He caught me staring twice and smiled in happy misunderstanding. I smiled back. We were getting along great. The phone rang a few more times, and he weeded out the unwanted from the wanted callers in a voice that had all the regret of a funeral director learning that the client was dead. Finally, his phone buzzed discreetly, and he rose the four inches that marked the difference between his sitting and standing heights and rubbed his hands in the best Uriah Heep imitation I'd seen in months.
“She'll see you now,” he said.
“Just don't tell us to walk this way,” Jessica said unwisely. “I don't think I could do it.”
“Honey,” Birdie said, but this time he said it to me, “you're going to earn your money.” We followed him through the Flash Gordon door.
Mrs. Brussels stood up to greet us. Her suit was brilliantly tailored, but it had nothing on her manner. “Mr. Ward,” she said, echoing the name I'd given to Birdie, “and this is Jewel. Jewel Ward?” she asked.
“Not actually,” I said, choosing the larger of the two chairs in front of her desk. The other was sized for a child, and Jessica climbed grumpily into it. “Jewel Smith,” I said.
“Smith,” she said, sitting down. “Jewel Smith. We'll have to do something about that. If we come to an arrangement, of course.” She gave me a radiant smile, and I gave her the best I had in return.
“How did you get my name, if you don't mind my asking?” she asked, beaming with democratic impartiality on both Jessica and me.
“Through the Actors'Directory:’
The smile went a little rigid and her gaze wavered. “How ingenious. How did you ever think of doing that?” She was sitting up straighter than she had been a moment earlier.
“A friend suggested it.”
“A friend,” she said with the same smile fixed in place. It did nothing to her eyes. “Is he in the business?”
“He's a teacher,” I said.
“What level does he teach?” It was a question I hadn't anticipated.
“College,” I improvised.
She blinked at me. For the first time since we'd entered the room I felt that she was at a loss for words. Something, for her, didn't add up, and she didn't know where to go next.
“It makes good sense,” I said, to fill the silence. “Where else could you go through pages of kids and get their agents' names and addresses?”
“At least,” she said, relaxing slightly, “you can find out who's active.” I still had the feeling that she was watching me, but I had no idea why.
“And you can see what kinds of kids they've got and how good the photographs are,” I said, trying to figure out what was going on. “You can see whether you've heard of any of their clients. It can tell you a lot.”
She sat back in her chair. “I suppose it can,” she said noncommittally. “Of course, many of my clients are featured in the directory. Most of them are doing very well indeed. I must say, fortune has looked favorably on our little enterprise in the last three or four years.” Whatever had caused the uncomfortable moment, it had passed.
“That's why we're here,” I said. I had placed the emotionless smile. She had something of the third-grade teacher about her, the one who could smile at you while she was explaining why you weren't going to see fourth grade within your expected lifetime.
“It's unusual,” she continued, as though I hadn't spoken, “for me to see anyone who hasn't made an appointment. But Birdie explained your reasoning to me, and he also told me what a remarkably beautiful little lady you've brought with you.” She glimmered at Jessica, who gave her a cool nod. Jessica, as I was beginning to realize, had good taste. Dismissing her lack of responsiveness, Mrs. Brussels said, “She reminds me of the young Margaret O'Brien.”
“She has skills,” I said, “that Margaret O'Brien never heard of.” Jessica gave me a quick, evil look.
“I'll stipulate that she's talented,” Mrs. Brussels said comfortably.
“What's ‘stipulate’?” Jessica said suspiciously. She still hadn't gotten over being called a thespian.
“It's lawyer talk, sweetie,” Mrs. Brussels said. “It means that I'm willing to believe that you've got talent.”
“You haven't seen me do anything,” Jessica said, dimpling again. It had been her least attractive skill at the age of four. I hadn't seen it since.
“Mind of her own,” Mrs. Brussels observed.
“You don't know the half of it,” I replied.
“At any rate, talent is mainly a matter of training. It can be learned. What can't be learned, what's much rarer, is beauty and, of course, presence. This little girl has a great deal of presence.” She gave Jessica a look that dared her to voice a contradiction. Mrs. Brussels had little mid-forties laugh crinkles around her eyes, fine bones, a full lower lip, all topped off by a mass of auburn hair held up by a few pins arranged in an oddly Victorian fashion. Wisps of fine hair framed her face. She looked like Colleen Dewhurst playing Colleen Dewhurst. There was a little too much flesh under the skin, but not so much that it kept swinging back and forth after she'd finished shaking her head. Once I got past the image of the terrible third-grade teacher, she reminded me of nothing so much as the prettiest of all my elementary school friends' mothers. I had gone to his house largely to see her.
Jessica acknowledged the challenge with a disdainful sniff. Maybe she just resented being called a little girl.
“She's very special,” I said. I paused before the word “special.”
“And you're her what?”
“She's my ward,” I said.
“Like your name,” she said brightly. “Ward.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Isn't that a coincidence?”
“It certainly is,” she said, watching me with an entirely new expression.
Jessica, feeling excluded, began to fidget.
“You're legal?” Mrs. Brussels said.
“Well, Mommy and Daddy aren't here.”
“They could show up,” she said, one hand under her chin. “Where are they, anyway?”
Jessica heard her cue. “They're dead,” she said.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Brussels said, her face turning into a postcard of sympathy. “That's terrible.”
“Oh, golly,” Jessica said, “you don't know how I cried.” I was proud of her; she resisted the impulse to wring her hands.
“And now”-Mrs. Brussels in her most motherly tones- “you have no one but Mr. Ward, here.” Her eyes, when she turned them to me, were older than rocks.
Jessica looked at me proudly. “He's all I need,” she said. “He's wonderful.”
“They died in Idaho,” I said. “A car wreck.”
“What a sad story,” Mrs. Brussels said perfunctorily. “And you said you were her legal guardian?”
“Legal enough,” I said.
“Because there are contracts,” she said.
I looked at Jessica, who had withdrawn into herself. She was sitting on her hands like Wayne Warner.
“And are you willing for her to travel?” Mrs. Brussels said in the tone I would have used to ask if it were sunny. And why not? If I was right about her, and I was sure I was, all we were talking about was the Mann Act.
“I'm a frequent flier,” Jessica said remotely.
“What a delightful child,” Mrs. Brussels said. Her voice sounded like a knife being sharpened on a whetstone. “So precocious. I'm sure we can work something out, Mr. Ward. There are the standard papers, of course. Nothing special, all to your benefit and little Jewel's. Perhaps we could draw them up overnight and you could come in tomorrow and sign them. You and Jewel, I mean.”
“Sure,” I said. “Be delighted. Call me Dwight.”
“And where are you staying? Since you've just come here from Idaho, I mean.”
“The Sleep-Eze Motel,” I said, “on Melrose.”
She gave me the crinkly smile. “Nice place,” she said. She directed a glance toward the computer terminal on her desk, which had just whirred and beeped. Eyes on the screen, she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “And now,” she added, “I have work to do.” Without looking up from the computer, she extended a hand to me, ignoring Jessica completely. “We're going to do just fine,” she said. “Great career. Come tomorrow, tennish? Birdie will show you out.”