typewriter carriage. Then Ingrid called, “Come in!”
He opened the door and stopped, surprised. The desk was clean; Ingrid had cleared away all the boxes of books and tax returns, and in their place she had arranged the typewriter and an ancient black metal desk fan he had never seen before, the kind of fan whose whirring blades would slice off your finger if you stuck it through the grille. Beside the fan stood a highball glass filled with some dark liquid that he hoped was not bourbon.
Ingrid leaned back in the chair, put her feet up on the desk and said, “Well?”
Ray was not sure what he was supposed to make of this. “It looks very clean in here,” he said. “What are you drinking?”
Ingrid scowled. “Iced tea. But it’s supposed to be rye.”
“Oh, now I get it,” Ray said. “The desk fan, the old typewriter—it’s like, ‘The Writer’s Studio, Hollywood, circa 1940.’ Or, maybe, ‘The Private Eye at his desk.’”
Ingrid grinned, an honest, unselfconscious grin that hiked the left side of her mouth high on her face. “Something like that. Actually, this house kind of reminds me of one of those swanky old places the private eye has to crash into. You know, where the rich lady with the missing husband invites him in for a drink and then starts making passes.”
“And then double crosses him, no doubt. I’m familiar with the genre,” Ray said, and felt himself grin back—there was no way he could not, having finally seen her crack a smile again. “Is that what you’re typing?” he asked, nodding at the papers she’d placed face down on the desk.
“Me? Oh—not really. I was just fooling around.” She crossed her arms, challenging him to pry further. When he didn’t, she took her feet off the desk and asked: “Are you ready to dictate?”
“You want to work in here?” As he said it, he remembered that when he was showing her around the house he had told her that this was his writing office. Well, why not? Better than having to look at the garbage bags he had taped over the broken window.
“I’ll go get my notes,” he said.
It was a slightly surreal version of his professional life, standing in this tiny room that was something like an office, with a person something like a secretary sitting at a desk, waiting for him to clear his throat and begin dictation. Though instead of Joanne in her prim hats and collars, it was a teenager in a torn green T-shirt, hair sticking up in all directions. Instead of the smell of Joanne’s breath mints, from Ingrid wafted the scent of something sharp and vaguely problematic: tobacco, he realized.
“Ready now?” she asked.
Ray cleared his throat but instead of beginning to read, asked, “Where did you put all the stuff that was on the desk?”
“In the closet there, behind the suits and coats and stuff. Do you mind?”
“No, that’s fine. Where’d the fan come from?”
“It’s mine. It’s from the ’forties. Look, it says Westinghouse on it. You know, the defense contractor. Cool, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
She was waiting, jiggling her feet on the chair’s broken strut.
“All right, Ingrid. If you’re not sure of the spelling of anything, don’t guess, just ask me.” He cleared his throat again. “Okay, ready?”
She raised her eyebrows and indicated with her chin her hands poised above the typewriter. Yes, she was ready already. He took a deep breath and waded in.
“Chapter Two. New paragraph. With the arrival of the dressed-down shingle style, comma, we see the equivalent adaptation into the middle class of an outline previously belonging only to the very rich, period. Similar in silhouette but stripped of ornamentation, comma, shingle style provided an entryway into a vernacular adaptation of the aesthetic choices begun with the Queen Anne style. Period.”
She typed with childish concentration—tongue protruding slightly from the corner of her mouth—and an adult’s accuracy, her fingers fast over the
He opened the door and stopped, surprised. The desk was clean; Ingrid had cleared away all the boxes of books and tax returns, and in their place she had arranged the typewriter and an ancient black metal desk fan he had never seen before, the kind of fan whose whirring blades would slice off your finger if you stuck it through the grille. Beside the fan stood a highball glass filled with some dark liquid that he hoped was not bourbon.
Ingrid leaned back in the chair, put her feet up on the desk and said, “Well?”
Ray was not sure what he was supposed to make of this. “It looks very clean in here,” he said. “What are you drinking?”
Ingrid scowled. “Iced tea. But it’s supposed to be rye.”
“Oh, now I get it,” Ray said. “The desk fan, the old typewriter—it’s like, ‘The Writer’s Studio, Hollywood, circa 1940.’ Or, maybe, ‘The Private Eye at his desk.’”
Ingrid grinned, an honest, unselfconscious grin that hiked the left side of her mouth high on her face. “Something like that. Actually, this house kind of reminds me of one of those swanky old places the private eye has to crash into. You know, where the rich lady with the missing husband invites him in for a drink and then starts making passes.”
“And then double crosses him, no doubt. I’m familiar with the genre,” Ray said, and felt himself grin back—there was no way he could not, having finally seen her crack a smile again. “Is that what you’re typing?” he asked, nodding at the papers she’d placed face down on the desk.
“Me? Oh—not really. I was just fooling around.” She crossed her arms, challenging him to pry further. When he didn’t, she took her feet off the desk and asked: “Are you ready to dictate?”
“You want to work in here?” As he said it, he remembered that when he was showing her around the house he had told her that this was his writing office. Well, why not? Better than having to look at the garbage bags he had taped over the broken window.
“I’ll go get my notes,” he said.
It was a slightly surreal version of his professional life, standing in this tiny room that was something like an office, with a person something like a secretary sitting at a desk, waiting for him to clear his throat and begin dictation. Though instead of Joanne in her prim hats and collars, it was a teenager in a torn green T-shirt, hair sticking up in all directions. Instead of the smell of Joanne’s breath mints, from Ingrid wafted the scent of something sharp and vaguely problematic: tobacco, he realized.
“Ready now?” she asked.
Ray cleared his throat but instead of beginning to read, asked, “Where did you put all the stuff that was on the desk?”
“In the closet there, behind the suits and coats and stuff. Do you mind?”
“No, that’s fine. Where’d the fan come from?”
“It’s mine. It’s from the ’forties. Look, it says Westinghouse on it. You know, the defense contractor. Cool, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
She was waiting, jiggling her feet on the chair’s broken strut.
“All right, Ingrid. If you’re not sure of the spelling of anything, don’t guess, just ask me.” He cleared his throat again. “Okay, ready?”
She raised her eyebrows and indicated with her chin her hands poised above the typewriter. Yes, she was ready already. He took a deep breath and waded in.
“Chapter Two. New paragraph. With the arrival of the dressed-down shingle style, comma, we see the equivalent adaptation into the middle class of an outline previously belonging only to the very rich, period. Similar in silhouette but stripped of ornamentation, comma, shingle style provided an entryway into a vernacular adaptation of the aesthetic choices begun with the Queen Anne style. Period.”
She typed with childish concentration—tongue protruding slightly from the corner of her mouth—and an adult’s accuracy, her fingers fast over the
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