Ramona added vengefully, “Winifred wants to keep your affair under wraps, huh? That’s all the ammunition I need to make her sorry she ever tried to string you along!”

  “You’ll never understand, either of you!” cried the tormented bureaucrat. “It’s not what she did that drove me to this, but the utter emptiness of my life! For a few weeks I really lived, for the first time—and now I don’t even have the dream of Miss Ware to sustain me through the long days of statistical analysis!”

  Dolly had an inkling of what her friend was going through. Phyllis hadn’t just discovered her idol had feet of clay, but that she was made of Silly Putty through and through! Miss Ware had bounced off that pedestal never to return.

  “You’ll find someone worthier than Miss Ware,” she comforted the sobbing statistician.

  “I doubt it.” Tears oozed from Phyllis’s eyes and slid down the side of her face to soak the pillow. “I want to die!”

  Ramona produced a pill and a glass of water. “Take this,” she ordered the heartbroken girl.

  Dolly recalled a scene from A Single Candle, when Dr. Dwight has to tell matriarch Olivia Kane that her dead husband has another family on the other side of town. “Even the most unbearable pain will pass,” she quoted Dr. Dwight. “And in the end, you’ve only lost a false idol. The hollow in your heart will soon be filled by a real love!”

  Phyllis swallowed the pill and lay back down as if she’d hardly heard her housemother. Dolly was disappointed—on the show, Dr. Dwight’s advice had a more immediate effect. But perhaps Phyllis needed rest more than counsel right now.

  The two girls left the sedated statistician lying on her bed and conferred in the hallway. “I hate to leave her alone in this state,” Ramona fretted. “But I have to get to my job at the club soon.”

  “I’ll ask Angelo to keep an eye on her,” Dolly decided. “He’s got a soothing presence.” Maybe it would be breaking a bylaw or two, but this was an emergency! Those pesky regulations! Dolly mentally moved them to the top of her to-do list.

  Ramona softly opened the door to Phyllis’s room. “I’ll sit with her until then.”

  Dolly peeked at her friend over Ramona’s shoulder. The pallid girl lay with her eyes closed, as still as a corpse.

  Thank heavens she’s not one yet! thought Dolly. Thank heavens I stopped her in time. She murmured again the lines she’d heard Mrs. DeWitt quote earlier that afternoon:

  “ ‘Some noble work may yet be done,

  Not unbecoming something something something!’”

  Chapter 23

  New Telephones

  It was Friday morning, the day before Christmas Eve and the all-important benefit. In the kitchen, Dolly was doing the dishes and listening to the chatter of the girls in the dining room. For many of them, the holiday weekend had begun.

  Phyllis came in, carrying her breakfast plate, with Angelo following her like a faithful sheepdog. Dolly noticed she hadn’t finished her slice of egg and potato pie.

  “Didn’t you like the new dish?” Dolly asked, disappointed. “Angelo gave me the recipe.”

  “It was my grandmother’s,” Angelo added.

  “It was delicious,” said Phyllis dutifully. “I just don’t have much of an appetite.”

  A week after the wrist-slashing incident, Phyllis was still down in the dumps. She’d assured her friends that her suicidal impulse was gone, but she was wan, low-spirited, and uninterested in life. Worst of all was her new cynicism. “What’s the point of putting together pie charts?” she responded when Dolly asked her hesitantly when she planned to return to work. “Bay City bureaucrats are too busy bed-hopping to pay attention!”

  Dolly and Ramona had removed all the pictures of Miss Ware from the statistician’s room while the girl was sedated. If only they could banish her from Phyllis’s heart as easily!

  “Do you want me to give you a manicure?” Angelo suggested. His solution to Phyllis’s depression had been a series of beauty treatments, which Angelo believed could literally make a “new you” of the social scientist.

  A ghost of a smile crossed Phyllis’s face, as she answered, “You’ve polished my nails so often they’re going to wear through.”

  Dolly tried to think of some occupational therapy for the dispirited girl. “Maybe you should check the costumes and props for tomorrow,” she suggested. “See if there are any threads to clip or bell clappers to replace.”

  “All right,” agreed Phyllis in her new, lackluster way.

  Dolly watched her exit, Angelo hovering over her, and wished there was something more she could do. As the pair left, Beverly put her head through the doorway. “My friend Laura is here,” she told Dolly.

  Beverly had approached the landlady the other evening and said with a challenging air, “I have a friend interested in a room at the Arms.”

  “Why, that’s great.” Dolly had wondered at Beverly’s attitude. “A nurse friend?”

  “No, I met her through my church. She’s a Negro girl, like me.” Beverly had waited for Dolly’s reaction.

  “Did you think I would mind?” Dolly had asked, puzzled.

  Beverly unbent. “Even progressive places like the Arms usually set quotas,” she had told Dolly wisely. “So’s they don’t get ‘overrun’ with my kind of people.”

  “There’s no quota here,” Dolly had told her heartily, hoping this was true. She really had to work on those bylaws. “Bring on your friend!”

  This would put the Arms at almost full occupancy. That would be a feather in her cap at the trustees’ meeting in January!

  Now, Dolly undid her apron. She’d been about to start the gingerbread for tomorrow’s reception, but first she’d get the new girl settled. It was shaping up to be another busy day!

  She was still making mental lists and wondering if she needed more eggs for the eggnog when Beverly introduced her to the petite girl waiting in the lobby. “Dolly, this is Laura. I already wrote her a recommendation letter, and I’ve got presents to wrap before I go on duty, so I’ll see you both later.”

  Dolly greeted the new girl warmly. “Glad to know you, Laura.” Beverly’s friend was an assured, attractive girl, and she looked around the lobby with a delighted expression. “What a lovely place!”

  Dolly felt a little lift of pride. The lobby did look nice, especially since she’d redone the gold leafing on the doors. “Thanks,” the landlady said modestly. “I intend to make over the individual rooms in the new year.”

  “I’m just happy to find something so convenient to my job, and affordable.” Laura smiled as she pulled a sheaf of papers from her purse. “Here’s my residency application.”

  “I see you’re going to Bay City College,” Dolly said, quickly scanning the meticulously filled out application. Laura was a few years older than Beverly and Jackie, and projected a mature confidence. In addition to the recommendation letter from Beverly, there was the requisite one from her minister.

  “Just part time, at night,” Laura replied. As Dolly began the tour, she explained that she worked for the Bay City Branch of the Federal Housing Authority as a clerk-typist during the day.

  “It’s a pretty heavy schedule,” she confided. “And the commute to the east side was just about killing me! I’ve started wondering if I can keep it up.”

  “You can do it,” encouraged the housemother. “We had another girl here who got her law degree at Bay City College while working part time.” It was ingrained habit, bragging about Janet and her academic success, but it gave Dolly a sudden pang of missing her old crowd.

  When Dolly showed the new girl the dining room and explained about the breakfast included in the rent, Laura told her the Arms was “a dream come true.” With a deprecatory smile, she added that her protective mother insisted on a respectable residence with proper supervision. “I don’t know what trouble she thinks I can get up to.” She laughed vivaciously as they climbed the stairs back to the lobby. “Busy as I am!”

  Dolly led her to the repurposed visitors’ parlor-cum-beauty salon. “You can entertain your visitors here or in the lounge,” the landlady told her new tenant. “Angelo, our visitor, is available for free hair care Thursday afternoons.”

  “What a savings that would be!” exclaimed Laura. “Does he have a hot comb? Does he know how to relax and straighten hair?”

  “If he doesn’t, I’m sure he can learn,” Dolly promised. “And this is the lounge.”

  The big room was, as usual, full of chaotic activity. Margie was rehearsing the dancing telephones, in costume at last. A group of girls were spray-painting pine cones silver, and Angelo was on his knees pinning the hem of Jackie’s severe black gown while Phyllis stood by listlessly holding the pincushion.

  Dolly introduced Laura to the sewing trio, nearly drowned out by Margie’s exasperated, “Girls, girls, I know the phone costumes are heavy. That’s why we’re practicing in them!”

  Laura was looking at Phyllis starry-eyed. “You’re Phyllis Densher? The Phyllis Densher, who wrote the policy paper on Dockside demographics?” She clasped her hands together almost prayerfully. “Why, you’re my idol! We studied your paper in my sociology class!”

  For the first time in days, a spark of interest kindled in Phyllis’s face, as she contemplated the pretty girl looking at her with glowing eyes. “Are you interested in zoning regulations?” she asked.

  Laura explained again about her job and night school, adding that she aspired to a career in public policy. “I’d love to ask you about your experience sometime, if you’re not too busy,” she said shyly.

  Phyllis could never say no to a request for aid. “Of course,” she said instantly. “I’m happy to share what I know.”

  Dolly decided not to interrupt this promising conversation. “I just remembered, I left something in the oven,” she fibbed. “Here’s your key, Laura. Phyllis, will you show Laura her room?”

  She left the lounge, more than satisfied with her new tenant. Dolly didn’t need a minister’s recommendation to convince her that Laura was going to fit in just fine!

  The sight of Netta coming down the stairs cast a damper on the landlady’s cheerful mood. Dolly was fed to the teeth with the progressive teacher, especially after Netta’s reaction to Phyllis’s “accident” as they were calling it. Netta had lectured the depressed statistician on the perils of paying too much attention to petty personal problems, and then tried to persuade the distraught girl to join her in the “Experiment in Living.” “It’ll be just the thing to shake you out of yourself!” she’d assured her.

  Now, as Dolly turned away, Netta called her back. “I’d like my deposit, please. I’ve moved everything and cleaned out my room.”

  “I’ll write you a check now,” retorted Dolly.

  But after she gave Netta the check, the teacher put a placating hand on Dolly’s arm. “I don’t want to leave on bad terms,” she told the landlady earnestly.

  Dolly looked at her friend of almost ten years and something in her softened. In a surge of holiday sentiment, she asked, “Why do you have to leave at all, Netta?” She pretended to adjust the tinsel on the Christmas tree as she spoke. “What have you got against the Arms, besides Ramona moving in?”

  Netta gestured impatiently. “It’s not really Ramona, or any one thing. I just want to escape a world where everyone’s so bent on material things and pushing ahead in life, always worrying about promotions and finding the perfect girlfriend. I don’t belong here anymore—I couldn’t care less if the lounge television gets a better picture, or if the doors get gold leafed, or more telephones are installed!” Netta’s voice rose. “There must be more to life!”

  Dolly listened attentively to this heartfelt cry, which echoed in many ways the struggle she’d undergone since her soap opera character was strangled.

  “Listen, I get you,” the landlady said earnestly. “It’s like that poem about noble purposes—”

  But before she could quote the appropriate verse, a blast of cold air made them both turn. It was a deliveryman, with a handcart full of boxes.

  “Delivery for Ramona Rukeyser,” he said.

  Dolly signed his clipboard, examining the stack of boxes out of the corner of her eye.

  “What on earth are they?” asked Netta suspiciously.

  “Telephones,” the deliveryman replied. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Noble purpose!” sniffed Netta. “I’ll see you later, Dolly.”

  The idealistic schoolteacher almost bumped into Miss Watkins, who entered the lobby as Netta exited.

  “Merry Christmas,” the career counselor called after Netta. “Merry Christmas, Dolly,” she greeted the landlady gaily, shaking the snow off her fur-trimmed boots. “I have the results of your PPA, and there are some most interesting indications!”

  “Just a sec, Miss Watkins,” Dolly excused herself. “I’ve got to ask Ramona what she thinks she’s doing with all these phones!”

  Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Dolly ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time like a teenage girl. She’d never get to her gingerbread at the rate things were going!

  She paused for breath on the fourth-floor landing and glanced automatically down the corridor. Kay was coming out of her room. “Hi, Dolly,” the clarinetist greeted her casually. At that moment, Arlene’s door opened and the sleek scenic designer emerged. “Hello, Dolly!” she said warmly. “I was just coming to look for you!”

  Kay stiffened perceptibly, and Arlene shot a covert glance at the clarinetist.

  Dolly looked at the two girls, so different from each other. Kay’s red head and freckled face made her weak in the knees and melted her stomach; she felt like an underdone pancake with a liquid center every time she looked at the clarinet player.

  But Arlene was so lovely and troubled, the housemother side of Dolly couldn’t bear to hurt her. Her polished sheen reminded the landlady of an out-of-season peach you purchased at the supermarket; you couldn’t believe something that looked so perfect wouldn’t taste good, and you wondered if it just needed time to ripen.

  Each was so attractive, in her own way, to Dolly. She didn’t want to hurt either of them; and she hated to see the growing animosity between them.

  It was a doozy of a dilemma, and Dolly decided to duck it, darting up the stairs. “Can’t stop, gals. I’ve got to find Ramona and ask her about some phones!”

  She pounded on the jazz club hostess’s door. “Ramona,” she called, “wake up! Did you order twenty-five phones?”

  The door behind her opened. Dolly turned to find Ramona framed in Jackie’s doorway, wearing a pink satin dressing gown that belonged to Maxie. “They’re here already?” the extravagant girl yawned. “Darn it, I meant them for a Christmas surprise.”

  “Pretty expensive surprise!” said Dolly.

  “I took the money out of that little tin box.” Ramona laughed merrily. “No kidding, I counted up the cash and I realized that we can cover the taxes and get our telephones too!”

  “Ramona!” Dolly scolded. “You can’t go spending that money just because you feel like it! It’s not your decision to make. Give me the rest of it right now, so I can deposit it in the bank where it belongs.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ramona was repentant. “I guess I just went a little crazy the other day, when I counted up the moola we’d collected.”

  She went past Dolly and pulled out the drawer of her nightstand. “Wait till you see all that green, you’ll get giddy too!” she gloated as she unlocked the money box and opened the lid.

  Dolly looked inside. The box was empty.

  Chapter 24

  Criminal Behavior

  “It’s gone!” Ramona stared down at the box in disbelief. “Where’d it go? It was all there last night!”

  “Did you take it out of the box for safekeeping?” Dolly asked, trying to be practical as prickles of panic crawled over her like ants at a picnic.

  “Did I?” Ramona opened her bureau drawer and pushed the piles of frilly lingerie around anxiously. Dolly joined her in the search, digging through drawers, looking inside shoes, even shaking out the sprigged sheets on the bed. Each time they came up empty the landlady felt a screw turn in her stomach, tightening her tense nerves. Ramona kept repeating, “It’s got to be here somewhere!” opening and closing drawers aimlessly, feeling under her mattress, and even climbing on a chair to look in the light fixture.

  Finally, as Ramona rummaged through her nightstand for the third time, Dolly ordered her to stop. “Let’s use our heads,” she suggested tersely. “When did you last see the money?”

  Ramona sat on the edge of her torn-up bed, the mattress askew on the box spring. “Late last night at Club Lucky. I spotted a horn player, a friend of Kay’s who’d promised to buy a pair of tickets. I reminded him, and he gave me a ten-spot and told me to keep the change. I remember putting the money in the box.”

  “And that was the last time?” Dolly prodded.

  “Wait! Come to think of it—” Ramona flushed and bit her lip.

  “Well?”

  “I opened the box again a little later—not for money but something else,” the girl said reluctantly.

  “Something else?” Dolly was bewildered. “What else were you keeping in the box?”

  “Cigarettes.” Ramona tried to look innocent. “You know how cigar stores keep their stogies in special boxes? Well—”

  All at once, Dolly understood. “You’ve been pushing tea at Club Lucky! Oh, Ramona! Why can’t you keep away from that filthy weed?”

  Ramona wilted. “This is the last time, I swear!” she wailed. “It’s only because I’d invested my last dime on a shipment in San Francisco, and then when those bozos threatened me and I had to scram—”

  The sordid story poured out. Tired of cocktailing in San Francisco, Ramona had reentered the reefer racket, only to run into trouble when a rival turned territorial. The frightened girl had gone on the lam, heading for the only refuge she could think of. The remorseful drug peddler told Dolly that she’d resolved to turn over a new leaf after a counseling session with Miss Watkins, only to succumb to the temptation of easy money once more.

 

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