Letters never sent, p.13
Letters Never Sent, page 13
“Well,” she said finally, “I need to go to my locker before my break is over. See you later?”
She smiled, and Katherine felt sad and relieved.
“Yes,” she said tiredly. “Later.”
Chapter 10
Chicago, Illinois, 1933
OVER THE WEEKS that followed, Katherine saw very little of Annie. For the most part it was a relief because it gave her time to think about what had happened that night after the fair. Her initial fear had been that she had wanted the kiss to occur. But the more she thought about it, the more she concluded that she hadn’t. It had just been the closeness of their friendship that had confused the situation. And the fact that she returned the kiss was simply an instinctual response to being kissed. She had just reacted. The important thing was to make sure that it didn’t happen again.
The few times she had seen Annie lately, had either been at work or just in passing when she arrived or left with Claire. Annie, for her part, seemed to be taking earlier streetcars or, more likely, walking. And, much to Katherine’s relief, when they saw each other, the conversations were short and superficial. Everything was fine as far as Katherine was concerned. Claire seemed to see things differently.
“Annie’s been acting odd, don’t you think?” she asked one evening as they rode the streetcar home.
Katherine feigned surprise. “Odd? What do you mean?”
Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. Distant. Like something is on her mind. You don’t suppose something’s wrong, do you?”
Katherine looked out the window. They were traveling over the river. Ahead and to her right was the Central Office Building with its red brick façade and stately clock tower. On the docks below, sweaty men were loading and unloading pallets. She wondered if it was less muggy by the water.
“Kate?”
She started. “Sorry?”
“I said, you don’t suppose something’s wrong, do you?” Claire said. “With Annie? Have you noticed how thin and pale she’s gotten?”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s fine,” Katherine said quickly. “Just struggling with this heat like the rest of us.”
“Has she said anything to you?” Claire asked. “I know you two are close. If she were to confide in anyone, it would be you.”
“We’re not that close,” Katherine said quickly. She continued to stare out the window. “I mean, we spend time together, of course, but she and I . . . well, we don’t talk about personal matters. Not really. In that respect we barely know each other.”
She felt guilty for the lie—as if by saying it, she was betraying Annie. But still, she didn’t want Claire—or anyone for that matter—to suspect just how close they had become.
“Umm,” Claire said.
“I would have thought you would be glad,” Katherine said. “I know you don’t necessarily like her.”
“It’s not that I don’t like her,” Claire said. “I simply question her influence on you. And, if I’m going to be perfectly honest, I was worried that she was interested in something other than just friendship, if you know what I mean.”
Katherine could feel Claire looking at her. She felt the heat of a flush rising from her chest to her neck and to her face. Her ears felt hot. Did she appear guilty? She fought the desire to fan herself and considered how to react.
“Well, I never got that impression from her,” she said finally.
They rode on for several minutes in silence, and Katherine could tell Claire wanted to say more.
“It’s so hot,” Katherine said and waved her hand in front of her face. “I feel sweaty and hot all the time. I barely slept at all last night.” She turned her head from the window and met Claire’s gaze.
“It has been hot,” Claire agreed. She hesitated. “Did something happen between you two? An argument?”
“No,” Katherine said quickly. “Why would you think that?”
Claire shrugged. “You just seem to be cool to each other.”
Cool, Katherine thought. Well, yes, she supposed they had been cool. After their conversation in the hall, she had gone out of her way to make sure their encounters were brief and always in the company of other people.
“No, not at all,” she said. “It’s just been a busy couple of weeks.”
The streetcar was nearing their stop, and Katherine inclined her head to indicate that they needed to get off. Claire nodded and rearranged the purse and small bag she used to carry her lunch. Claire was dropping the topic for the moment, but Katherine sensed that the conversation was far from over.
TWO DAYS LATER, Katherine opened the metal door of her locker to slide her purse inside and noticed a square bundle wrapped in butcher block paper and bound with thick cotton string. Two women stood chatting nearby, neither paying attention as Katherine pulled out the package. It was heavy and nondescript. She stared at it for several seconds, certain it was from Annie. It had to be. Who else would leave her an anonymous gift?
With trembling fingers, she untied the string and peeled back the paper. It was a book, of course, simply bound with a light brown cover. She turned it over to see the title. The Well of Loneliness. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears as she flipped open the cover. It had been published in 1928, so it was a recent book. She glanced to the side and was relieved to see that the other women had left the break room. She was alone.
She read quickly through the author’s note. The book appeared to be about British female ambulance drivers during World War I. She frowned. This wasn’t a subject she was particularly interested in, so why would Annie give her a book on the subject? It wasn’t a library book so it must be from Annie’s own collection. She ignored that her break was over and flipped to the first chapter.
The story began with a description of an English manor house and its lady, Anne Morton. Katherine puzzled over this. Anne? Annie? Was that the connection? She was tempted to read further, but knew she had to return to work. Carefully, she re-wrapped the book, returned it to the locker, and closed the door. Despite feeling anxious, she realized that she also felt oddly excited to have this contact with Annie. She had been careful to keep a distance between them, but if she were honest, she missed her friend. She missed the closeness, the laughter, the . . . well, she might as well say it . . . the intimacy. The fact that Annie had left the book for her suggested that Annie missed her, too.
She caught Annie’s eye as she returned to the glove counter and felt a strange nervousness sweep over her body. She had, she realized, intentionally walked past the shoe department—something she hadn’t done in weeks. Annie nodded a hello, but gave no sign of anything other than polite recognition. Katherine smiled in return and continued to her post.
Claire glanced at her and stopped to peer more closely. “You okay?”
“Of course, why?” Katherine busied herself with straightening the display.
“You were late getting back from your lunch and you look flushed.” Claire shrugged. “Just checking.”
“It’s this heat,” Katherine said.
“I know,” Claire said. “Last night I finally got up at about three and wet down my old nightgown and sat in the window with the fan going just to cool down. I didn’t care who might have seen.”
“Well, we have the fall to look forward to. It’s only,” she ticked off the days in her head, “two-and-a-half months away.”
Claire laughed and then quickly sobered as she noticed Mr. Ansen striding toward them, the light bouncing off his slicked-back hair.
“Ladies,” he said in greeting as he stopped in front of the counter.
“Mr. Ansen,” they said in unison.
He smiled curtly and turned to survey the department. Out of the corner of her eye, Katherine could see that one of the round table displays was disorderly. His gaze fell immediately on the table.
“Ladies,” Mr. Ansen said and pointed to the display. “I know that our change in philosophy might be somewhat complicated, but as I noted in the employee meeting last month, the corporate mind-set of Sears & Roebuck has evolved. No longer are you merely cashiers, but in fact, saleswomen. It is your job to keep the glove department looking tidy and appealing—both for the women who come to buy gloves for themselves and more importantly, for the men who are buying gifts. Need I remind you about General Wood’s new retail plan?”
They shook their heads. Claire surreptitiously nudged Katherine’s foot beneath the counter.
Ansen clasped his hands in front of himself, midway between stomach and chest and said in a patient voice, “If we are to continue to be a retail leader—especially in these hard times—it’s essential to present ourselves as knowledgeable, efficient, and,” he looked again at the disordered display, “tidy. We are no longer a mail-order company. Appearance is everything.”
He paused, as if considering which other corporate catch-phrases he could use to illustrate his point.
“We understand, Mr. Ansen,” Claire said quickly. “And we’re eager to be a part of such an exciting . . . endeavor.”
“Good.” He pointed first at Katherine and then the round table. “Please see to that display.”
LATER THAT EVENING, after supper with Claire and a slow walk down Grand Avenue, Katherine sat on her bed with the paper-wrapped book in her lap. She had snuck the package into her bag when she and Claire were collecting their things to go home and even as she tried to forget it was there, all the way home she was aware of its presence amongst the rest of her things.
It has to be from Annie, she thought as she studied the packaging. Who else would give her a book? And the title, The Well of Loneliness . . . was she trying to send Katherine a message? She thought again about the kiss and felt the familiar tingle in the pit of her stomach. None of what was happening made sense. She stared down at the package and nibbled on the skin along the edge of her thumbnail. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. What are you waiting for? It’s a book, nothing more.
Decision made, she tugged at the hastily retied string. It came loose with little resistance. She pulled the paper away and studied the cover again before flipping it open and turning to the first page. The type was small and neat. She took a deep breath and began to read.
She put the book down with trembling hands at nearly midnight. The story—at least what she had read thus far—was nothing like she had expected. It had begun with the love affair and life of a Victorian couple and the birth of their first child. The story took a strange turn, though, when the expected baby boy turned out to be a girl. For a number of reasons, the couple went ahead and called the little girl Stephen and, as she grew, indulged her adventurous and headstrong personality. While that turn of events had surprised Katherine, they were nothing compared to the shock she experienced when Stephen developed romantic feelings for the house maid, began to wear masculine clothes and later, fell in love with an American woman married to one of her neighbors.
Katherine’s heart raced. This, she realized, was Annie’s message. She took a deep breath. The story was unsettling. But, at the same time, it made her feel . . . How did it make her feel? It had to be one of Annie’s banned books. It was, without a doubt, controversial.
Katherine stood and paced the room. She was tired and her head hurt. She wanted to sleep—to shut out the thoughts that were racing through her brain—but she knew she would not be able to rest until she spoke with Annie.
She looked at her alarm clock. It was twelve-fifteen. She considered the propriety of going now to Annie’s rooming house and confronting her. But what would she say? What was there to say? Would she accuse her of leaving the book? Of pushing her perversions on her? Of . . . what? She shook her head. She didn’t know what she was thinking. She needed to calm down. Perhaps Claire was still up. But what would she tell her? How could she explain the situation without explaining the situation?
No, Katherine thought, it would be better to simply go to bed—to try to sleep. But that, she knew, was impossible. Her eyes fell on the book. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least read. And when it was finished, she could . . . what? Give it back? Tell her why it was inappropriate to have given it to her in the first place?
She didn’t want to read the rest of the book. But also, if she were being honest with herself, she did. She had part of a bottle of whiskey hidden in the back of her closet. Perhaps a nip would help her sleep. Or, at least, perhaps it would give her the courage to finish the book and decide what to do.
Six hours later, the novel was finished and the whiskey was significantly diminished. Katherine felt numb, though from the alcohol or the book, she wasn’t sure. She had sipped and smoked as she read. The whiskey had made it easier to take in the story that had gone from scandalously bad to worse. The relationship—if you wanted to call it that—with the American had ended badly. Stephen’s perversions were exposed by the American who was fearful of being exposed herself. Stephen went to London, wrote a successful novel, and then moved to Paris where she continued to write and seclude herself from society. When World War I broke out, she joined an ambulance unit and eventually fell in love with another driver named Mary. Although they lived together after the war, this relationship, too, ended badly when Stephen pretended to have an affair with yet another woman in an attempt to push Mary into the arms of a man named Martin.
Katherine was stunned. It was an appalling story. And depressing. And unnatural. She could see why this book must have been banned. She walked to the window. The sky was just beginning to lighten. In different circumstances, it was one of her favorite times of the day. But after having not slept, after having too much whiskey, and after reading that story, the coming dawn did little to inspire her.
Katherine folded her arms closer to her body and pressed her wrists against her ribs. She was at a loss as to what to do—how to respond? Or should she not respond? Which would be the better route? Should she confront Annie? To do so would make clear once and for all that she wasn’t interested—that she wasn’t like Annie. Or Stephen. Or any of the characters in the book. She turned to stare at the offending volume. She wanted it out of her sight.
“I’ll return it,” she said. Her voice was raw from fatigue and the whiskey. “Today. Without a word. I’ll simply hand it back to her. Or perhaps put it in her locker.”
She contemplated her options. To simply hand it coldly back to Annie would certainly get the point across. But what if Annie made a scene? It was better not to do it in public, she decided, though she didn’t want to return it in private either. Who knew where that would lead? No, putting it in Annie’s locker was the best choice.
Katherine considered what she should write.
Dear Annie:
Thank you for the book but I’m not interested . . .
No, she didn’t want that sentiment on paper. Even unsigned it suggested too much.
Dear Annie:
I read the book you loaned me and would appreciate in the future if you . . .
Katherine frowned. Still the wrong tone.
Dear Annie:
Please . . .
In her mind, she saw a blank sheet of paper with the single word scrawled in black ink. Please . . . what? She had no idea what she wanted to say. Perhaps a letter was unnecessary. Just the return of the book with no acknowledgement or discussion would suffice. By saying nothing, perhaps she was saying everything. And, really, hadn’t everything already been said? She should simply rewrap the book, put it in Annie’s locker, and pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.
Katherine turned back to the window. She needed to pull herself together. She grabbed her cigarettes. There were only a couple left. She pulled one out of the case, pressed it to her lips, and picked up her lighter. The hand that held the flame trembled. Nerves, she thought as she took a long, unladylike drag, held the smoke deeply in her lungs, and exhaled slowly. The sky was still lighter. She looked down at her watch and sighed. It was almost time to get ready for work. She would need a lot of coffee this morning. And more cigarettes.
She smoked in silence for several minutes before snubbing the cigarette in the amber-colored glass ashtray and turning to the desk. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath, and picked up the book.
KATHERINE GLANCED AROUND the nearly-empty department. It had been a slow morning with only a couple of customers and even those were more interested in looking at the displays than actually buying anything. Two women lingered near the larger of the two round displays, their heads bent together as they fingered the gloves. The taller of the two said something that must have been amusing because both women laughed. The shorter woman touched the other woman’s arm in a way that was almost intimate, Katherine thought. She frowned. Were they . . . ? Could they be . . . ? She closed her eyes and shook her head. It was the book. It had corrupted her thoughts. She needed to rid herself of it.
