Chapter 6 Claire

Dear Kitty, The war in Korea continues apace, but in sheer savagery the conflict cannot compare to the Bathroom Wars waged every morning at Briarwood House. I think Claire is going to stab Reka to death with a toothbrush someday.

I wish you were here. —Grace

Claire Hallett had learned three things early in life: love was for suckers, luck was an illusion, and there was never a bathroom available when you really needed one. “ Reka ,”

she shouted, hammering on the door with her sponge bag, “haul your wrinkled old haunches out of there!”

“Hold your horses,”

Reka grunted from inside the bathroom. “It takes time to pee at my age.”

Claire glowered. She hadn’t had her coffee yet, a bathrobe-clad Nora was shifting from foot to foot behind her, and at this rate they were all going to miss breakfast. Doilies Nilsson always whipped the last speck of scrambled eggs and rubbery bacon off the table downstairs at seven twenty-nine and fifty seconds, no grace for those who got stuck at the end of the bathroom line.

“If y’all would just set your alarm for half an hour earlier, you’d be fine ,”

Arlene cooed, perfectly pulled together in her powder-blue skirt and sweater set, waltzing toward the stairs with her pocketbook. “Early bird gets the worm, you know. And the bathroom!”

“Give Bea’s door a knock, won’t you?”

Claire asked sweetly. “Or she’ll be late for work. She was out so late with Harland again, she must have slept through her alarm.”

Nora laughed, and Arlene’s smile curdled. “I don’t see you getting many dates these days.”

Her eyes went deliberately over Claire’s broad hips and broader bust. “Small wonder. Though small isn’t really the word...”

“I’ve already got my Sid.”

Claire smacked her own hip so it jiggled. “And he loves all of me, thank you.”

“Nobody’s ever met your Sid,”

Arlene said. “I think you made him up.”

“Have not! Want to see a picture?”

Claire had her wallet in her bathrobe pocket, because she was never without her wallet even on a morning trip to the bathroom: she dug out Sid’s much-handled picture and flashed it around.

“Dashing,”

Nora approved. “Clark Gable nose.”

“I’ll believe in him when I meet him,”

Arlene said with a sniff and flounced downstairs. Reka came stumping out of the bathroom, wearing that flamboyant flame silk quilted robe she said she’d bought on her last trip to New York.

“Pushy kurva ,”

the old woman grumbled as Claire flew past her.

“Stubborn old mule,”

Claire retorted and slammed the door. Into the shower and out again, of course the hot water was already gone; when she had a house of her own she was going to have a claw-foot tub the size of Rhode Island and hot water for days... Twisting her damp red curls into a turban, Claire saw a jade drop pendant on the tiles. Reka’s, also from that last New York trip—Claire dropped it neatly into her pocket and veered off to cram herself into a girdle and stockings, a blouse that gapped over her bust (why, why didn’t blouses have buttons closer together?), her second-oldest skirt, and a pair of penny loafers that needed resoling.

“Anyone see a jade pendant around here?”

Reka was demanding downstairs in the dining room, as Mrs.Nilsson shooed Lina to leave her own breakfast and start clearing plates.

Claire nabbed the last strip of bacon off Lina’s plate. “Nope,”

she said and headed out the door. She liked her housemates fine; she’d cook for them when it was her turn on Thursday nights, and she’d pitch in a buck for Lina’s glasses or spend an hour watching Angela when Fliss needed it—but at the end of the day, she always looked out for number one.

“You’re late, Claire.”

But Claire’s boss smiled as she said it, coming out of her office for her ten o’clock meeting: Senator Margaret Chase Smith of Maine, fifty-six, gray-haired, sharp-eyed, pearls around her throat.

“I’ve given up trying to be early, ma’am, because you’re always the first one here,”

Claire chirped, thinking as she often did: I work for the most naive woman in Washington . “I’d have to stay overnight to beat you!”

“I suppose,”

the senator said, laughing. “Do you have my rose?”

She took the flower Claire gave her, threading it through her collar into the discreet tube vase that clipped to the other side of her lapel. It was Claire’s job, as junior assistant to the office secretaries, to bring the senator’s signature fresh rose every morning, for which expense she was reimbursed every Friday. Claire had been mooching free roses off Pete since he started up at Moonlight Magnolias and pocketing the reimbursement money for months. No one knew the difference, certainly not the senator as she headed out with chin lifted high over that rose. She wasn’t going anywhere critical, of course: she’d made an enemy of Senator McCarthy a few years ago and had been locked out of every important committee and function on Capitol Hill ever since. Hence, most naive woman in town , Claire thought. Senator Smith should have known that would be the outcome if she made a run at Tail Gunner Joe.

“Claire,”

MissWing called over, “if you could take care of that filing—”

“Yes, Miss Wing.”

Anyone who thought the business of government was glamorous had never been to the Old House Office Building across Independence Avenue from the Capitol, Claire thought as she took her stack of files and squeezed around the maze of desks, chairs, and bookcases toward the filing cabinets. Congressmen and their staffs were packed into this warren of offices like moles, only moles worked better hours. Senator Smith from Maine rated three rooms in Suite 329, which had a nice view of the Capitol and a picture on the door of the Maine coastline and not much else. Besides the front room and the senator’s office, the secretaries and their three assistants were crammed into a cubby the size of a broom closet. You know the only people in the federal system with less space than congressmen? MissWing had joked to Claire the day she was hired. Prisoners.

Claire shrugged mentally. It was just a job: typing, stapling, filing. She wasn’t a lifer like MissWing or MissHaskell, skinny chests puffed up with pride as they talked about being with the senator since her first term in the House, clearly planning on being with the senator until they were carried out of Suite 329 feetfirst in a box. No, Claire Hallett was only here for the paycheck, and she wasn’t going to be here forever. The moment her savings account hit eight thousand, she was gone.

Eight thousand. The magic number, and she was close , she was so close. Her bankbook said seven thousand six hundred and twenty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents. She pulled it out and looked at it in between shoving files into the cabinet. Not that she didn’t know her savings account down to the last penny at all times, but it eased the ever-present clutch in her stomach to check those neatly penciled lines, to flip the pages that had gone worn and soft with handling and check her figures and affirm that, yes, her calculations were correct. Seven thousand six hundred and twenty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents, saved over nearly twenty years. She was almost there.

“Claire, walk this mimeographic stencil over to the Senate Service Department; the senator needs a hundred copies after lunch.”

“Yes, MissWing.”

By the time Claire came back she could hear the senator on the telephone in her private office. “That man!”

whispered Miss Wing to Miss Haskell—the loyalists wouldn’t even use his name. “He is haranguing her again.”

“Senator McCarthy,”

came the calm voice of Claire’s boss through the half open door. Even from here, you could make out the hectoring sounds coming from the other end of the telephone. “Senator, keep quiet a minute, will you? I haven’t said anything while you were talking, now I’m going to have my say and it’s your turn to keep quiet.”

MissHaskell and MissWing sucked in a breath. Claire shook her head pityingly, dumping her heap of copies on the nearest desk. Joe McCarthy owned Washington, and he was a bully. You didn’t square up to bullies and spit in their eye; you let them careen on past you waving their lists of enemies and Communists and what have you. You kept out of their way and kept on your way, with your downcast eyes and your bankbook with its neatly ruled lines. That was how you survived. Someone should have told that to the senator from Maine, but it wasn’t going to be Claire. If there was a fourth thing she’d learned at an early age, it was don’t stick your neck out .

“You’re late,”

said the housekeeper at Claire’s second job, answering her knock. “Mrs.Sutherland’s been waiting.”

“Slow tram,”

Claire lied. She’d stopped off at a pawnshop on the edge of Georgetown to hock Reka’s jade pendant—the same place she’d hocked the crystal candy dish from Mrs.Nilsson’s parlor, a pair of Fliss’s cloisonné earrings, and various other Briarwood House sundries over the years . “What’s the missus got for me today?”

she asked, trying a winning smile.

“Mrs.Sutherland would like you to run these dresses to the cleaners, take this bracelet to the jeweler’s to have the clasp repaired, and pick up a hat for her at Hecht’s.”

“All right if I pick up the hat tomorrow?”

Running errands for rich women: a reliable way to make a little cash no matter where you were, because all cities had rich women and all rich women who didn’t work were convinced they never had enough time to run their own errands. Claire had marked the elegant Mrs. Sutherland down the moment she saw the woman giving Fliss a ride home from church one rainy Sunday early this spring; she’d been running her errands ever since.

“You can deliver it Saturday,”

Mrs.Sutherland called from the hallway, clearly on her way out somewhere in spotless gloves and an ivory linen suit. “Can you watch my son for a couple of hours that afternoon?”

she continued, clipping a huge pearl earring to one earlobe. “It’s the Fourth of July—our nanny’s off to see her mother. Drop off the hat then, and my husband can pay you for everything at once.”

“Of course, Mrs.Sutherland.”

Claire folded the dresses (Chanel, Lanvin, Dior) over her arm, took the gold bracelet from the housekeeper and tucked it into her pocketbook without even a wistful glance. A good thief knew where not to steal from, and a house like this one was strictly off-limits.

“Thank you, that will be all.”

Mrs.Sutherland whisked off again in a cloud of Joy perfume. Must be nice to be rich , Claire thought, heading out toward her third job of the day.

“You’re late,”

grunted Mr.Huckstop as Claire came blowing past the Closed sign on the front door of Huckstop’s Photography. “Strip quick, I’m on a schedule. Got a lot of darkroom work tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Claire dropped her pocketbook, slung Mrs.Sutherland’s Paris frocks over the nearest chair, and began unbuttoning her blouse. “The warhead again?”

“Ever since MissAtomic Blast got crowned in Vegas, they’ve been flying off the shelves.”

Mr.Huckstop fussed around with his camera as Claire shimmied out of her skirt and blouse and girdle, tugged a set of cheap black fishnets over her nylons, and swapped her sensible shoes for a pair of fairly whorish stilettos he kept on hand for these little after-hours photo shoots. During the day when the shades were up, he had a studio setup with fake flowers and tasteful drapes for couples who wanted their picture taken and parents who wanted to commemorate a child’s birthday. Once night fell and the shades were drawn, a different set of props came out.

Claire climbed onto the papier-maché tube Mr. Huckstop had mocked up to look like a nuclear warhead, complete with cotton wool smoke and conical nose. “Tits out?”

“Tits out.”

He started fussing with the lights, not paying Claire the slightest attention as she tossed her brassiere aside. You could say one thing for Mr.Huckstop—he was a cheap bastard, always trying to nickel-and-dime what he owed her, but he never ogled and he never tried to sample the merchandise. “Lips parted, chin on hand, you know the drill...”

Claire bent over the papier-maché warhead, moistened her lips, and did her best to look aroused. “Good... Perfect...”

“Exactly why would a naked woman be sitting on a warhead, much less getting aroused by it?”

Claire had snorted on her first photo shoot.

“Beats me, girlie, but they sell like hotcakes.”

Mr.Huckstop had been the one to approach her: You interested in some after-hours modeling? I do a certain amount of under-the-counter photo work—you’re kinda fleshy but some fellas like that, and you got the rack. Claire hadn’t batted an eyelash. It paid better than filing papers or running errands.

“You think that girl you room with would be interested?”

he asked, clicking away. “The classy one.”

“Nora?”

Claire shifted into a new pose, crossing one fishnetted leg over the other and pushing her chest out. “Doubtful.”

“No, the English one. The one in here all the time getting pictures of her kid.”

Claire burst out laughing. “Fliss the priss?”

“Quit laughing, look sultry.”

Click click click. “I can do something with an English priss. The touch-me-not girl in pearls, men like to fantasize about that.”

Claire lay flat along the warhead, raising her legs in the air, ankles crossed. “Men are so strange.”

“Girlie, you ain’t kidding.”

At least there were plenty of opportunities to make money off their strange ways, Claire thought. “I’m not the touch-me-not girl in pearls, so what am I?”

“The lady-bountiful type. Soft, welcoming. A guy looked any closer he’d see you’ve got eyes like flint, but they aren’t looking at your eyes.”

Clicking away. “Know any good-looking young fellas who might be interested in posing?”

“What, on a warhead?”

Tipping her head back, Claire felt her curls spill over the warhead’s cotton smoke.

“More leaning on a motorcycle, y’know? I got a chromed-up one that doesn’t run but looks good under some young fella with nice arms, wearing an undershirt and not much else. More suits than you think want to look at Marlon Brando than Marilyn Monroe when they—”

A certain gesture. “You’d be surprised.”

“Not that surprised,”

said Claire. “We done here?”

“Always a pleasure, Hallett.”

Claire climbed off the warhead and held out a hand. “Pay up.”

It was after eight by the time Claire tramped upstairs to her Briarwood House room. The walls were mustard yellow-brown and the faded chintz curtains had been hanging in the windows since she moved in—Claire had never seen the point of decorating something temporary. She never intended to stay here so long, but Grace had moved in and somehow with the Briar Club and the Thursday dinners and everything else, the place had become a lot more pleasant than cheap boardinghouses ever were, in Claire’s experience... Kicking off her shoes, she flopped across her bed and counted out the handful of bills she’d managed to make today: from Mr.Huckstop, from the pawnbroker for Reka’s pendant, even the quarters and nickels she’d quickly scooped from MissWing’s desk at the senator’s office. Totting it all up, Claire jotted the new total in her bankbook. She’d drop by the bank tomorrow before work and deposit everything.

Reaching under her bed for her box, she carefully added the clipping she’d cut out of the Washington Post on her lunch hour: a neat, gabled box of a fresh-painted house on an even neater square of lawn. Magnificent modern colonial home in Hillcrest! Open today, 12 to dark!

Claire dug out a packet of Nabisco sugar wafers, reading. Eighteen-foot beamed cathedral ceiling, living room finished in Pickwick Knotty Pine paneling, sliding door closets, complete General Electric kitchen... “Not bad,”

she said aloud. She’d never have a house this big—it would take her another thirty years to save that much—but eight thousand would buy you something compact and cozy across the state line in Maryland, no problem. Eight thousand was the amount Claire had worked out long ago, full of flint-hard anger, her shoulders set in a defensive hunch from too many sucker punches. Eight thousand equaled home . Not a big home, not a Georgetown mansion like Mrs.Sutherland had, not even a modest colonial with Pickwick Knotty Pine paneling and a General Electric kitchen, but a home.

Even so, she liked to collect pictures of palaces. Turning on her side and crunching up another sugar wafer, she sifted through her box of clippings. Marilyn Monroe’s latest Hollywood home! Four bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, two-car garage, pool and spa out back...

That’s too much house for one person. Claire imagined her Sid laughing, dark eyes crinkled at the corners. What would you do with four bedrooms?

“Throw you down in every single one of them,”

Claire said aloud to the sickly mustard walls. Sid’s feet were always cold; she missed those icy toes twined with hers. This weekend , she thought, feeling herself smile involuntarily. She was getting a little soppy about Sid, if she was honest with herself. She’d have to make sure that got nipped in the bud, because Claire Hallett didn’t get soppy about anyone or anything, ever. “Bright colors and a white roof add sparkle to the simple lines of this Florida house,”

she read aloud from another clipping, banishing Sid from her mind. “Three bedrooms, one and a half baths, carport, and paved terrace...”

“Join us for hot dogs in the park?”

Grace gave one of her easy smiles, pausing on the landing as Claire came out of her room. “Lina made a cherry pie, and if Bea gets back from that scouting trip in Bowie, I have a feeling she’ll corral us all into another sandlot game. There’ll be fireworks, too.”

“Can’t, got to work.”

Claire locked up her room. Most of the Briarwood House women didn’t bother, but Claire never left anything to chance, good fortune, or other people’s honesty. Besides, Doilies was a snoop.

“Work? On the Fourth of July?”

Grace blinked, patriotically festive in a red shirtwaist dress and blue kitten heels. “If that’s not sacrilegious, I don’t know what is.”

“Not my favorite holiday,”

Claire said, shoving back some particularly ugly memories. It used to be her favorite day of the year, but that had been a long, long time ago, so she pushed her way down the stairs and out of Briarwood House before Grace could probe any further.

Claire liked Grace fine; the woman had a positive gift for bringing sunshine into even the most dreary setting—but she could keep those lazily curious eyes on her own business, thank you very much.