“You type?” He leered at her, as she sat watching him. She had dealt with worse than that and he didn't frighten her. And she also needed the job. She couldn't go on living forever on her dwindling funds. She had to find work pretty soon, and she would even have been willing to work for him, if he would behave himself. “Steno too?” She shook her head and he didn't seem to care. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she lied. She had learned that much in the first interview. No one wanted to hire a seventeen-year-old girl. So she lied to them.
“Have you been to secretarial school?” She shook her head again and he shrugged, and then stood up, with a small stack of papers in one hand, and moved around the desk, as though to show them to her, but when he reached her side, he caressed her breast instead, and she was on her feet with lightning speed, the back of her hand across his face before she had thought of it, and they both gasped simultaneously as he stared at her.
“If you touch me again, I'll scream so loud I'll have the police up here,” she warned, her green eyes flashing at him, her whole body tense, her hands trembling as she looked at him. “How dare you do that?” Why did they all do things like that to her? … her uncle Jack … and the girls at the foster home … and the boys at Louise's place … it kept happening to her. She didn't understand that it was because she was beautiful. She thought of it as some kind of punishment, something she must have done as a child that she was being tortured for now. It didn't seem fair that it happened to her all the time, and she backed slowly toward the door, never taking her eyes off his face.
“Look, I'm sorry … no big deal … Miss … what's your name? … come on …” He waddled toward her hurriedly and she slammed the door in his face and ran down the stairs as fast as she could go. She walked all the way back to her hotel after that, feeling dirty and depressed, and wondering if she'd ever find a job.
But she finally did, at an employment agency, as a receptionist. They liked the way she looked, suspected she was younger than she said, but she was intelligent, neat and clean, typed halfway decently and could answer the phone, and that was enough for them. They offered her ninety-five dollars a week and it seemed like a windfall to her. She took the job and went flying back to her hotel to get ready for work the next day. She had her first job! And it would be a quick climb up from there. She didn't know what she wanted to do yet, but she already knew where she wanted to go to school. She'd been reading all the newspaper ads, and she made some calls. She had already applied, and she was waiting to hear from them, and then she'd really be on her way.
Now there was only one thing left to do, and she decided to tackle it that afternoon. After that, she didn't know when she'd have the time, and she didn't want to call him. She wanted to see him personally. Only once. She'd get the information from him and then all she had to do was call … the thought of it made her tremble as she changed her clothes again. She wore a simple navy blue dress, dark stockings, and her patent leather shoes. The dress was short, as was the style, but it was respectable. And she tied her hair in a simple knot that made her look older than she was. She washed her face, dried it on one of the hotel's little rough towels, and went downstairs again. And this time she didn't take a bus. She didn't want to waste time. She took a cab instead, and stood outside looking up when she arrived at Forty-eighth and Park Avenue. It was a glass building trimmed with chrome, and it seemed to stretch all the way to the sky as she looked up at it.
The elevator shuddered as it rose to the thirty-eighth floor, and she held her breath wondering if it would get stuck. She had never been anywhere like this before, not that she remembered anyway … there were other things she did remember, though … a trip with her parents to France on the Liberté … the apartment on Sutton Place … tea at the Plaza with Solange, with little cakes and hot chocolate with tons of whipped cream … and she remembered the night her mother died and the things she and Sam had said….
The elevator doors opened easily and she found herself in a reception area with thick green carpeting, and a young girl at a desk. She wore a pink linen suit and had short blond hair, and she had the pert look all receptionists were supposed to have. It reminded Hilary of the job she was starting the next day. But she knew she would never look like that. Her looks weren't “cute,” her hair wasn't blond, and she didn't look as though she'd bounce out of her seat if someone asked her to. Instead, Hilary looked quiet and serious as she approached, and looked straight into the girl's eyes.
“I'm here to see Mr. Patterson.”
“Is he expecting you?” She beamed, and Hilary did not smile in reply. She shook her head honestly, and spoke in a restrained voice. Inwardly, she was intimidated by the surroundings, but outwardly nothing showed. She looked perfectly at ease and totally in control.
“No, he's not. But I'd like to see him now.”
“Your name?” Little Miss Smile went into high beam.
“Hilary Walker.” And then she added, as though it would make a difference, “He's my godfather.”
“Oh. Of course,” the little blonde said, and then hit a series of buttons and picked up a phone, speaking inaudibly into it. That was another part of the job, speaking into phones so no one else could hear … Mr. So and So is here to see you, sir … oh, you're out? … tell him what? … it was an art Hilary would have to perfect at the employment agency. And then the girl astonished Hilary. She looked up at her with her perfect smile and waved to a door on her right. “You may go right in. Mr. Patterson's secretary will meet you to show you to his office.” She looked impressed. It wasn't easy to get in to see Arthur Patterson, but the girl was his goddaughter after all.
Hilary stepped inside and looked down a long carpeted corridor. The firm occupied the entire floor and she could see all the way down the hall up a corner office a block away from her. It was an impressive hallway lined with leather-bound legal books, and populated by secretaries at their desks outside the attorneys' offices. She had never been there before, even as a child, and they had moved since then anyway.
“Miss Walker?” An elderly woman with short gray hair and a kindly smile stepped up to her and pointed into the distance down the hall.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Patterson is waiting for you.” As though it had been planned, as though he had known she would come, as though he had been waiting for nine years. But what could he possibly know, sitting here? What could he know of lives like Eileen and Jack's, of caring for her as she died, or fighting him off with a butcher knife, of nearly starving in their home for all those years, and the foster home in Jacksonville, and Maida and Georgine … and juvenile hall … and even the sweaty little man who had “interviewed” her only days ago. What did he know of any of it? And all she knew was that he had killed her mother, as surely as if he had done it with his own hands, and her father, too, eventually. And now here he sat, and she only wanted one thing from him, and then she would leave and never see him again. She never wanted to lay eyes on him again after today.
The secretary stopped at the doorway and knocked. A discreet brass and leather sign on the door said ARTHUR PATTERSON, and then she heard his voice. It was still familiar to her. She could still remember him lying to her eight years before … I'm just going to take them away for a little while, Hilary … I'll come back for you. He never did, and she didn't care, she hated him anyway. She could remember kneeling in the street after he drove off, calling her sisters' names and she had to fight back tears again, but it was almost over now … almost. It was almost exactly eight years since she had last seen them.