I looked from side to side, then behind us. “You carry messages too?”
“More of a message sender.” She squeezed my hand. “Us gals gotta stick together. There aren’t many of us. Right?”
“Right.”
* * *
The day after our lunch on the Temple steps, Anderson informed me that instead of my meeting with Teddy, as I’d been doing, Sally would continue my training. “Surprised?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, biting my lip to keep from smiling.
The day after that, Sally stood outside the Agency’s black iron gates, applying her red lipstick in the driver’s-side mirror of a pale yellow Studebaker. She looked impeccable in a tartan wool cape and long black calfskin gloves. She saw me approach in the mirror and turned, lipstick applied to only her bottom lip. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, kiddo,” she said and pressed her lips together. “Let’s go for a walk.”
As we made our way through Georgetown, Sally pointed out the stately homes of some of the Agency’s higher-ups. “Dulles lives up there,” she said, pointing to a red brick town house obscured by a wall of maple trees. “And that big white one with the black shutters across the way? That’s Wild Bill Donovan’s old house that the Grahams bought. Frank lives on the other side of Wisconsin. All of ’em spitting distance from each other.”
“Where do you live?”
“Just up the street.”
“To keep tabs on the men?”
She laughed. “Smart girl.”
We took a left into Dumbarton Oaks and walked the park’s winding path into the gardens. Descending the stone steps, Sally pulled on a dead wisteria vine hanging from the wooden arbor. “In the spring, this whole place smells absolutely delicious. I open my windows and hope for a breeze.”
We walked until we reached the swimming pool, which had been drained for the season. We sat on a bench across from an elderly man who was working on a crossword puzzle in his wheelchair, parked next to his milk-faced caretaker. Two young mothers wearing almost identical belted red princess coats smoked and chatted at the pool’s far end while their toddlers, a boy and a girl, tossed pebbles into the pool, screaming with glee when their stones reached the small puddle in the center. A pensive-looking young man sat in a black iron chair near the fountain at the pool’s head reading a copy of The Hatchet.
“See that man over there?” Sally asked, without looking.
I nodded.
“What do you think his story is?”
“College student?”
“What else?”
“College student with a clip-on tie?”
“Nice eye. And what do you think that clip-on tie means?”
“He doesn’t know how to tie a real one?”
“And what does that mean?”
“He’s never been taught?”
“And?”
“He doesn’t have a father? Maybe he doesn’t come from money? He definitely doesn’t have a girlfriend or a mother close by to tell him that clip-ons look ridiculous. Perhaps he’s from out of town? On scholarship maybe?”
“Where?”
“Given our location? Georgetown. But given his choice of newspaper? I’d say George Washington.”
“Studying?”
I looked the man over: clip-on, cowlick, maroon sweater vest, dull brown leather shoes, smoking Pall Malls, legs crossed, his right foot turning slow circles. “Could be anything, really.”
“Philosophy.”
“How do you know?”
Sally pointed to his open leather knapsack and the book inside it: Kierkegaard.
“How did I miss that?”
“Obvious things are the hardest to spot.” Sally stretched her arms over her head to take off her cape, and the space between her blouse’s buttons parted to reveal black lace. “Wanna do another?”
I looked away. “Sure.”
I said the mothers were childhood friends who’d grown distant after marrying and having kids. “It’s the way they smile at each other,” I told Sally. “Like they’re forcing some previous connection.” The elderly man was a widower, clearly in love with his caretaker, who didn’t share his feelings. When a gardener appeared and carefully plucked leaves out of the fountain, I suggested he was a leftover from the days when the garden was owned by the Bliss family, perhaps the only household employee to have been kept on. “That explains his diligence,” I finished. Sally nodded approvingly.
Was this part of my training? If so, what exactly was Sally training me to do? It wasn’t as if we could confirm the stories I’d manifested for these strangers. So what did it matter? “How do we know if we’re right?” I asked when we’d gone through everyone.
“It’s not about being right. It’s about knowing enough to be able to quickly evaluate what kind of person someone is. People give away a lot more than they know. It’s so much more than how you dress, how you look. Anyone can put on a nice blue and white polka dot dress and clutch a Chanel, but that doesn’t mean she’s become a new person.” I blushed at the mention of my Mayflower outfit. “The change comes from inside and reflects every move, every gesture, every facial tic. You must adopt a certain understanding of who someone is in order to judge how he might act in different circumstances.” She looked right at me. “And how you might act if you had to really become someone new. Everything would change—how you hold your cigarette, how you laugh, how you might blush at the mention of a Chanel purse.” She poked my shoulder. “You understand what I’m telling you?”
“It starts from within,” I said.
“Exactly.”
* * *
—
Our training continued. Each day we’d meet after work, and during more long walks around the District, Sally would teach me everything she knew. Knowing what made herself stand out, she taught me how not to. She showed me what clothes drew the least attention. “They can’t be too old or too new, too bright or too dull.” On what hair color won’t provoke the male gaze: “You’d think blondes get the most attention, but it’s redheads. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t go platinum.” How to stand: “Not too straight, not too slouched.” How to eat: “Steak. Medium rare.” How to drink: “Tom Collins, extra lemon, extra ice. Won’t stain if you spill, and won’t get you too drunk.”