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By Root 220 0

want to know what you’re getting paid?” said Dora as though this ought to have been her first question. Before Eleanor could say anything, Dora answered this, as well. “Whatever I can afford. Some weeks, we do well, others…” She shrugged and shook her head and it was almost as though she was shaking her head for bringing the girl on, at all, given the off weeks. Dora picked up a purple felt piece she’d been shaping and started to sew. She didn’t have any more questions. She didn’t want to know too much about the girl; although she was curious in this case, she always felt it was better not to get too mixed up in her employees’ lives, didn’t want them coming to her for a handout or if their mother was sick, or they had a broken heart. Better to keep it polite and professional. “Keep the hat,” she said almost dismissively, glancing over at the simple beige one Eleanor had left on the counter. “It suits you.”

“Th-thank you,” said Eleanor. She put the hat on her head and looked at herself in the mirror. And not knowing what else to say, she walked out the door.

Dora watched through the glass windows of the shop as Eleanor walked away down the street, her head tipped perfectly under her new beige hat. And, out loud, Dora said, to no one in particular, “And what else did Miss Jane Howard think you could do, I wonder?”

A sign on the door said: MISS WETZEL’S—BOARDING HOUSE FOR YOUNG LADIES. There was a pretzel vendor on the corner wearing a white cap and looking flushed from the heat of his pretzel stand. Eleanor walked over and bought herself a pretzel. She took a bite, savoring the taste of the salt on the warm dough. Down the street, a young boy hawking newspapers screamed out in an adolescent voice, “U.S. breaks diplomatic relations with Germany! Uncle Sam supports”—his voice went up on this—“European allies.” And Eleanor was left to wonder whether he, too, would be sent to war next year. And whether three squares and the regimen wouldn’t be good for him or, at least, only as hard as this.

It was starting to rain again. She stood and looked up at Wetzel’s Boarding House. The curtains were grim and looked as though they could use a washing, the paint had chipped a bit on the facade but some of the best houses, not that this was one of them, had chipped paint. And certainly, she thought, it would do for now. She put her hand on the banister and started to mount the stairs.

At the top, she hesitated, then rapped the knocker. After a few moments, the door was opened by someone who was only a few years older than Eleanor but, on first glance, quite a bit more independent. Her name was Josie Kennedy and she had a full mane of brownish blond hair and a long-gaited walk that implied inbred confidence. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Josie.

“Do what?” asked Eleanor.

“Take one more step inside. Didn’t your mother tell you? Terrible things happen to girls who take their lives into their own hands.” She smiled at her. “I’m Josie Kennedy,” she said. “On a good day, I am an actress.” She posed—she put one hand against her head and slouched to the side. “Most of the time,” she said, her voice dropping an octave as she straightened up again, “I work at Ted’s, you know that little restaurant on Bank Street, one step up from a dive—but it’s good for you because it means I bring home dinner and the tips are generally okay—which is where I’m headed now.” Josie started to leave. “Tell Miss Wetzel you don’t want meals except Sunday—Sunday, her sister cooks. You did want a room, didn’t you?”

Eleanor nodded.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I—I didn’t.” There was a pattern here with these women for she’d felt that she could barely get a word in with any of them. “Eleanor. Eleanor Smith.”

Josie repeated after her. “Eleanor. See you tonight.” And Josie walked out into the night and left Eleanor standing in the doorway looking at the dark but cozy, in a modest, disheveled kind of way, interior of the house.

Miss Wetzel appeared at the top of the stairs. She was in her sixties, her hair in a bun with little stray white wisps