewing machines, ironing boards, and clothing rails. The constant clattering of the machines echoing off the cement floor and ceiling made it sound like a factory. Twenty or so women worked side by side, wearing white cotton calico smocks over their street clothes. The department was presided over by Mr. Vye, a very particular, exacting man in his mid-fifties who sat at a desk near the door. He assigned each garment, liaised with the customers, and oversaw