The girl looked Cynthia’s age, but her obvious poise and confidence as she flipped through an old copy of Life magazine made her appear more mature. She wore her dark glossy hair perfectly styled in a pageboy, her lipstick and nail polish were the same shade of red as the stripe in her blouse, and she was the only woman in the office wearing slacks. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. And in a town as small as Riverside, that meant she looked out of place.
The door leading into the factory opened suddenly, and a portly man in a drab, ill-fitting suit emerged, clutching a sheaf of papers. “Eleanor Bartlett?” he called. The stylish girl stood. “And Cynthia Weaver?” She scrambled to her feet. “I’m Ralph Jackson. This way, please, girls.”
He led them down a cramped hallway, past piles of boxes and wooden pallets, and into the factory itself. The building hummed with the drone of machines and the buzz of fluorescent lighting, while in the background pounding hammers and screeching power saws added to the clamor. Cynthia glimpsed rows of workers intent on their labor and wondered how they could concentrate with such a racket.
“Pardon the noise,” Mr. Jackson said as he steered them into his cubicle. “We’re expanding the plant, retooling for war production.” The tiny office had a wall of glass so he could see out onto the factory floor when he sat behind his desk. He shut the door, reducing the noise somewhat, and gestured to two chairs. “Have a seat, girls.”
Cynthia sat stiffly on the edge of her chair, wondering what to do with her purse and with her fluttering hands, hoping she didn’t look too fidgety as she straightened her skirt. The girl named Eleanor made herself comfortable almost effortlessly, managing to look ladylike, even in trousers, as she crossed her legs.
“What sort of electronics do you manufacture here?” she asked.
“Various gauges, switches for bombs.”
Cynthia knew that her shock must have shown on her face when Mr. Jackson laughed. Hadn’t her mother always warned her not to wear her heart on her sleeve for the whole world to see? She wished she could mask her emotions better.
“Don’t worry, Miss Weaver,” he said. “There aren’t any explosives here. We assemble the switches, but they’re wired to the actual bombs someplace else.” He cleared his throat, as if to signal that the time had come to get down to business, and scanned the pile of papers in front of him. “Now, then, girls. First of all, I appreciate your willingness to do your patriotic duty by applying for a job in the defense industry. You’ve both listed your ages as eighteen and stated that you’re high school graduates. Is that correct? Did you bring proof of that?”
Cynthia dug her birth certificate and high school diploma from her purse and passed them across the desk to him. The other girl’s purse wasn’t any larger than Cynthia’s, but her papers looked remarkably crisp and unwrinkled as she pulled them out.
“Very good,” he said when he’d finished examining them. “Congratulations, girls. You’re hired. You can both start tomorrow. Training will take about two weeks, depending on how quickly you catch on. You’ll be paid thirty-five dollars a week.”
Cynthia broke into a wide grin, then squelched her enthusiasm when she saw Eleanor nodding calmly.
“Now I also see on your applications that neither of you has listed a local address as your place of residence.”
“That’s right,” Eleanor said. “I planned to look for housing once I was certain that I had a position here. Perhaps I’ll start searching this afternoon.” She seemed so confident and poised. Cynthia would have stammered an inadequate apology. When she realized that she was nodding in agreement like a trained horse, she spoke up.
“Yes… me, too. I’ll look today, too.”
“Housing is scarce near almost all of the defense plants, as you’ve probably heard,” Mr. Jackson said. “But I’m a lifelong resident of Riverside, and I could suggest a few places, if you want.”
Eleanor smiled. “That would be very kind of you, Mr. Jackson.”
“Yes. Yes, it would, Mr. Jackson.” Cynthia hated the way she sounded. She wouldn’t have remembered Mr. Jackson’s name if Eleanor hadn’t addressed him by it. She wondered if everyone could tell what a hick she was.
Mr. Jackson pulled out a list from a desk drawer and looked it over. “The most economical housing is a modest bed/sitting room above Montgomery’s Funeral Home for twelve dollars a month. It so happens that Ada Montgomery is my sister-in-law, and I’ve seen the place. It’s very nice. You would share a bath with two other boarders, and—”
“I’ll take it,” they both said simultaneously. Cynthia looked at Eleanor in alarm, but Eleanor laughed.
“No need to fight over it,” Mr. Jackson said jovially. “Ada says it’s large enough to accommodate two girls. I was about to add that whoever takes it will need to find a roommate.”
“I’m game if you are,” Eleanor said.
“Sure.” Cynthia couldn’t believe her good luck—she had landed a job and a roommate on the same day.
“You girls aren’t squeamish about living above all the caskets and dead bodies and so forth, are you?” Mr. Jackson asked.
“I grew up on a farm,” Cynthia said, then could have kicked herself. What a stupid thing to say. It made no sense. Should she explain what she’d meant? That she was accustomed to the sight of slaughtered hogs and chickens—or would that make matters worse?
“The funeral home isn’t hard to find,” he continued. “Did you see the stainless steel diner on Main Street as you came into town? The funeral home is right across the road from it. It sits back from the street a ways, behind some trees, so you might have missed it.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Jackson,” Eleanor said smoothly.
“I’m sure we’ll have no trouble finding it.”
He took them on a brief tour of the factory floor, and Cynthia had to resist the urge to shade her eyes from the glare of the thrumming fluorescent lights. The laborers stood in long rows behind workstations, assembling a complicated collage of wires and gadgets. Cynthia knew absolutely nothing about wiring and electricity, and she felt a ripple of anxiety, wondering how she could possibly get the hang of constructing such intricate devices. Mr. Jackson introduced them to their supervisor, Mr. Tomacek, a swarthy man in his sixties who smelled like cooked cabbage and looked as though he’d immigrated to America onboard a pirate ship. He glowered at them suspiciously, giving Cynthia the feeling that he disliked women in the workplace—especially brazen women like Eleanor who wore slacks.
“You’ll need to wear a kerchief to cover your hair,” Tomacek growled. “Keep your fingernails short, no polish. No jewelry allowed, either. And you’ll be standing all day, so wear sturdy shoes.”
Cynthia glanced at Eleanor. She wore a mischievous expression on her face, as if tempted to salute the old grouch and say “Aye, aye, sir!”
“The girls’locker room is through that door,” Mr. Jackson said as he resumed the tour. “We just opened it about a month ago. There didn’t used to be a girls’locker room or bathroom anywhere in this building, but after so many of our men enlisted following Pearl Harbor, well, three-quarters of our employees are girls now. Glad you two are coming forward to do your part.”
“Mr. Jackson,” Eleanor said, “no offense, but most of us would prefer to be called women, not girls.”
Her frankness appalled Cynthia. Where she came from, a woman never spoke her mind to a man that way, especially if he was her boss. But she was even more surprised by Mr. Jackson’s response. He laughed!
“No offense taken, Miss Bartlett. I’ll try to remember that.” They returned to his cubicle, the tour completed. “Well, that’s about it, ladies,” he said, emphasizing the word. “If you have no further questions, I’ll expect you here for work tomorrow at seven o’clock.”
Eleanor held out her hand like a man and shook Mr. Jackson’s. “Thank you so much for all your help,” she told him. “I look forward to working here at Riverside Electronics.??
?
“Yes… me, too,” Cynthia squeaked. She felt like Eleanor’s dimwitted sidekick.
“Well, it looks like we’re in like Flynn,” Eleanor said when they’d exited the building. “Shall we go check out our new room at the Cadaver Hotel?”
“I… um… sure. But I left my suitcases and things in a locker at the bus station.” The summer day had turned out to be hot and humid, the kind of day that stole your energy and left you feeling wilted and boneless. Cynthia dreaded the prospect of dragging all her worldly goods across town in such heat.
“My things are at the station, too,” Eleanor said. “Although it wasn’t much of a station, was it? More like a hut. But, then, this isn’t much of a town. Let’s go claim our room first—before someone else comes along and pinches it. We can get our stuff later.”
By the time they’d walked across town to Montgomery’s Funeral Home, Cynthia felt as sticky and worn down as a discarded lollipop. They went to the front door of the rambling Victorian house and rang the bell.
Mrs. Montgomery answered it, her withered lips already pursed in disapproval.
“Ralph Jackson called and said I could expect you two girls. Listen, you’ll have to use the rear entrance from now on. This front door is only for our clients and the loved ones of the deceased. But you may as well come in, since you’re already here, and I’ll show you around. We aren’t holding any services today.”
She turned her broad back and led the way inside, the aged wooden floors creaking beneath her ample weight. The foyer and the three large rooms that had once been the parlor, morning room, and dining room had been turned into public areas for the funeral home’s patrons. The rooms, like Mrs. Montgomery’s clothing, were tastefully gloomy, with drab wallpaper, dark woodwork, somber drapes, and inadequate lighting. Wooden folding chairs stood in sedate rows facing a rickety podium and an empty casket stand. Modern plumbing and heating had obviously been later additions, judging by the pipes that climbed the walls in plain sight. A small room near the back served as the mortician’s office. The house had a funny, medicinal odor that made Cynthia’s nose itch.
“You’ll be given a key to this outside door,” Mrs. Montgomery informed them when they reached the rear of the house. “Kindly use these back stairs to the second and third floors. This other door leads to the basement, but you’ll have no need to go downstairs where the embalming is done, unless there’s an air raid. It goes without saying that gentlemen callers are not allowed inside at any time, for any reason.”
Cynthia felt Eleanor nudge her in the ribs as they followed their landlady up the narrow steps. She turned and saw Eleanor mimicking Mrs. Montgomery’s prim expression and heavy-footed tread. Cynthia quickly turned around, covering her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“These two rooms on the third floor were once the servants’quarters,” Mrs. Montgomery continued. “We’ve added a good-sized bathroom in recent years. Two other young ladies, Miss Doris Henderson and Miss Lucille Kellogg, occupy the room across the hall from yours. They work at the electronics plant, as well. Since you’ll be sharing the bathroom with them, you’ll need to cooperate in preparing a schedule for baths and so on.” She turned to unlock the bedroom door, and Eleanor quietly clicked her heels and gave a Nazi salute behind Mrs. Montgomery’s back.
The room was surprisingly large and comfortable-looking, painted a cheery yellow, with flowered curtains on the windows and a colorful rag rug on the floor. There was a porcelain sink in one corner and two iron radiators that promised to deliver plenty of steam heat come wintertime. A dormer window overlooked the broad front lawn and Main Street beyond the row of trees.
The bedroom area had two twin beds with homey, mismatched quilts, a three-drawer dresser they could share, and a closet under the eaves with wire hangers in it. The sitting area had a lumpy, slip-covered loveseat, an overstuffed armchair, and an old wooden schoolmaster’s desk. Cynthia imagined herself sitting at the desk, writing long impassioned letters to the soldier she would one day fall in love with.
“If you want towels and bed linens, it will be fifty cents extra each week,” Mrs. Montgomery said. “You’re allowed to use a hotplate for boiling water, but no other cooking, please. Kindly draw the blackout curtains at dusk. Any other questions, girls?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “Miss Weaver and I both have baggage waiting at the bus station. Would it be possible for you to arrange transportation to get it here?”
Again, Eleanor’s boldness surprised Cynthia—and pleased her. She never would have asked for such a favor on her own and would have hauled all her luggage down Main Street in the stifling heat and humidity, her arms aching, her body soaked with sweat.
“Certainly, Miss Bartlett,” Mrs. Montgomery replied. “I’ll ask our employee, William, to help you. Go ahead and have a look around your new room. I’ll call you when he’s ready to leave.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t drive us to the bus station in the hearse,” Eleanor said when Mrs. Montgomery was gone. Cynthia’s face must have betrayed her surprise because Eleanor added, “That was a joke, Cynthia. Don’t take anything I say too seriously.”
“Oh.” She smiled nervously. “I guess I’m… uh…”
“Well, this place looks homey enough, don’t you think?” Eleanor asked.
“We’ll get a hotplate and a pan for heating up some soup and we’ll be all set.” She kicked off her shoes and settled effortlessly onto the couch, stretching languidly. “So tell me all about yourself, Cynthia. Where are you from?”
Cynthia perched on the edge of the overstuffed chair as if Eleanor were interviewing her for a job. “You probably never heard of the town. It’s upstate a ways, and it’s even smaller than Riverside, if you can believe that. My folks have a little farm there with an orchard and stuff. My father was determined to marry me off to another farmer, but I didn’t want anything to do with farm life—slaving from dawn to dusk and raising a litter of children. Ugh! I kept seeing advertisements everywhere for defense workers—Do Your Part and We Can’t Win the War Without Women, and all that. They made it sound much more exciting than being a farmer’s wife, so here I am.” Cynthia didn’t know why she had gone on and on like a windup toy, but it felt good after parroting one-syllable answers all morning. “Where are you from, Eleanor? What brings you here?” she asked.
“The same thing. I wanted to do my part. My older brother, Leonard, enlisted in the army right after they passed the Selective Service Bill in the fall of 1940. He was fresh out of high school and too young to be drafted but he wanted to serve his country. I’m just trying to keep up with him.”
“I’ll bet you’re glad he didn’t enlist in the Navy after what happened at Pearl Harbor, huh? Wasn’t that terrible, all those men dying?”
“Yes. Very glad. That attack was one reason I decided to get a defense job. I saw the same advertising you did, about how patriotic it is to build planes and tanks and how women should support men like my brother who are off fighting the war. But the other reason was that I could make a lot more money working in a factory than doing the traditional women’s jobs of waitress or sales clerk. I’m going to save my money and go to college someday.”
“Do you have a boyfriend in the service?”
“Heavens, no.” Eleanor made a face, as if a boyfriend was the last thing on her mind.
“Me, either, but I’d like one. Do you have family close by?”
She shook her head, then quickly asked, “Why did you pick Riverside?”
“I wanted to work in a defense plant but not one that might be attacked.” Cynthia twisted her fingers as she talked. “I figured Riverside was far enough away from New York City and the coast that I’d be safe if the Japanese decided to bomb us again. Doesn’t it scare you that we’re in a war? It does, me.”
“I didn’t give the war much thought until Pearl Harbor. Leonard has been paying much closer attention than I have. He seemed to know that all this was coming, even way back in 1939 when Hitler invaded Poland.
When Britain and France declared war, I was too busy watching Gone With the Wind—I went to see it four times—and I wanted America to stay neutral, just like everybody else did. But Leonard said, ‘We’ll be in this war, too, before long. Mark my words.’Then all those countries got overrun by the Nazis: Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands— boom, boom, boom. By the time France fell and Italy sided with Germany, Leonard had me convinced that he was right, and that we should get involved. Those stupid ‘America First’people who oppose the war are so nai ve—Lindbergh and Alice Longworth and that whole crowd. It’s irresponsible to remain neutral as long as there is evil in the world.”
The more Eleanor talked, the more Cynthia felt like a Dumb Dora. “How can you remember all those names and dates and things?” she asked.
Eleanor shrugged. “Leonard used to read newspapers and listen to the radio all the time. There wasn’t much else to do, so I got in the habit, too. We used to listen to Edward R. Murrow broadcasting live from London, and we could hear air raid sirens and bombs going off in the background and the rumble of antiaircraft fire. It would give me the creeps because I knew people were dying. So when the same thing happened at Pearl Harbor, it was the last straw. I couldn’t sit still anymore. I had a summer job as a lifeguard back home, but I made up my mind to do my part as soon as I finished high school. I would have joined the army if they’d let me fight, but I didn’t want a stupid desk job. That’s all they allow women to do in the army.”