“Hello,” I called from the sidewalk.
She paused her drying long enough to give me a thorough once-over. “Come out of the sun there, before you cook yourself.”
“Thank you.” I hoisted the suitcase along brightly, not wishing to give any appearance of fatigue, though I felt like I could have slept for two solid days.
“You’re the new girl.” She said it flatly, with no wrinkle of curiosity.
“Brenda Dubie, yes.”
She nodded, but did not volunteer her name. Instead she slid an inch down the bench. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, but I still have two more bags to bring along. Would you mind guarding this one for me for a minute?”
“Guarding?” She tossed her hair back, and was she suppressing a smirk? “With my life, Brenda Dubie. Anyone tries to grab your gear, I’ll shoot ’em dead in the street.”
Now I saw that she was indeed smiling. “In that case,” I replied, “do me a favor and drag the body away when you’re done? Last place I moved, by the time I’d brought all my luggage there was a whole pile of corpses.”
She gave the least little laugh, one “heh.” And I set off on trip number two. I was already thinking about how good it would feel to shed my traveling dress, which I’d put on in my bedroom in Chicago two days before, and sink into a warm bath.
When I returned the third time, more than a little damp between my shoulder blades, the young woman was brushing her hair out in broad daylight for any and all to see. Apparently, New Mexico was considerably more informal than Illinois.
“How many more suitcases you got?” she said.
“This is the last.”
“Sit down a second, then, before you keel over.”
“I believe I will,” I said, occupying the bench beside her. “Thank you.”
“It’s a free country.” She studied her brush. “I’ve been thinking.”
I took a deep breath. Soon I would go inside, find the matron of the boardinghouse, introduce myself, and beg on bended knee for a glass of water. “Have you?”
“I see you hauling your stuff here, three trips, without asking for help of any kind.”
“I didn’t feel that any was offered.”
“Yes.” She started brushing again. “You took care of it by yourself. That’s what got me thinking. Strong-headed, straight-backed, doing all that when everybody knows I’m the tough girl around here, I’m the one who gets things done and doesn’t wait for a man to save me from fainting.”
I gave the young woman another look. Her short sleeves revealed strong arms.
“I figured one of two things could happen,” she continued. “Either we’d wind up fighting like cats, or we’d end up friends. Seeing as how there’s already warfare enough in this world, and the two of us as joined forces could pretty much own this town, I calculate that we should be friends. Put her there.”
She offered her hand, and I shook it quickly. “I like your math. My name is—”
“Brenda, yes. I’m Lizzie Hinks.” She returned to the brushing. “Whelped in Roanoke, but my husband, Timothy, hails from here, and when he was called to duty I came to live with his family. He’s a medic in the South Pacific, tell you about that later. His mom is a first-class sourpuss. We collided half a dozen times a day, always over nothing. I didn’t want to find out whose head was harder, or go to jail for murder, so I moved here. Not bad, though Mrs. Morris falls an inch or two on the strict side.”
“I haven’t met her,” I explained. “We exchanged letters.”
“If Mrs. Morris was to go best two rounds out of three with my mother-in-law, I might not bet on either one—but I’d sure buy a ticket for the bout.”
Right then I knew that Lizzie Hinks would indeed be my friend.
“What’s going on out here?” A large, brassy woman barged out onto the porch, chesty and aggressive. “Jabbering to yourself again?” Then she spotted me. Hands on hips, she bobbed her chin in my direction. “And you would be?”
“Brenda Dubie.” I rushed to my feet.
“You don’t have to stand for her,” Lizzie said.
“Manners are wasted on girls like you,” the woman sneered, before turning back to me. “I’m Mrs. Morris. Would you like to see your room?”
“Please.”
She spun and strode back into the house, lily of the valley perfume trailing in her wake; Lizzie waved fingers in my direction. “See ya.”
“Glass of water?” Mrs. Morris called to me. I raced to catch up and say yes.
I was on the third floor, she said as she led me up the stairs, which meant the room would be hot. There was a fan, but I was not to leave it on all day. Nighttime only.
“Here we are,” she said, stepping aside from a doorway.
I inched past her into the room. Whitewashed, small, with modest furniture. It was indeed warm in there. I leaned out the window. The view was the back lot of another boardinghouse, by the looks of it, laundry on the line, girls chatting and smoking on the back steps.
“The outside staircase is fire escape only,” Mrs. Morris advised, filling the doorway. “It is more ladylike to use the stairs inside the house.”
I took a good gulp from the glass she’d given me. “I should go down for my bags.”
“No need,” Mrs. Morris said. “I give that Hinks girl a break on rent in exchange for bellhop services.”
“And she loves every minute of it.” Lizzie dropped two of my suitcases at the doorstep. I was impressed.
“Thank you,” I sang after her, but she had already started back down the stairs.
“The reverend and I live on the first floor, so we are privy to all comings and goings. There are no locks on the doors here, to prevent concealment.” She glared at me meaningfully. “There will be no smoking. No alcohol. No male visitors at any time.”
This last item she said with a sort of forward lean, as if I had already committed some infraction. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am,” I piped. “I’m here to play organ in your husband’s church, and direct the choir. No time or interest in making trouble.”
“I have no idea what constitutes trouble in a madhouse like Chicago,” she said. “But in my experience, religious liberals think dogma is optional and rules are suggestions. The reverend sermonizes vigorously against such evils.”
I worried that I might have landed in a predicament. But I gave her a smile. “I look forward to hearing him preach,” I said, “and playing hymns that uplift our spirits.”
Mrs. Morris relented with her scowl, a guard dog accepting a new bone. “Maybe you’ll be one of the good ones.”
“Not if I can help it,” Lizzie huffed, returning with suitcase number three. “Starting with dinner tonight.” She winked at me. “My treat.”
“Which reminds me,” Mrs. Morris said. “Curfew is nine, lights out at ten, one hour later on Saturdays.”
“One thing?” I said. “Has any mail come for me?”
She shook her head. “Nary a postcard.” And with a stiff bow, Mrs. Morris and her lily of the valley perfume were gone.