handwriting.”
“Good. You’re right, Eulalie, Mr. Gallagher is safe enough, and he might have the answer to a question Yvesta asked me last week.” I gave Yvesta a quick smile and added, “Is Flora still holding her own?”
“Yes, but the pains are coming more regularly and she’s not liking that very much.”
“I can imagine, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. Tell her to hold on. I’ll come up and see her in a few minutes. Have you sent for the doctor?”
Eulalie nodded and I excused myself. At one time I’d hoped the sight of her new child would soften Flora’s attitude toward it, but I knew she still couldn’t wait to give the baby up for adoption. Her complete lack of desire for the child was sure to make labor and delivery even more painful and frightening than usual.
Downstairs Andrew Gallagher and Hilda Cartwright conversed in the front hallway like old school chums catching up on alumnae gossip. Both looked up at me as I descended the steps. I went forward with extended hand.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gallagher.” To Hilda, I remarked, “I see you’ve already met Mr. Andrew Gallagher, Hilda. You’ll recall we saw him at Mrs. Trout’s presentation at the Tribune office two weekends ago.” If she was surprised to see him turn up in her hallway, she never showed it.
“Yes. In fact, I was just telling him that I admired his response to Grace’s speech and wished more men were as enlightened.”
“And I,” interjected Drew Gallagher lightly, “was still recovering from the shock of being considered enlightened. I can’t recall that anyone has ever paired that word and my name in the same sentence before.”
Hilda gave an obligatory smile to his remark but went on, “However you downplay it, your gesture was appreciated by a number of us in the room who didn’t have the presence of mind or the courage to do the same.” She turned to me. “I’m on my way out, Johanna, so if you have business with Mr. Gallagher, feel free to use my office. Yours might not do.” She said a polite good-bye, and I led my guest down the hallway to Hilda’s office.
Drew Gallagher sat down in a chair across from me, gracefully crossed one leg over the other, and asked, “Tell me, Miss Swan, where exactly am I?” I choked back a small gurgle of laughter, bit my lip, and resisted the very strong temptation to recite the street address. He gave me a stern look seeming to know exactly what I was thinking, but then, almost in spite of himself, grinned and added, “Do not play with me, Miss Swan. The presence of Miss Cartwright and her office—why wouldn’t your office do, by the way?”
“It’s in a closet down the hall.”
“Your office is in a closet?”
“Yes, well, it’s the best we can do right now, and I don’t spend much time in it anyway. There’s room for a little desk and a chair and that’s all I need when I’m working on class preparation. I don’t think two people would fit in it simultaneously.”
“What classes are you preparing?” Gallagher had the disconcerting habit of listening intently when I spoke, giving the impression that for that moment he could see or hear nothing else. No one had ever shown me such undivided attention before, and its effect on me was a mixture of gratification and juvenile self-consciousness. I thought he did not miss much and forgot even less.
“Baby care, typewriter skills, English, and literacy right now.”
He thought a moment before he replied, “Which brings me back to my original question: Where exactly am I?”
“The Anchorage Home for Women in Need.”
“Are you one of those women and is that why I’m here?”
“No. Well, not exactly.” He spoke no response, picked a nonexistent piece of lint from his trousers, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and offered a faint, encouraging smile. A man clearly waiting for clarification and not about to ask any more questions. A man prepared to wait as long as
“Good. You’re right, Eulalie, Mr. Gallagher is safe enough, and he might have the answer to a question Yvesta asked me last week.” I gave Yvesta a quick smile and added, “Is Flora still holding her own?”
“Yes, but the pains are coming more regularly and she’s not liking that very much.”
“I can imagine, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. Tell her to hold on. I’ll come up and see her in a few minutes. Have you sent for the doctor?”
Eulalie nodded and I excused myself. At one time I’d hoped the sight of her new child would soften Flora’s attitude toward it, but I knew she still couldn’t wait to give the baby up for adoption. Her complete lack of desire for the child was sure to make labor and delivery even more painful and frightening than usual.
Downstairs Andrew Gallagher and Hilda Cartwright conversed in the front hallway like old school chums catching up on alumnae gossip. Both looked up at me as I descended the steps. I went forward with extended hand.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gallagher.” To Hilda, I remarked, “I see you’ve already met Mr. Andrew Gallagher, Hilda. You’ll recall we saw him at Mrs. Trout’s presentation at the Tribune office two weekends ago.” If she was surprised to see him turn up in her hallway, she never showed it.
“Yes. In fact, I was just telling him that I admired his response to Grace’s speech and wished more men were as enlightened.”
“And I,” interjected Drew Gallagher lightly, “was still recovering from the shock of being considered enlightened. I can’t recall that anyone has ever paired that word and my name in the same sentence before.”
Hilda gave an obligatory smile to his remark but went on, “However you downplay it, your gesture was appreciated by a number of us in the room who didn’t have the presence of mind or the courage to do the same.” She turned to me. “I’m on my way out, Johanna, so if you have business with Mr. Gallagher, feel free to use my office. Yours might not do.” She said a polite good-bye, and I led my guest down the hallway to Hilda’s office.
Drew Gallagher sat down in a chair across from me, gracefully crossed one leg over the other, and asked, “Tell me, Miss Swan, where exactly am I?” I choked back a small gurgle of laughter, bit my lip, and resisted the very strong temptation to recite the street address. He gave me a stern look seeming to know exactly what I was thinking, but then, almost in spite of himself, grinned and added, “Do not play with me, Miss Swan. The presence of Miss Cartwright and her office—why wouldn’t your office do, by the way?”
“It’s in a closet down the hall.”
“Your office is in a closet?”
“Yes, well, it’s the best we can do right now, and I don’t spend much time in it anyway. There’s room for a little desk and a chair and that’s all I need when I’m working on class preparation. I don’t think two people would fit in it simultaneously.”
“What classes are you preparing?” Gallagher had the disconcerting habit of listening intently when I spoke, giving the impression that for that moment he could see or hear nothing else. No one had ever shown me such undivided attention before, and its effect on me was a mixture of gratification and juvenile self-consciousness. I thought he did not miss much and forgot even less.
“Baby care, typewriter skills, English, and literacy right now.”
He thought a moment before he replied, “Which brings me back to my original question: Where exactly am I?”
“The Anchorage Home for Women in Need.”
“Are you one of those women and is that why I’m here?”
“No. Well, not exactly.” He spoke no response, picked a nonexistent piece of lint from his trousers, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and offered a faint, encouraging smile. A man clearly waiting for clarification and not about to ask any more questions. A man prepared to wait as long as
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