“Oh,” she gasped, pretending to see for the first time her dropped bodice and revealed thigh. “Heavens, what a sight. Don’t leave-I’ll be out in a second.”
In a rapid motion, knowing she had survived the ordeal, eager to escape, she swung off the bed. As she did so, her hip struck the bulging evening purse on the edge of the bed, and the purse hurtled to the floor, hit hard, burst open, and spilled its contents widely over the figured rug.
She was momentarily horrified by what lay strewn about the rug, not her lipstick and compact, not her handkerchief and keys, but the bent index cards filled mainly with her clear writing, everywhere. She wanted to throw herself across them, hide them, gather them, but it was too late.
Out of automatic gallantry, Dilman had crouched, gone down to one knee, retrieving her beaded purse, returning to it the lipstick and compact, the handkerchief and keys, and now he began to pick up the scattered index cards.
“I-I’ll-please let me-don’t bother-” she cried out, yet she was unable to move from her sitting position on the bed.
He had gathered some of the cards, but the frantic pitch in her voice made him glance at her with surprise, and then, almost as a reflex, down at the uppermost card in his hand.
“It’s nothing-” she gasped out.
He stared down at the index card, ignoring her, while his free hand groped for the rest of the cards on the floor. He placed these on the others, and stared at the new top card, which was also crammed with writing. He rose silently, leaving the purse on the floor, blinking at the cards in his hand.
She could not see his full face; it was averted from her, lowered over the cards. She crossed her arms, dug her nails into her flesh to make the trembling cease. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, no way to brazen it out. She wanted to die, but could only wait for the first blow.
His voice, issuing from the lips and face not fully visible to her, was surprisingly controlled, level, though chillingly soft and restrained. “You
“Don’t believe-it doesn’t mean what you-”
“It’s my own fault, of course.” His Negro modulation, the slurred vowels, had become more pronounced. “I should have known there is no one to be trusted. I should not have breached security by leaving my briefcase unlocked. Yet, I suppose I felt that my bedroom was-my own.”
The blood and drinks had coursed to her head, and the room rocked, and she felt palsied by insane desperation and recklessness. “Believe what you want-but try to believe me-I swear it on the Bible-I was drunk-I came in here to-to use the bathroom, and then lie down-I bumped into your briefcase-and something was sticking out-I figured it couldn’t be important if it was sticking out-so I took it to read, to help me nap-I read only a few pages-then I started copying a few things because-because-you want the truth? I want to write a book about you one day, about being your social secretary, and I wanted these notes as inside stuff to put in my diary, to remember years from now when there’d be no security involved-I swear-it was just something that-that happened on the spur of the moment-believe me-”
He turned toward her at last. She expected his features to be hardened into anger. She resented that they were only pitying, like those of a father listening to his daughter recount an improbable fib. “I see, Miss Watson. Do you mean to say that you’re in the habit of always packing note cards in your evening purse?”
“No-no, of course not. I was taking those home from my office. I’d picked them up just before dinner, to use before coming to work in the morning.”
He had moved closer to her, and was staring down at her now. “Or did Arthur Eaton put them in your purse, Miss Watson? Was that why you came here? For him?”
She tried to summon up indignation. “Eaton? What ever has he got to do with it? Why would I come here for him?”
“It’s all over Washington, Miss Watson. I don’t listen to gossip, but everyone seems to know about you and Eaton.”
“Filthy troublemakers!” She was truly angry at last. “Filthy, dirty tongues. How dare they!” She was panting, but tried to be as controlled as he. “What would I have to do with that old man? I have my own crowd. Besides- how can you? He’s married, he has a wife. I know him only socially, because he’s an old-time friend of Daddy’s, and-”
Dilman’s expression remained placid. “And he would like my job. In fact, as you now know, he has been trying to do my job, just as you have been trying to do Mrs. Eaton’s job. Very well. Now you can go to him and tell him I know.” He stepped forward to hand her the index cards, and his knee touched hers, and the contact, the proximity of him, his lack of anger, gave her a last mad surge of hope.
“No,” she said, refusing the cards, “I wouldn’t do that to you. I think too much of you.”
He lowered the cards to drop them into her lap, eyes avoiding her eyes and the exposed brassiere. With a sob, Sally clutched both his arms, not allowing him to turn away and leave her.
Dilman made no resistance. “Let go of me, Miss Watson.”
“No,” she sobbed. “Listen-all right-I’ll tell you the truth-all right, you’re forcing me to-it’s terrible-but I’ll tell you. I-I didn’t come here to lie down, or for anyone else, but just for you, to be with you awhile alone and talk to you. I deliberately came here to wait, and became lonesome, and poked around-looking at your work-it has moved me, the way you work so hard, and nobody understands you except a few of us, like myself-and the cards, the notes, I did take them to keep busy, for my diary, honestly-that’s what it was. I’m not ashamed, I wanted to be alone with you, to tell you I understand what you go through, that you have a friend in me who-”
Forcibly, he removed his arms from her grasp. “Miss Watson, I suggest you leave here at once.”
“No, listen-” She believed it now. Who had known Secretary of the Treasury Hamilton as well as Mrs. Maria Reynolds? President Cleveland as well as Mrs. Maria Halpin? President Harding as well as Miss Nan Britton? She believed those stories as much as she believed in herself, now and here, and in what was possible. If she were to lose Arthur because of her failure, she might still have more than any woman on earth. Casting the index cards aside, she leaped to her feet, and the room went topsy-turvy, and she almost collapsed, grabbing Dilman’s arms, holding herself erect. She knew she was drunk, but she knew what she wanted. “-listen-I do care for you. I want to help you. Don’t you-don’t you want to know me better?”
She had pulled close to him confidently, knowing the offer of her flesh had never failed her before. She waited for his concession to the inevitable, his embrace, and their friendship.
“Miss Watson, get out of here.”
Her hands released him, and she recoiled, looking at him with disbelief. For the first time, his face was set in pure black anger.
There was one thing left. She’d had her elementary school in Negroes. She knew them too well. “You’re afraid of me, that’s all,” she heard herself say. “You’re afraid of getting in trouble because I’m white, Southern white, and somebody, and you’re colored. Don’t-don’t be that way. I’ve known plenty of Negro men. I consider them to be like-like anybody else-and when they get to know me, they appreciate me. Now you know, so-”
She halted, frightened by the way his red-rimmed eyes protruded and blazed at her.
“You’re a drunken, silly, sick young lady,” he said. “You get out of here, and you stay out of here, and never show your face in this house again.”
As her self-assurance faded, her face became contorted by humiliation and rage. “You-
He turned his back to her, picked up her purse, took the index cards from the bed, fitted them into the purse, and placed the bag in her hand. “I’m throwing you out, Miss Watson. I’m sure Mr. Eaton will take you in.”
She glared at him, reeled past him to the door, held the knob, and over her shoulder considered him contemptuously. “You hypocritical pig,” she cried shrilly. “You-with that nigger girl you’ve got stashed away-I
Reluctantly Arthur Eaton reopened the concealed wall bar of his Tudor living room and took down the bottles and glasses. He prepared a Jack Daniel’s, with water, for Senator Bruce Hankins, and poured a generous amount
