The Art of the Devil by John Altman Page B

I found a little sparrow, right over there, with a broken wing? So I brought it up to my room, in a shoebox lined with cotton. And I was nursing it back to health – fresh worms, water from an eye dropper, the whole nine yards – but when Dunbarton found out, she made me get rid of it.’
    â€˜She didn’t!’
    â€˜She did. Even though everybody knows that once you’ve handled a bird, the mother won’t take it back.’
    â€˜How heartless.’
    â€˜Well, I felt that way at the time. But looking back, I can see that maybe she was right. We’re here to work, after all. That’s why we don’t get a TV, and radio’s not allowed, although – just between us? – I’ve got one hidden in my room.’ Josette shrugged, smoked. ‘Dunbarton doesn’t have the easiest time of it herself. You know, she drinks.’
    â€˜What!’
    â€˜Like a fish.’
    â€˜I never would have guessed.’
    â€˜Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Even President Eisenhower struggles with demons, you know. The big man himself.’
    Elisabeth raised her eyebrows.
    â€˜He had that girlfriend during the war. Kay Summersby. Everybody knows about it – that’s what drives the First Lady crazy. It’s not as if she actually minds the cheating. It’s just the gossip that bothers her. She likes to keep up appearances. But then Mamie isn’t so perfect herself. Dunbarton’s not the only one around here who likes to tip the bottle. But listen to me: Josie the blabbermouth. It’s one of my worst habits. Oh, I really must do better.’
    â€˜Don’t worry; I won’t hold it against you.’
    A first drop of rain fell. Josette gave a girlish shriek. ‘To be continued,’ she promised. They snuffed out their cigarettes half-smoked and ran back inside.
    Throughout the rest of that rainy afternoon, Elisabeth kept her eyes peeled for a chance to engage the girl again, to find out what else Josie the blabbermouth might reveal.
    But Miss Dunbarton, up from her nap, played quite the taskmaster. During a brief pause, Elisabeth critically examined the calloused palms of her hands. The humiliation of lowly physical labor – a member of the master race, working as an equal alongside subhumans – was galling. But it was toward a purpose, she reminded herself. The end would justify the means.
    Following the hard labor came suffocating tedium: for two endless hours, assigned the task of polishing the demitasse, she charily ran a chamois cloth around the inside of tiny porcelain cups. By the time her chores were finished, the sun was down. Falling across her bed, she tried to find a hidden reserve of energy.
    She was spared seeking out Josette, as it happened, because a moment later the younger girl knocked on her door. ‘Hi,’ Josette said, breezing in. ‘Oh, you look beat. Tell me about it. My dogs are barking.’
    Elisabeth sat up. ‘Dunbarton has no mercy.’
    â€˜I told you, she can be tough. But remember what I said: walk a mile in her shoes.’
    Josette proceeded to explore the quarters familiarly, fiddling with items on the bureau. All were innocent – but Elisabeth nonetheless felt the urge to thump a warning across the girl’s snout. ‘You ought to come by and listen to my Philco sometime,’ said Josette as she snooped. ‘Do you like music?’
    â€˜I love it.’
    â€˜Me too. I listen at night, after everyone’s asleep. Mostly to Dick Biondi out of Chicago – he plays good stuff. My favorites right now are ‘Rock Around The Clock’ and ‘Mr Sandman’ and ‘That’s All Right’
and ‘Earth Angel’. Do you like rock and roll?’
    â€˜Do you have to ask?’
    â€˜What about movies? Do you like movies?’
    â€˜I love movies,’ said Elisabeth seriously.
    â€˜Me too. One day I’m