Deadly (5 page)

When I arrived home, I told Marm about our meeting. She immediately objected to the work hours and the travel. I could see it striking her, the turn of her mouth changing, the pinch surfacing on her brow.

“Don't you have to be in school at eight in the morning?” she asked.

When I told Marm that I'd promised to meet Mr. Soper,
she said, “Prudence, the rules of your school state that you may take an afternoon position. You cannot be there in the morning. You must tell him that.” She folded her arms. “And I don't like you going in a motor carriage with a stranger, a grown man.”

I felt the job slipping away from me at Marm's protests. I saw the reason for her doubts, but I want—I need—the job, so I argued with her.

“If I were a boy—”

“You're not a boy! You're a girl, in her last year of school. This is not what we agreed on!” Marm raised her voice; I don't hear her shout often, and never at me.

“But I want this job! More, much more than school!” I cried.

Marm lowered her eyelids at me. She has worked for years to maintain my standing in that school. She tends to expectant mothers for months only to collect a small sum at the birthing session. Then every fall and spring, she has to pay for my school clothes and for the boots I wear. Money for books and pencils and paper. And she never complains. She thinks it's worth it, that it's a finer school than any of the Free Schools, and that it will lead me to a better job than hers one day.

But I pressed on. “I don't learn anything, Marm! Just bookkeeping, and French, and how to order a household of servants—”

“There's no work for girls in the sciences,” she insisted. She struck the table with the flat of her hand and said, “You absolutely cannot take that job. I will not allow it, Prudence!”

I burst out, “If I were a boy like Benny, you would let me take it.”

I saw her suck in her breath, as if I had hit her.

“Marm,” I cried. “Marm, please!”

I was sorry I had brought up Benny, but I had to make her understand.

She stared at me, her lips pressed so hard together they turned white.

I softened my voice. “Benny is the reason I want the job, Marm. I need to know why he died—I need to understand.”

Marm stood so still, I was afraid she had stopped breathing.

I asked her if we could talk to Mrs. Browning. Perhaps we could convince her to allow me to finish lessons on my own time, to remain in school. It was such a rare chance. I brought up Jacob Riis, and all the good things the Department of Health and Sanitation has done for this city.

I clutched my hands together and waited.

Marm said, finally, “We will go see Mrs. Browning privately, and hear what she says. But you must listen to her verdict. If she does not agree, you must stay in school.”

I hugged my own waist and held in my reply; Marm turned away from me and started supper, and we spoke no more of it.

We have a meeting with Mrs. Browning this evening in her parlor.

I can't help it; I feel angry at Marm.
She
was the one who taught me about the body and illness, she encouraged me to use my brain, she showed me how to pry into scientific matters, to be curious, always. Now she wants me to be a bookkeeper—why? Most offices hire girls as typists the same way they would buy a vase for flowers; doesn't Marm want me to be smarter than that? My interviewer goes that one step further, he asks me to get my brain involved. It is unusual, I agree, but its very strangeness is what makes it so special.

I feel as if Marm has dropped me from a tall tower, as if she is no longer beside me. I can't find a foothold as to what is right. Take the job and possibly have to leave school, or not take the job and be miserable for the rest of my life. I wish I didn't have to choose between school and work.

I
took
the job, I'm leaving school. I feel as if something inside me has broken, a cord attaching me to a familiar world. I don't know if it's the right thing. So many of our neighborhood girls forgo school to earn money for their families. I hear the Feldman sisters tromping up the stairs and creaking into bed at all hours of the night and have always felt secretly grateful I wasn't in their position. I know I've been held in special esteem by our neighbors, the way Marm has been able to keep me in school. They all thought I would go far, and now I don't know what they'll think.

I must do my best with this job, learn all I can and make something of myself. Maybe I could one day be like Florence Nightingale, a heroic nurse healing the wounded. But she was born into an upper-class English family and could afford to attend the best schools. A future in science seems like such
an impossible dream involving faraway, expensive schools that certainly would not accept a lower-class American Jewish girl.

The meeting at Mrs. Browning's has shown me the shabbiness of my own life.

I got that feeling the moment her maid brought us into her parlor. I have never been in such an extravagant home. Hanging from the walls were tiger and lion heads, teeth bared, eyes glaring. Between two elephant tusks hung photographs of Mr. Browning with a group of hunters on a safari in Africa. Another large photo showed Mrs. Browning being hefted in a conveyance by several men, long peacock feathers decorating her hat.

Marm sat at the edge of a finely upholstered chair, and I slipped onto the hard surface of a carved wooden bench. Crystal lamps shimmered on the side tables, lace curtains covered the windows. My teacher's home seemed to perfectly follow the rules of decorative furnishings we'd studied in the
Ladies' Home Journal
. Even down to the obese Persian cat that lay on the Oriental carpet, swishing its tail, watching us with careful eyes.

Marm played with her purse, popping it and snapping it. I sat with my hat in hand and stared at the painting of Mary
and Jesus on the far wall. I felt Mrs. Browning had us wait those several minutes in order to fully absorb her providence.

Finally she came in, followed by her butler, with tea. How strange it felt to be served by a real butler. He poured and left us and Mrs. Browning chattered with Marm for a few minutes about what a good student I am, always attentive and so on. Marm looked so out of place. Her usually rosy cheeks were the color of waxed beans, her mouth curved downward. She was unhappy with me for wanting to leave school; she was not comfortable in this woman's house, forced into the position of having to barter for me. It made me angry to read all this in her face.

“It's very lovely to speak with you, Mrs. Galewski, but you must remind me what brought your visit,” Mrs. Browning said.

Marm cleared her throat and said, “It seems Prudence has managed to find a sort of job. She would be working at the New York City Department of Health and Sanitation, assisting a sanitary engineer.”

My bright teacher turned to me, nose wrinkled, her perfectly plucked brows furrowed. She said, “A sanitary engineer? Why would you want to assist such a person, Prudence?”

The question felt like a pin through my stomach. She
had rarely spoken directly to me before, except to tell me how pretty I'd be if only I put my hair in curls and wore a ribbon in my collar.

“Mrs. Browning,” I said, “I've been working as Marm's assistant through the whole summer.”

I glanced at Marm, thinking of our argument about Mr. Soper choosing me.

I pushed on: “I thought my mother was satisfied with me as assistant, even though I am only sixteen and a girl.”

A blush spread on Marm's cheeks, anger and embarrassment at my bringing our private argument about my interviewer to the public.

I pushed myself to continue, to fight for this job: “Mrs. Browning, I feel inside me a need to expand my knowledge, to learn more about how the human body functions, and I think this job assisting the head epidemiologist would help me do just that.”

Mrs. Browning's eyes pressed into me like little thumbs. She said, “I'm surprised at your choice for your life, Prudence. I thought after graduation that you would seek work as a secretary, and not muck about in human filth. A girl with your skill could acquire respectable employment at one of the finer banks in the city. You could work up to private
secretary for the bank manager. Or perhaps keep books at one of the fashion houses. Even governess for royalty. Proper work,” she said, “for which we've prepared you.”

The thought of being in one of those jobs, counting other people's money or watching their babies all day, nearly choked me. I looked at Marm, then back at my teacher, who nodded at me to speak.

“I have learned a great deal at your school, Mrs. Browning,” I said.

Her expectant eyes didn't leave me, so I went on, “The work for Mr. Soper would challenge me.”

Mrs. Browning asked me what exactly I meant by that.

“I will not simply be a witness to death,” I said. “In working with Mr. Soper to find the source of disease, I will be helping to stop its spread. I feel that it's an important job.”

The tips of her nostrils flared. “And why does this man want
your
help? A young girl like you? Can't he find a budding science fellow to do the work?”

I felt my own eyes open like tea saucers. I wanted to shout,
I am a budding scientist! He saw that in me, why can't you see the same?
But she didn't see me as anything more than a girl, that was the problem, it had always been the problem. I held in the fury that twisted around my heart like rope.

Instead I quietly replied, “He hired me as typist and note taker. It was only afterwards that he called me assistant.”

An awfully wry smile spread over Mrs. Browning's face. “Beyond typing, what exactly are your tasks?” she asked.

“I don't know. Mr. Soper will teach me when I begin,” I said.

“For example, will you
cure
the
disease
?” She smiled and tilted her head.

I didn't like her implications one bit. I repeated slowly, “I will help to stop its spread, ma'am.”

That gave her pause. She sipped her tea and nibbled a ladyfinger, and I felt the relief of her wide gray stare removed from me, only to turn and catch Marm, the dull, unhappy look in her eyes changed to a curious sort of pride.

“And so what is the problem?” Mrs. Browning asked. “You know that you can work at any job you like.”

“He expects me there at eight in the morning,” I told her.

“Ah,” she said. She sniffed her tea and put it down and wiped her fingertips on her satin napkin. “You know my rules,” she said.

Marm spoke up, surprising me. “Mrs. Browning,” she said, “can't you consider giving Prudence credit for doing such a worthy job? Surely you could overlook the rules this
one time and allow her to make up the lessons nights and weekends.”

My eyes stung salty when I felt Marm at my side once again. I told Mrs. Browning I'd do any work she asked.

“Jealousy is a large commodity at our school, you know that, Prudence. Rules are created to keep order,” Mrs. Browning said. “The girls would not think their education was very important if I let you work instead of attending school.”

“Let's not tell the other girls,” I suggested.

“Miss Prudence Galewski,” she said, “if you can no longer appreciate the standards of our institution, perhaps I can find another needy girl on whom I can bestow the donated funds that you currently enjoy.”

I never saw my missus so frosty before.

“Do you not own the school, Mrs. Browning?” Marm broke in. “Can you not consider for one moment the rare situation my daughter is in? For once, a man in high position has recognized a girl's talent, and is willing to give her a chance to use it. I don't understand why you won't help Prudence, why you can't see the opportunity being offered to her!”

“I'm afraid
you
do not see what is before you,” Mrs.
Browning huffed. “The opposite sex stands ready to take advantage of your daughter, and you are ushering her straight into such difficulty!”

“I beg your pardon!” Marm exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “Prudence is the most important person in the world to me, and if I thought she would come to harm in any way, I would not let her work in that office. But I am proud of my daughter for her intelligence and bravery, and I am sorry you don't feel the same way. Good night to you, ma'am!”

She took my wrist and we walked out. It was all so horrible.

And now I'm not in school anymore.

I hope I have made the right decision.

T
oday was
my first day of work with Mr. Soper. It was disorienting for me to rise with the church bells and get ready for work instead of preparing for school. I felt confused, and didn't know what was appropriate dress for my first ride in a motor carriage as my wardrobe consists mainly of my simple black school skirts and white shirtwaists and jackets. Would I need something more professional, like a suit? I didn't know what an assistant was supposed to look or act like. I wasn't sure I would be able to meet my chief's expectations. Mrs. Browning's doubts sounded in my head, but I put on my good maroon outfit with matching cape and hat and made myself walk the whole mile to work as walking always calms me.

I met Mr. Soper at the office, where he waited outside in the crisp morning air with Mr. Thompson, our round, balding
client. They both leaned on one of those Stanley Steamers I've seen advertised on billboards near Tin Pan Alley. When Mr. Soper saw me, he nodded to Mr. Thompson, who went to the front of the motor carriage, opened the hood, and began to do something with the engine. I had never been so close to an actual locomobile—they're always passing so rapidly on the streets, and seem so unstable, as if they may explode any second. This one was grass green with white spoked wheels and a black top, neatly folded down. It shone so brightly, I felt myself drawn to touch the vehicle. The coach came to life with a spit and a roar, and I jumped back, feeling as if a friendly dog had suddenly barked at me. Vapor emanated from the hood, and for a moment, I didn't want to go in. But Mr. Soper reached out a hand and assisted me into the back. The expanse of padded leather seating was as comfortable as a sofa.