there?’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Too expensive. My friends and I go to the Howard Theatre.’
‘You still dating that piano player?’
‘Yeah, and it’s still a secret, too. Momma would hang me out to dry with the rest of the laundry if she knew I was seeing a musician.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
Sometimes I felt I was keeping enough secrets for my fellow boarders that they qualified for the ‘L’ file room at the OSS Registry.
I sharpened my pencil. I’d learned a couple of months ago that I had to do a rough draft of any letter I wrote to Joe on cheap paper, otherwise I’d be wasting good stationery. ‘Dear Joe,’ I began. Sweet heaven, what a weak way to begin a love letter! ‘Dearest Joe’. No. Who was I trying to fool? Go ahead and write it down, coward. ‘Darling’. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
‘Darling, I miss you terribly too. And I promise, promise faithfully, that I am coming to visit you just as soon as I can get away. It might be a last-minute decision because of work. That wouldn’t be a problem, would it? If I sent you a telegram on a Friday afternoon saying I was just that minute catching a train?
‘Your apartment sounds lovely. And it must be nice to live alone, at least for a little while. To be able to sleep, eat and read whenever you like sounds like heaven!
‘Have you heard from Phoebe yet? Milt Junior has returned home. He’s lost his left arm and will be living here for good. He was kind enough to move in with Henry so that Ada and I wouldn’t lose our rooms. So when you come back to the District you’ll need to find a new place to live. Do you know when that might be? When you might come home, that is?
‘Miss you.’ No! I missed my cat back home. Joe was my sweetheart. ‘Darling, I can’t wait to see you. Since you left my life has gone from Technicolor to grey.’ So, so cheesy! But it would have to do. ‘Love, Louise.’ Not ‘Love always.’ Nothing was sure in life, especially during wartime.
I copied my draft on to the new stationery I’d bought at Woodies. It was cream with my initials engraved on it in sky blue. I’d never dreamed that someday I’d own monogrammed letter paper.
The large reception room on the first floor of the main OSS building was jammed with OSS staffers paying their respects to Paul Hughes. Since Hughes’ remains had been shipped to Fredericksburg, his home, for his funeral, this small reception was his only memorial in the District. His co-workers had brought in vases of spring flowers for the tables, there was a picture of him on a table at the entrance to the room, and more friends had brought punch and cookies made with honey and molasses. He must have been popular.
I was at the reception out of morbid curiosity. I barely knew the man. But I still wondered about his death and I wanted to observe the people who attended his funeral, like the detectives in Agatha Christie’s novels. Not that I had any evidence that Hughes’ outlandish death was anything except bad luck. But I was obsessing over ‘G’. Would ‘G’ be here? Was ‘G’ an actual initial, or some kind of shorthand? I mean, ‘G’ could be his barber! And last of all, was Paul meeting ‘G’ in Fredericksburg or in the District?
The most senior men in the room were Don Murray, my ex-boss and now Hughes’ boss, and Major Wicker. When Wicker spotted me he shot me a look that ordered me in no uncertain terms not to speak to him. I wasn’t insulted. He didn’t want anyone to know we were acquainted.
After the guests mingled for a bit Don stood on a chair and began to speak about Hughes. How well liked he was, how hard-working, and how he would be missed. His final words were cut off by a strangled sob. Lots of the girls were dabbing at their eyes, but this was loud sobbing. I turned and saw Peggy Benton crying with a handkerchief pressed to her face. Her husband, Spencer, had a grip on her elbow. He looked quite embarrassed, even angry. I moved
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Too expensive. My friends and I go to the Howard Theatre.’
‘You still dating that piano player?’
‘Yeah, and it’s still a secret, too. Momma would hang me out to dry with the rest of the laundry if she knew I was seeing a musician.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
Sometimes I felt I was keeping enough secrets for my fellow boarders that they qualified for the ‘L’ file room at the OSS Registry.
I sharpened my pencil. I’d learned a couple of months ago that I had to do a rough draft of any letter I wrote to Joe on cheap paper, otherwise I’d be wasting good stationery. ‘Dear Joe,’ I began. Sweet heaven, what a weak way to begin a love letter! ‘Dearest Joe’. No. Who was I trying to fool? Go ahead and write it down, coward. ‘Darling’. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
‘Darling, I miss you terribly too. And I promise, promise faithfully, that I am coming to visit you just as soon as I can get away. It might be a last-minute decision because of work. That wouldn’t be a problem, would it? If I sent you a telegram on a Friday afternoon saying I was just that minute catching a train?
‘Your apartment sounds lovely. And it must be nice to live alone, at least for a little while. To be able to sleep, eat and read whenever you like sounds like heaven!
‘Have you heard from Phoebe yet? Milt Junior has returned home. He’s lost his left arm and will be living here for good. He was kind enough to move in with Henry so that Ada and I wouldn’t lose our rooms. So when you come back to the District you’ll need to find a new place to live. Do you know when that might be? When you might come home, that is?
‘Miss you.’ No! I missed my cat back home. Joe was my sweetheart. ‘Darling, I can’t wait to see you. Since you left my life has gone from Technicolor to grey.’ So, so cheesy! But it would have to do. ‘Love, Louise.’ Not ‘Love always.’ Nothing was sure in life, especially during wartime.
I copied my draft on to the new stationery I’d bought at Woodies. It was cream with my initials engraved on it in sky blue. I’d never dreamed that someday I’d own monogrammed letter paper.
The large reception room on the first floor of the main OSS building was jammed with OSS staffers paying their respects to Paul Hughes. Since Hughes’ remains had been shipped to Fredericksburg, his home, for his funeral, this small reception was his only memorial in the District. His co-workers had brought in vases of spring flowers for the tables, there was a picture of him on a table at the entrance to the room, and more friends had brought punch and cookies made with honey and molasses. He must have been popular.
I was at the reception out of morbid curiosity. I barely knew the man. But I still wondered about his death and I wanted to observe the people who attended his funeral, like the detectives in Agatha Christie’s novels. Not that I had any evidence that Hughes’ outlandish death was anything except bad luck. But I was obsessing over ‘G’. Would ‘G’ be here? Was ‘G’ an actual initial, or some kind of shorthand? I mean, ‘G’ could be his barber! And last of all, was Paul meeting ‘G’ in Fredericksburg or in the District?
The most senior men in the room were Don Murray, my ex-boss and now Hughes’ boss, and Major Wicker. When Wicker spotted me he shot me a look that ordered me in no uncertain terms not to speak to him. I wasn’t insulted. He didn’t want anyone to know we were acquainted.
After the guests mingled for a bit Don stood on a chair and began to speak about Hughes. How well liked he was, how hard-working, and how he would be missed. His final words were cut off by a strangled sob. Lots of the girls were dabbing at their eyes, but this was loud sobbing. I turned and saw Peggy Benton crying with a handkerchief pressed to her face. Her husband, Spencer, had a grip on her elbow. He looked quite embarrassed, even angry. I moved
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